by Roy Lewis
Bulstrode was beside himself with happiness. He had accepted the invitation to be present at the official function – my father had arranged that for me – and he’d told all his cronies in Exeter about the honour that was being done him. He had travelled to London by train, dizzy and proud, and could hardly believe that I’d become so friendly as to make use of my family connections in the City to bestow an invitation upon a humble West Country solicitor.
I didn’t really have much choice, of course. After the death of Sam McGuire I had been forced to explain to him that our enquiries into the Running Rein fiasco were now over: Bentinck was out of reach; we had no evidence against Goodman, we had reached a dead end. Literally, as far as Sam McGuire was concerned.
I explained to him that the money he had handed to me had been expended in a good cause but we had reached a point where we could do no more. Oddly enough, Bulstrode seemed almost relieved about that, and he was not constrained to ask me too closely about precisely how the money he had provided had been spent. He seemed to have forgotten the last paper he’d signed for me, in a drunken stupor. Or perhaps he chose to forget it. He appreciated it when we commiserated with each other, and I was relieved that he was not inclined to add himself to my growing list of pressing creditors. At least, not after I arranged to invitation to the Stock Exchange opening.
After the ceremony was over he expressed his pleasure at the sumptuous dejeuner provided in the Underwriters’ Room, where places had been laid for over a thousand guests. He joined enthusiastically in the toasts – Her Majesty, Prince Albert, the Royal Family, the Lord Mayor, the City of London – and noted with delight the vivacity with which the Queen joined in the last toast. And all the while his good friend Edwin James was at his elbow, kindly steering him through the protocol, generously urging he take more wine with the chicken, and partridge, and pheasant, and duck, pointing out Lord Clanricarde and Sir Robert Peel, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Wilton, Lord John Russell and the infamous Mr Bright MP.
Lord George Bentinck was also there. At one point our paths crossed and he hesitated, uncertain whether to acknowledge my presence. But he had won, after all, and he was cool enough finally to nod to me condescendingly, with a lift of his elegant eyebrow.
It soured things for me somewhat, but nothing was going to bruise Bulstrode’s enjoyment: for him it seemed to be a day of unmitigated happiness, an exhilarating occasion, and when I suggested in the late afternoon that we should take a hired brougham back to Inner Temple Lane, Bulstrode readily agreed. He chattered all the way as we clattered and rumbled back to my chambers. My clerk Villiers was still working there when we arrived, but after I dismissed him I opened a bottle, poured a generous glass of claret for the West Country solicitor. He protested only half-heartedly, before accepting it and settling back in his chair.
We went over the whole sad story for a while. I explained to him there was now no chance that we would ever bring out the truth about the Running Rein affair. The horse itself had been put down; the man who might have been forced to tell the truth – McGuire – had been crushed to death at London Docks; and while we might force some admissions out of Cornelius Smith, it was highly unlikely that Porky Clark – who knew as much as anyone about the business – would turn Queen’s Evidence against his paymaster, Lewis Goodman. We had come to an impasse. And as for the murder of Joe Bartle, while we could hazard a guess whose hand was behind it, we would never be able to prove it in a court of law.
Bulstrode seemed largely unconcerned; he waved it all aside in a happy, inebriated haze. There were always winners and losers, he opined generously, and on this occasion it seemed we had lost, but no matter. There would be other times – a rogue like Goodman would slip up one of these fine days. And when I poured him some more claret and off-handedly explained that there were still some outstanding expenses to be covered, laid out in our noble endeavour to get at the truth Bulstrode waved his glass grandiosely. ‘No problem, my dear Mr James. If you come back to my lodgings with me I’ll let you have a bill immediately. It’s been a splendid partnership, splendid – and this has been a most splendid and memorable day.’
Satisfactory, at least, was how I saw it, thinking back that evening as I attended the Waverley Dress Ball at Willis’s Rooms. Of late I had realized it was futile to continue thrashing over the whole affair in my mind. I had to be philosophical about the whole thing: I was certain Bentinck had arranged the abduction and killing of the colt and that Goodman had arranged the death of Bartle. But how it all linked together … I had to leave it, set it aside. I had to get on with my life, and my career – there were other matters to turn to: a commission in lunacy at the Court of Chancery in a few days’ time, a conspiracy case in Queen’s Bench, and a prosecution arising out of a fatal accident at the Blackfriars Bridge steamboat pier.
There was also the matter of a famous actress who was asking me to represent her in a breach of promise case, and the criminal conversation hearing where I drew out the fact that ex-Inspector Field, now turned private detective, had observed the guilty couple by boring a hole in the bedroom wall with a gimlet … a great sensation in court, and the briefs were rolling in.
Thoughts about Bentinck still smarted, but it was time to put it all behind me.
Also, oddly enough, my creditors had fallen quiet. I was pleased about that, though a little puzzled. Persons of that kind were always dunning for their cash, and there was a considerable amount of my paper in the City, up for payment or renewal.
But that evening I had no cares. The ballroom was crowded with the rank and fashion of the metropolis. There were numerous people I knew and I moved among them, a word here, a joke there, receiving the occasional invitation to a weekend dinner party. It was always my forte, you know, invitations from lonely ladies whose husbands were away in the hunting field. I had a way with me, Society was my scene, I was welcomed for my wit, my banter, my unending good humour. Oh, yes. That evening I managed to claim dances with a number of ladies of fashion, who were only too pleased to take my hand while their husbands were elsewhere. They were still intrigued by my sudden fame as a result of my performance at the Running Rein trial, and the crim con case.
When the procession formed for the monster quadrille, it was led by the Marchioness of Londonderry. I found myself partner to Lady Adeline de Horsey: I remember she told me a most amusing story about seeing her father with his mistress at the Prince’s Theatre – from which she herself had been banned for outrageous conduct.
In the salon de danse no fewer than twenty-six sets were danced that evening; in the supper room Scotch reels and country dances were kept up with spirit. I took part in much of the activity, dancing with various ladies, usually married: two of them were arch enough to tease me with a suggested rendezvous. And late in the evening, a little past midnight I first came face to face with a certain Miss Marianne Edge. The name is familiar to you: that’s right. The lady who some years later became my first wife.
I thought she was quite attractive. She was wearing a pale blue ball gown whose décolletage revealed a creamy neck and bosom. Her eyes seemed to have darkened with excitement and pleasure, and there was a delightful flush to her cheek. The only drawback from my point of view was that she was on the arm of her fiancé, none other than Lieutenant Crosier Hilliard. Someone should have warned her then: in the contemplation of marriage, a large income is immensely preferable to a luxuriant set of whiskers.
But then, as I understood it, she came from a banking family, so money was no problem.
Hilliard made the introductions, somewhat reluctantly, I noted. I planted a kiss on her gloved hand, gallantly, while his own eye wandered about the room. He seemed distracted. I chatted for a while with Miss Edge – the first of many such conversations that were to occur over the years, until we married, when conversations became screaming quarrels – but finally I turned to the gallant hussar.
‘So, Hilliard, you seen anything of our friend Grenwood?’
Our mutual friend, and a man who owed me money.
Hilliard’s whiskers quivered and he turned his attention to me, frowning slightly. ‘Hadn’t you heard?’
‘What?’
‘Surely you will have heard he’s taken himself off to France?’
‘Ah …’ I hadn’t been to my club recently; I hadn’t heard the news. ‘His debts, I presume. So his father, Lord Havermere, refused to bail him out.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Crosier Hilliard muttered uneasily.
‘Leaving Lieutenant Hilliard also in the lurch,’ Miss Edge added somewhat frostily.
Crosier Hilliard shuffled awkwardly and glanced at his fiancée. ‘Come, come, my dear, I’m sure Grenwood will come up trumps in the end.’
‘Not unless he returns to the jurisdiction here in England,’ she sniffed. ‘Oh, you men,’ she exclaimed impatiently, glancing at me and shaking her head. ‘You protect each other, you dissemble, you won’t face up to facts. I know that Grenwood and you, Crosier, were involved in some heavy gambling together. And now Grenwood’s fled to France to avoid his debts.’ She turned her dark eyes full upon me. ‘My father has had a long discussion with me about it, and I’m being told that I should not worry my pretty head about such things. But I have the feeling there is something most discreditable about the whole affair.’
She clearly disapproved of our fleeing friend, and felt that Grenwood was a gambler who drank too much and spent too much time in the West End, maintaining discreditable companions, perhaps like me, and was seen too often in low company.
That was the first time I met her, as I said. And though she attracted me, I should have recognized there and then that Marianne Edge was the kind of woman who could cause trouble to a man. Strong-willed, determined, albeit with plenty of tin behind her. But, years later, when I followed Grenwood’s example and fled to France, and she proposed to marry me, well, I suppose it was a question of any port in a storm. And there was also her fortune, of course …
The conversation lagged after her sharply stated comments. After a few more stiff minutes I took my leave and moved away. I caught sight of her in the crowd again later. She was dancing with her fiancé. The gallant hussar, and the banker’s daughter. They made a splendid couple. She drove him to drink, eventually.
I called for my cloak at two in the morning and went out into the night air. I decided to walk back to my chambers, rather than take a hansom cab. At that time in the morning, the air was cool and the sky above me was bright with stars. There were people enough about: Catherine Street prostitutes still plying their trade under the gas lamps, boisterous drunks, an assortment of men about town moving from one night house to another. I walked slowly through the Haymarket, ignoring the offers made to me, and proceeded down towards Trafalgar Square and the Strand. I strolled along easily enough, swinging my silver-headed stick, hardly aware of where I was walking. I was thinking about the events of the last few weeks, aware I’d probably never get my money back from Lester Grenwood, or obtain my revenge on Bentinck.
But I thought also of the good things in my life: I was enjoying my celibate state for there were women enough to satisfy my desires without contemplating marriage, unlike poor Hilliard who I suspected was chewing upon more than he’d be able to digest. My briefs were becoming more numerous; after certain discreet but flirtatious conversations at the ball that evening it was clear I would be getting opportunities for Friday to Sunday stays in country houses; there was good companionship to be obtained at White’s even if I was blackballed from the Carlton, and there was always the Liberal Party to think about as a stepping stone for my ambitions …
A sudden surge of euphoria came over me, and I carelessly swung my stick, striking it against iron railings, jarring my wrist. The sudden pain brought me back to an awareness of my surroundings. I was in Savoy Place, only a short walk now from the Temple, and the dimly lit street was quiet, echoing and empty. Even from the river the sounds of traffic were muted, apart from the occasional warning bull horn as late moving barges made their way downstream to Greenwich. But I also felt a prickling on the back of my neck.
I suddenly had the feeling I was not alone.
I knew well enough the dangers of the London streets after dark. I had already seen and even defended enough garrotters in the courts, dealt with more than a few bug-hunters, the loafers who hung around street corners and quiet alleyways in the hope of stealing from drunks. I was far from inebriated myself, and I had my sturdy cane: I slid my hand down its length, reversing it so that the heavy knobbed silver grip was available as a clubbing device.
There were two of them, I guessed: one, a light, soft, almost confident, swinging step, the other heavier, a menacing shuffle a little to his rear. I made no attempt to look behind me; I slowed, then turned right, heading towards the river and Temple Gardens. Only when I finally stepped under a gaslight did I turn, looked behind me.
They came out of the darkness of the narrow street. The first man was tall, elegant in his stride, and smartly dressed. As he came up towards me I could see the black gleam of his hat, the flash of silken white at his throat. A moment later I saw the hulking figure of the other man, a few feet behind. For a few seconds I stood there puzzled, and then I recognized the heavy man from his build: I’d seen him often enough, stripped and bloodied at the prize fights. But he hung back now, shoulders hunched almost deferentially, as the first man approached me.
‘Good evening, Mr James.’
It was Lewis Goodman.
A cold ball of fear hardened in my chest. Ben Gully had warned me about this man. My lips were dry, as I snapped, ‘You’ve been following me, sir?’
‘Merely taking the night air,’ Goodman said, slowing as he approached me. Under the gaslight he stopped, and flashed me a confident smile. His cold eyes glittered as he looked me up and down with an irritating condescension. ‘But it’s well met, for all that. I’ve been meaning to call on you soon, perhaps at your chambers, to talk about various things but was, well, reluctant to be seen there. We need not discuss the reasons. The fact is, when Porky saw you strolling along past Willis’s he came back into my club in The Quadrant and told me. We came out, guessed you were on the way to your chambers, caught up with you … and here we are.’
I hesitated, turned and Goodman fell into step beside me as I began to walk again towards Temple Place. I was still not relieved: my breathing was tight in my chest, my heart thudding painfully.
‘What is it you want with me?’ I demanded, gripping my stick tightly.
‘Just a word. In the main, to thank you.’
‘You’ve nothing to thank me for.’
Lewis Goodman chuckled: there was genuine pleasure in the sound. ‘But I do. For the sterling manner in which you performed at the Exchequer Court, of course – even though the event ended unhappily, it was not because of any failing on your part. You fought most valiantly. But more importantly, I feel I should also thank you for removing from me the necessity of dealing with Mr McGuire.’
I stopped, and stared at him. ‘Are you saying—?’
‘My dear man, you’ve been a great help. I was in a certain quandary about McGuire. You see, I have a reputation to maintain, the man had deceived me, and I can’t really allow that sort of thing to occur, not without taking retribution. But it was really too much trouble, going about the business of tracing him….’ He paused, smiling at me knowingly. ‘But it seems you have contacts of your own, Mr James. A certain Ben Gully, I believe … and as I say, you saved me trouble, and all’s well that ends well.’
‘I can’t say it’s ended well for McGuire,’ I snarled. ‘Or for me.’
‘No?’ There was a note of mocking surprise in Goodman’s voice. ‘You should look at both sides of the balance sheet, Mr James. The Running Rein business has brought you to the notice of the public, solicitors are beginning to send more briefs to you; you are launched on what I trust will be a glittering career—’
‘But I failed to dis
cover – and expose – the truth behind the whole dirty business. Not least the part played in it by you and that damned Lord George Bentinck!’ The bile rose in my throat, making me almost incoherent. ‘McGuire knew about it – the ringer, you, Bentinck, but now he’s dead—’
‘Not at my hand, Mr James,’ Goodman interrupted me softly.
We were both silent for a while as I digested the implications of what he said. But anger still stirred in my veins. ‘But what about Joe Bartle?’ I demanded hotly, rashly ignoring the menacing hulk of Porky Clark in the darkness. ‘Why did you have to kill him?’
There was a short silence. Lewis Goodman stared at me, then turned his head to glance back to his companion, and laughed softly. He raised his head, looked about him at the starry sky, as though in contemplation. Then he nodded, and his white teeth seemed to flash in light from the gaslight above our heads. ‘Ah, well, I suppose you have a certain right in demanding to learn what really happened in all this business. I think probably you’ve already guessed most of it.’
‘So tell me!’
Goodman laughed again ‘Well, the colt, you’ll know all about that now, since I understand you were there when the animal was exhumed. Yes, Running Rein was a ringer, brought over from Ireland. I sold him to the corn merchant, laid some propitious bets, and did quite well out of the business. But Baron Alderson’s proposal, that, I admit, was something I had not expected. I mean, bringing a horse into the courtroom!’
‘It would have scuppered you, I imagine,’ I sneered. ‘Having your fraud exposed.’
‘Hmm, yes.’ Goodman nodded in reflection, seemed suddenly thoughtful. ‘It could have been embarrassing, but in the event the matter was taken out of my hands.’
