Dead Ringer

by Roy Lewis

The evening that I heard of my blackballing at the Carlton Club, fuming, I met Ben Gully and we had a further discussion about Joe Bartle’s watch. He had had difficulty rooting out the elusive receiver, Strauss, who was rumoured to have gone to Amsterdam on business. The conversation ended with my insisting that Ben continued to pursue his enquiries further among his acquaintances in the St Giles rookeries and along the Ratcliffe Highway. It meant letting him have some more of the money I had squeezed out of the Exeter solicitor Bulstrode, which was making me run short once again with debts piling up. But I was furious about Bentinck’s threats and behaviour; I was put on my mettle, and determined not to be thrust aside by such menaces.

  Impetuosity, of course. I would have done better to heed Bentinck’s advice, however bitter the draught might have been to swallow.

  However, a few good things seemed to have occurred as a result of the Running Rein case and the hullabaloo that surrounded it. While I had been abused and humiliated by Baron Alderson on the Bench my ranting in court had certainly persuaded certain solicitors who dealt with the seamier clients in town that I was a man after their own heart. As a consequence the trickle of briefs that began to arrive at my chambers was still growing … even if they were not of the most lucrative kind … and I felt that at last I was obtaining the notice I deserved. And needed.

  Moreover, The Times was taking an interest. In those days ‘The Thunderer’ used to devote two or three of its pages exclusively to law reports in which the correspondents spared no detail. It led to the Bishop of London spouting from his pulpit that the newspaper had become the ‘only authorised unmoral publication’ of the day. Be that as it may, the details published included flippancies the barristers and judges used to while away the tedium of the courtroom and one such comment I made obtained some prominence. That particular week I’d been briefed to act in another horse case where I’d described the animal as ‘running faster at the nose than on the track’, a turn of phrase that pleased the yellow press. I was also briefed to appear for the Quaker travel firm Thomas Cook Limited in a libel suit. It had been claimed that they had used one of their vans to transport corpses to the crematorium for the London Necropolis Company. Mr Justice Maule was on the bench: he passed the opinion that he could see no libel in the claim. I spoke up quickly: ‘True or not, my lord, I consider it be a very grave charge!’

  The judge chuckled, then laughed outright at my quick pun; the well of the court responded, and a roar of laughter spread throughout the room. It was reported in The Times next day, and made an appearance in Punch, after which my reputation was made, if not as a black-letter lawyer, at least as a man of ready wit.

  I see you grimace, my boy; the fact is, audiences were more easily pleased forty years ago.

  However, while I was pursuing my practice in the courts, yet still brooding over the injustice of Baron Alderson’s strictures, Cockburn’s betrayal, and the threats of that rogue Lord George Bentinck, Ben Gully was busy burrowing into the rookeries, talking to people, following up suggested leads, and spending my money. Well, Bulstrode’s anyway.

  But Ben was always an honest man, after his lights. He left a note at my chambers on the Friday evening. He had traced Strauss at last. An assignation had been arranged.

  I hate rats.

  It’s an incontinent, unreasoning hatred. Even though I recognize that fact, the rustle of their scurrying steps, the sound of their panicked squeaking, the general evil appearance of their little red eyes and predatory teeth have always made me shudder and break out into a cold sweat. So it was with a degree of trepidation that I fought my way along the street that Friday evening, thrusting my way through the chaos of peripatetic placard men, pedestrians with wheelbarrows or perambulators, small traders with donkey carts, cows being milked by maids outside houses, streams of animals, private carriages and omnibuses all inconvenienced by the gas and water companies repairing mains and the slum clearances that had commenced with a view to connecting the new railway to Whitehall.

  The thing was, Gully had asked me to meet him in Bunhill Row, near Moorgate, for a certain sporting occasion.

  Blood sports have always been popular in the metropolis but had been banned some nine years earlier: bullock-running, bull-baiting and bear-baiting, or throwing sticks at tethered cocks for fun were activities no longer to be seen in public places. But in the poorer parts of London, if you knew your way around, you could still watch specially-bred dogs fighting each other for the delectation of the Fancy … or you could watch dogs fighting rats, if you knew where to look.

  Ben Gully knew where to look.

  A good ratting dog could fetch a high price in those days, you know. And rat-catchers could make a good living. One publican I acted for in court was reputed to buy over 25,000 live rats a year, at threepence each, mainly from the country about Enfield. His consequent sporting occasions drew the attention of titled ladies and noble lords, he claimed, and I believed him … without attempting, or even desiring to attend one of his entertainments myself.

  But that’s where Gully was taking me that evening. A short cab ride together and I found myself following him into a two-roomed house in a dilapidated part of Bunhill Row. Gully had informed me it was used by a notorious dog-trainer who kept a dog pit in the house. At the front entrance a battered-featured thug tapping a thick cudgel meaningfully against his gnarled hand took the entry fee that Ben provided and we were allowed entry through to the back of the verminous, odorous house. Ben gestured upward: the pit was located on the first floor. There was no staircase: the upper floor was reached by way of a rickety wooden ladder that gave access to a ceiling trapdoor.

  We clambered upward, Gully leading the way. The hot fug and stench as we entered the crowded room made me gag but it seemed to disturb in no way the cluster of men and women who had gathered around the pit. The noise was incredible. The inhabitants of the room were waving their arms, enthusiastically shouting out wagers, stamping on the wooden boards, screaming and yelling encouragement mixed with curses at the animals. The stench was inevitable because all the windows on the upper floor had been boarded up and light was provided by smoky, flaring gas jets which gave the room a shadowy, dancing, eerie appearance. The pit itself was in the form of a small circus constructed of wooden palings, some six feet in diameter. Its timbered floor was stained with blood and excrement. In one corner was a cage teeming with frantic, squealing, excited rats. I caught a glimpse of their likely replacements in sacks bulging with terrified movement, gripped tightly in the huge fists of men with rough clothing, scarred faces, heavy shoulders and merciless eyes.

  It was a scene from hell, but in spite of my aversion I could not drag my shivering gaze from the activity in the pit.

  As far as I could calculate, some dozen rats had been let loose and set running in the pit against an untrained dog. Quick, efficient kills could set a high price on a ratter but this animal was not doing well, and no bids for the dog were being launched as it scurried around the pit, snapping a back here, a neck there, but failing dismally to deal with the squealing mass of rats as they sought cover in different parts of the circus, crouching against the boards, baring savage teeth, rushing away as the dog tentatively approached them.

  The patience of the crowd was quickly exhausted. There was a chorus of disapproving cat-calls until the reluctant owner of the dog reached down into the pit, grabbed the animal by the scruff of its neck and hauled it out, swearing fiercely as he did so. My guess was that it would not have a long life ahead of it. There was a shuffling of feet, a rising jabber of conversation and I looked about me: men in rough jackets and caps, women in shabby dresses, a small group of clearly wealthy patrons of the sport in their rolled collar coats, top hats and cloaks. None seemed to be observing the ring now, as dead rats were scooped up with a broad-bladed shovel; rather, money was changing hands, bets being scribbled on scraps of paper, and then the cage was being refilled with a sack of scrabbling, snapping, squealing vermin.

  I was sweati
ng profusely, my throat was thick with panic, and yet I confess to being fascinated, unable to move as the next entertainment commenced.

  The bull terrier now thrown into the pit was clearly well known. His left ear hung loosely, half torn away from a previous battle; he walked with a peculiar gait, perhaps occasioned by the bloodied flank on his left side, perhaps by the loss of one eye, the socket now merely a mass of solid scar tissue. There was blood, half-dried on his muzzle. Anticipatory saliva dripped from his jaws. He was an ugly, unprepossessing sight, but the crowd loved him.

  And their bellowing rose to a crescendo as some fifty rats were let loose from the wire cage.

  The rats behaved as perhaps threatened humans would: they huddled together, gathered in a panicked crowd, rushed to the far corner of the pit away from the cage, and bundled into a mass, those at the outer edge frantically climbing one over another to reach the presumed safety of the centre of the writhing, squeaking pile. But the bull terrier was upon them in a trice.

  He was an experienced killer and worked with a ferocious sense of purpose, a committed determination, champing methodically with his wide, blood-streaming jaws, snapping backs and necks with a rigid conviction, throwing each stricken rat over one shoulder in almost the same movement as he turned and snapped fiercely at the next. The vermin made no attempt to break from the pack, stream about the pit, attempt to confuse the attacker. They snapped back, squealed in terror, but held their place as the bull terrier methodically chewed his way through the black, heaving, squealing mass. As bodies and blood flew in the air, spattering some of the onlookers baying above the pit, and as the black and brown corpses began to litter the sanded boards of the circus the remaining rats began, finally, to scatter, and voices were raised, timings being called out, a crescendo of excitement thundering against the slates of the tawdry roof.

  I turned to Gully, part-nauseated, part-excited, part-appalled. ‘This tumult … won’t the police hear it? Is there never a raid?’

  ‘The peelers won’t be coming down into Moorgate when the rat-catching is on. They know better.’

  As I stared at him I realized he was not watching the killing in the ring. Instead, his gaze was fixed on a man leaning on the paling at the other side of the pit. Nor did his gaze waver. It was as though he was willing the man to raise his own eyes from the rat-catching, meet his glance, recognize him and acknowledge Ben’s presence.

  Through the haze of greasy smoke in the spluttering gaslight I could see that he was one of the better-dressed among the baying fraternity, albeit a little flamboyant and perhaps out-moded, a man seeking to keep up with fashion by buying second-hand clothes discarded by wealthier members of society. A silk handkerchief drooped casually from his yellow waistcoat, the green coat had once been of a stylish cut, and his wristbands were slightly grubby. His hair was black and long, composed with a careful disorder, combed forward, divided nicely so as to allow one greasy lock to curl on his forehead. His eyes were as black as his hair, I realised, as he looked up at last, caught Gully’s eyes on him, and stiffened, holding the glance.

  I thought I detected a certain enquiry in the man’s black eyes, a concern, but the glances of the two men seemed to be locked for several long seconds before some agreement must have been reached, quietly, without words, for Ben suddenly turned aside, touched my arm lightly, and murmured, ‘Come, Mr James. Let’s go back downstairs.’

  I was glad to follow him, escape down the ladder, get away from the whistling, cheering, raucous crowd and the stench of stale beer, cigar smoke, blood, excrement and human sweat. We stood side by side in the dim light at the foot of the ladder. Several minutes elapsed but Gully said nothing. Above our heads the stamping and shouting could be clearly heard: it would no doubt have echoed the length of Bunhill Row but people who lived in this area tended to mind their own affairs.

  At last the steps on the ladder creaked above our heads and the man with the greasy locks made his careful way down to the ground floor. As he did so, Gully drew me away so that we were standing in the dark shadow of the narrow corridor, where only stray gleams of light filtered through from the floorboards above. In those gleams motes of dust drifted down lazily, escaping the thundering feet above. I stood beside Ben as the man reached the bottom of the ladder, and looked about him, then came forward.

  ‘Strauss,’ Ben said carefully, in a low tone.

  ‘Mister Gully.’ The man called Strauss spoke in a high-pitched tone, a foreign accent, slightly broken. He held his head to one side, at a curious angle. I wondered if he had ever survived a garrotting, or even a hangman’s noose. ‘I didn’t know that you was a follower of the sport.’

  ‘I ain’t,’ Gully replied gruffly.

  Strauss leaned forward, bending slightly at the waist and peered curiously in my direction. ‘And who might your friend be, may I ask?’

  ‘No need to ask,’ Gully snapped, bringing an end to the enquiry.

  ‘A gentleman, perhaps, come to see some new sights,’ Strauss suggested, with no clear expectation of obtaining an answer. ‘Still, Mr Gully, if you ain’t come to see the rats, maybe you come to see me. Now why would that be?’

  ‘I have some questions.’

  Strauss considered his reply, mulled it over with a slight shake of the head. ‘Questions, questions. Them as ask questions expect to receive answers, that’s my experience. But you know, Mr Gully, I ain’t in the business of giving out answers.’

  There was a short silence. At last Gully spoke in a quiet but firm tone. ‘I know what business you’re in. I’ve known you a long time, Strauss. Done you some favours, too, even when you didn’t deserve them.’

  Strauss bobbed his head carefully, weighing up his reply. ‘I don’t deny—’

  ‘There was that business of the strangling at the penny gaff, for instance.’

  ‘Now, Mr Gully, there’s no call to dredge up that old business.’ A pleading note had entered the man’s voice. I realized he was older than I had first appreciated. And unsteadier.

  ‘And I never said a word to the swell mob about the shiv that went into Tom Shepard’s back, that time at Lambeth.’

  Strauss whinnied, and gave what seemed a little shuffling dance of protest. ‘Now you know that was none of my planning, Ben,’ he pleaded. ‘The stuff he tried to fence me, it was perilous and he wasn’t honest with me …’

  ‘Since when was the biggest fence in Clerkenwell dealing with honest folk?’ Ben sneered. ‘But no matter. This ain’t a matter of negotiation. Like I said, we’ve known each other a long time. Something’s come to my attention. I been asking around for a week. Talking to certain of my acquaintances in the rookeries around St Giles way. Mainly without success. But, finally, a whisper came to me. And the whisper, it leads finally to you.’

  ‘What you talking about, Ben?’ the old fence queried in a sullenly querulous tone.

  ‘A watch.’

  There was a short silence and when Strauss finally spoke there was a note of incredulity in his voice. ‘A watch? This about a watch?’

  ‘Story is you fenced it.’

  ‘So, but a watch? What’s so special about it?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ Ben Gully replied grimly. ‘And relative to the watch, I’ve got a couple of questions that need answers. Where did you get it? Who fenced it with you?’

  Strauss glanced uneasily in my direction, shrugged, spread his hands. ‘A watch? I mean there’s a deal of stuff comes through my hands …’

  Ben thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the hunter. He held it under the nose of the doubtful receiver. ‘It’s a gold watch. There’s an inscription on the back. A name. Joseph Bartle. I know who you sold it to, but I want to know who it was fenced it with you, Strauss. And I want to know urgent, like.’

  It was more than a little while before Strauss replied, peering carefully at the watch, weighing up options open to him, no doubt, and concluding that Ben Gully was not a man to be trifled with, and to argue with him was a ga
me not worth the candle.

  It was then, finally, that he told us about the Puddler.

  4

  Much has changed in the City these last forty years. I saw many changes on my return from New York, after my ten-year sojourn there. The old rookeries swept away, vast areas of country built over in response to the hunger for houses among the growing middle class, the marvel of the underground railway. … And change continues. It was all so different in the 1840s.

  Living in London in those days meant you could never avoid the poor and wretched: they were ever present in the streets and after all only a few paces from the houses of the wealthy in Regent Street lay the teeming rookeries of St Giles whence most of the criminal classes eked out a precarious living among their fetid courts and rubbish-strewn, sunless alleys. I mean, you were certainly aware of them, even if you avoided them like the plague. And the main streets in the metropolis in those days teemed with the lower classes, tending to geese and ducks being driven to market past stables and dairies, cowsheds and abattoirs: even in the Strand there was a cowhouse in a cellar under a dairy. They used to lower the cows down by ropes as the packed traffic rumbled by.

  So I’d seen a deal of London, was familiar with its sights and smells and its swarming humanity, but when Ben Gully took me with him in our search for the Puddler I entered a new world. I was of course a denizen of several different worlds already: I was familiar with the splendours of my grandfather’s house at Combe Park; I still visited the village in Herefordshire where I had spent my early years before my father transferred his law practice to Bucklersbury; I had personal experience of the theatre stages in the West Country, particularly Bath, where as a young man I did a short stint in front of the lights, and I had come to know the Inns of Court, Westminster Hall, the Strand, Regent Street. I even had more than a nodding acquaintance with the St Giles rookeries : there had been occasions when a few of us in our cups had ventured down its reeking alleys in search of adventure of the whoring kind. But I’d only heard of Jacob’s Island by reputation, and had never felt the desire to venture there. But that was where Gully took me a few days after meeting Strauss at the rat-catching.