Breaths of Suspicion (3 page)

‘Mr James … are you all right?’

Thick gnarled fingers closed on my arm, hauling me to my
staggering
feet until I was clasped to a broad chest. The heavy features of my rescuer were thrust into mine and I smelled onions and beer on his breath. Satisfied that I was not seriously hurt, my rescuer turned away and hauled to his legs the muttering drunkard at my
feet. When he leaned young Jervis into my grasp, it was only then that I recognized our saviour. It was the pugilist, well known as Lewis Goodman’s fixer: Porky Clark.

The scarred, battered features were thrust close into mine again, as though he was reassuring himself I was not badly hurt. He began to brush me down, removing dirt from my shoulders and chest, then, after a moment, he nodded satisfaction and let out a gusty, beer-and-pie flavoured breath. ‘Mr Goodman don’t like trouble so close to his place,’ he muttered.

‘Where … where did they come from?’ I asked shakily.

‘Them pack rats? There’s an alley back of the night house,’ Porky replied, nodding in the general direction of Goodman’s premises. ‘It’s happened afore. The villains will’ve been watching for
gennlemen
like yous coming out with full pockets.’

‘And where did you come from?’ I wondered.

He hesitated. The question seemed to bewilder him for a few moments. He scratched his stubbly chin, picked up the battered billycock hat he seemed to have mislaid during the scrimmage with the three thugs and ran a hand over his shaven head. ‘Came out afore you, Mr James. Just to take a look around, like.’

There was something unconvincing in his brief explanation, but I thrust the thought aside. I took a deep breath, caressed my injured rib with a gentle hand and swore. ‘It’s as well you came out too, Porky, or we’d have been well and truly turned over.’

‘They was just amatoors,’ he opined, grandly boastful. ‘They was ’specting easy targets. I put the boot into them. Come on, Mr James, let’s get you and Mr Jervis to the Strand. There’ll be hansoms there. We’ll get you and the young ’onnerble home straightaway.’

He was right. As soon as we emerged stumbling from the dark side street we saw a cab standing there, almost as if it had been waiting for us. Porky Clark raised a hand to the driver, then
half-lifted
young Jervis inside where he collapsed on the horse-hair seat like a bundle of old clothes. Porky stepped back as I ascended,
clutching my sore rib.

‘Best not tell Mr Goodman about this,’ he muttered. ‘He don’t like his gennlemen bein’ took after they leave the house.’

It would have been the reason Porky had come out into the street before we emerged, I had no doubt. He would be well aware of the dangers that the streets outside the night house might offer to the unwary. He closed the door behind me, and instructed the driver. ‘Inner Temple.’

There was the crack of a whip, the cab lurched on its way and Porky Clark was lost once more in the enveloping darkness of the side street.

Beside me, young Jervis was leaning his curly-locked head on my shoulder, and he had begun to snore. I guessed that later that morning he would have little recollection, if any, of the encounter in the alley. He would certainly not be aware that Porky Clark had come to our rescue. I slipped my hand into the pocket of his coat: his purse was still stowed safely there, and it felt comfortably swollen with the night’s winnings. I found my fingers itching with a momentary temptation: by extracting a few notes I could make up for some of my own losses that evening, and I had, after all, provided a service to the young rascal. But I resisted the temptation.

It would hardly be wise to relieve the son of the Attorney General of some of his winnings at
rouge et noir
. There was a line that had to be drawn.…

So we rattled through the darkened streets to the Inner Temple, and after depositing him at his lodgings I made my way by cab to my assignation in St John’s Wood. The lady in question squealed at my dishevelled state and caressed my sore rib tenderly after I explained my heroics of the evening. She was also tenderly
acquiescent
when I identified other areas of my anatomy that urgently required her soothing attention.…

I felt appreciated and not a little proud of my bold activities of the evening.

A
s I’ve already explained, my adventures in the courtrooms had given me a certain notoriety that was awarded by social lionizing. At that particular time I had been the subject of numerous dinner invitations by notable members of society. A week or so after the incident at Goodman’s night house in the Strand I received an invitation to a Friday to Monday occasion at the seat of the Earl of Yarborough, in Norfolk. I was delighted to receive the invitation, though not surprised, because I had recently had occasion to act for him in a rather unpleasant forgery case: he had been pleased with the result and when I met him later by chance, at The Casino, when he was somewhat in his cups, he had issued the invitation. It meant a certain amount of expense for me: a hired carriage to convey me into Norfolk, new clothes, an attendant temporary servant, but it was too important an invitation to back away from. Such
invitations
from people in High Society could be as rare as bustards in Norfolk for someone who was just reaching the lower rungs of the social scene, as I was at that time.

And the company was certainly glittering that evening: Lady Beauvale, Attorney General Sir John Jervis, Lady Clanricarde, Viscount Palmerston, Sir Charles Greville (along for the gossip, I had no doubt), Captain Gronow, Lord Esher, my learned friend Alexander Cockburn and others whose names have faded in my
memory. Oh, yes, I was in exalted company.

It was before dinner on the first evening that Sir John Jervis caught my eye, and motioned to me to stand aside with him near the windows. We stood side by side, each with a glass of Marsala in hand, and admired the view of the sloping lawns in the fading light. But the Attorney General clearly had something on his mind and after very little prevarication Sir John turned to me and smiled. ‘Certain rumours have been rippling around the Temple.’

‘When have there not, Sir John?’ I queried, shrugging.

‘This particular rumour concerns a member of my family,’ the Attorney General observed. ‘It seems there was some kind of fracas in which he became involved … after an evening at the card tables. My son has no great recollection of the details, it seems, but I have it on good authority that he escaped a beating, and robbery, as a result of your personal intervention. I am told that you yourself have made no reference to this event, but nevertheless the story has got out. Three thugs set upon you, I am told … and there was some injury to yourself.’

I touched my rib, which was still sore and shook my head, pouting slightly in a deprecating fashion. Whoever had been telling the tale seemed to have made no reference to the part played by Porky Clark.

Sir John Jervis regarded me keenly for a few moments. ‘I have not yet had the occasion to thank you personally for the assistance you rendered my son John on that evening.’

‘It was a matter of chance,’ I protested, though as you can imagine, not too vehemently.

‘Nevertheless, if you had not been in the vicinity there could have been serious consequences.’

He was silent for a few moments. Sir John Jervis had a somewhat gentle demeanour for a lawyer and successful Parliamentarian. He had a high, pale forehead, dark greying hair receding towards the crown. His eyes were brown, and warm. His face was long, his
features regular and he seemed to exude an air of quiet
friendliness
. He was highly regarded in Government for his sincerity and straight dealing. He had a reputation for honesty. On the other hand he never seemed to be entirely in good health: he suffered much from asthma, you know. It killed him in the end, at a
relatively
young age, too. But as we stood by the window looking out over the rolling Yarborough estates he was observing me sideways with a kindly glance. ‘I hear that your practice grows apace.’

‘I am indeed being kept busy,’ I murmured. ‘I keep a toehold in the Bankruptcy Courts, but other briefs have recently been coming in and I spend a deal of time in the Old Bailey’

Sir John sucked thoughtfully at his teeth. ‘So I understand. And I gather you are interested in the matter of Reform.’

I took a deep breath. ‘That is so, Sir John.’

He frowned slightly, thoughtfully. ‘I believe you are recently a member of the Reform Club.’ He sipped at his Marsala. ‘This is not the occasion when one should discuss matters of business, but I wonder whether you would find it convenient to dine with me on Thursday next at the club?’

I was quick to assent, even though I knew it would mean a hasty retreat from Guildford Assizes where I was to be engaged with a breach of promise action that day.

Jervis smiled pleasantly. ‘Ha. Good. We’ll leave further
discussion
of the proposition I wish to make to you until then. Meanwhile, we’ll say no more.… Here are the ladies. We must make ourselves available.’

In they were sailing, the first wave bearing Lady Beauvale and Lady Yarborough, the bosomy Lady Dacre just behind them. And a moment later, to my amazement, I realized that among those ladies who followed there was an old acquaintance.

Marianne Hilliard, formerly Miss Edge, the Sheffield banker’s daughter.

It was several years since I had last set eyes on her. My brother
Henry, who now had a medical practice in Harley Street, had met her from time to time in some professional matter or another. Henry, by the way, is the only member of my family who remains in touch with me now I am reduced to penury, even though two others have made their way in the Law, albeit not with such
distinction
as I. But that is beside the point.

When Marianne caught sight of me her eyebrows rose, and she smiled. Brother Henry had told me that since her marriage to that fool Crosier Hilliard, she had given birth to two children. The
accouchements
had done little to affect her attractiveness: her waist had thickened a little, no doubt, but her bosom had become even more magnificent and there was a new assurance in the tilt of her head … even though, as I recalled, she had never been lacking in the matter of self-assurance. She was wearing a cream gown that set off her shoulders impressively, a hint of lace maintaining the proprieties at the shadow between her breasts, and when she looked at me I detected the light of surprise, followed by a certain sparkle of pleasure in her eyes that made me feel … prospects?

I often had that almost instant effect on women, you know, even if I did look like a prize-fighter. Or perhaps it was because I had that rugged appearance. A lived-in face.

The swirl of the gathering meant that for the moment we were unable to have anything other than a brief acknowledgement and a polite query as to family. I cast my eyes around the room when she made only an offhand reference to her Hussar husband. He was not present. I was then engaged in conversations with Lady Beauvale and her group: it seemed they had been following my recent progress in the courts with some attention. The law courts were always a great attraction for the ladies in high society, you know, particularly where the hearing concerned some of their own and involved scandalous behaviour, such as rocking gondolas, rustling skirts, private detectives hiding behind curtains and the evidence of servants observing events through bedroom keyholes.
If ladies carried enough influence they could manage to obtain an invitation to sit on the bench beside the judges and follow matters at first hand. There would be much fluttering of fans and the
occasional
fainting fit when scurrilously sexual behaviour was exposed, and proceedings were often halted while a lady was assisted from the courtroom, overcome by her corsets and the sinful revelations from the witness box. Most managed to stick things out, however, and come back next day for more discussions of keyholes, and stained sheets and unusual sexual positions. And since many of the briefs that were now falling into my hands concerned breach of promise, criminal conversation or liaisons between actresses and sons of peers, you can imagine that I was quickly surrounded and detained by the female set, eager for salacious gossip.

Cockburn, I noticed, was in similar demand that evening. But then, he was always known to be a ladies’ man. And it was rumoured that he had fathered two children by a butcher’s wife in Cambridge. Such gossip was a matter for shivery attraction to the ladies.

Then there were introductions to other members of the party, a period listening to the sharp gossip of Greville on political rivals and a kindly word from our host, Lord Yarborough. It was,
incidentally
, on that occasion that I was introduced for the first time to the Earl of Yarborough’s son, Lord Worsley.

I can see that boy in my mind’s eye now: fourteen years old, tall, slender in build, narrow, handsome, moustachioed features and grey eyes that seemed to glow when they looked at me. I had been narrating the facts behind one of my recent cases of sensation and he was hanging on every word: I realized swiftly that the young man had hero worship in his glance and that … well, that’s best left for another time. Suffice it to say at this point, that the meeting with Lord Worsley that evening was the first of many, it developed into a close friendship later and was, ultimately, to play a major part in my destruction.…

But to return to Marianne.

Pure chance led to our being seated side by side at dinner, although placing me, a
célibataire
, next to a married lady was a little surprising. Normally, it would occur only if her husband was present, of course. It was a sumptuous spread that was laid before us, with a choice of five fine wines during the course of the evening. Viscount Palmerston sat almost opposite me and I was regaled by his political comments on the foreign affairs scene, notably over the Guizot business. But I also noticed that he paid very little attention to the lady on his left: Lady Dacre. Initially, this was a surprise to me. Her placement next to Viscount Palmerston might have been due to a little malice from our hostess. Gossip had it that the Viscount and Lady Dacre had known each other a long time. Since she had been Mistress Brand, in fact, in the days when she had been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.

The story was, it was the reason why little Vicky disliked Palmerston so much. Her own gaiety and love of dancing had deserted her after she got married to that priggish Prussian Prince Albert: she had taken on board his own view of the undesirability of enjoying oneself too much, other than in the romping privacy of the bedroom, and she was much incensed by the scandal that was visited upon her own palace at Windsor. After dinner on a famous occasion some years earlier, it seems that Lord Palmerston had entered the boudoir of the lady-in-waiting, Mistress Brand, at two in the morning. He had tapped on the door, and when foolishly she had opened to him he had stepped inside, barred the door and commenced to make physical advances to the lady in question.…

All under the roof of the Queen at Windsor!

Of course, old Pam had always had a reputation as a Cupid, and was well known to wander the corridors at night when invited to dinner. And quite why Mistress Brand opened the door to him.… However, she had screamed, of course, fought off the attentions of the 55-year-old statesman who was just about to get married
anyway, and though the scandal was hushed up, the Queen had sternly demanded the dismissal from Government of the
corridor-wandering
Viscount. The Government of the day resisted it and the incident didn’t seem to have damaged his political career much. Or his inclinations towards late-night peregrinations.

However, here they were some years later, Lady Dacre and old Pam, seated side by side and largely ignoring each other. Their studied indifference to each other could have been due to that unfortunate incident at Windsor, but I began to consider a different theory in my head. I was interested in watching them. The coolness they demonstrated to each other seemed odd, and somewhat suspicious to my trained eye. But my attention was distracted for a while, when Marianne broke away from a conversation with her other neighbour, Lord Esher, and lightly touched my arm to attract my attention.

‘Mr James, have you heard the news about Lester Grenwood?’

I had not. Since my former friend had fled to the continent after the
Running Rein
affair, to avoid creditors and perhaps a charge of murder I had lost interest in his affairs. He still owed me money, of course, but the days were long since past when I would have hoped that he would honour his debts. I had removed him from my mind, not least because unpleasant memories clung to that whole business: a drowned woman, a disinterred horse, and a man crushed to death on the dockside.…

Marianne frowned prettily. She had mastered certain feminine skills since last I had seen her. Now she teased at the lace on her bosom, showed me a little more of the valley between her breasts, turned her large violet eyes on me, held my glance. ‘You are aware that I never held Grenwood in high regard. And much disapproved of his friendship with my husband Crosier.’

She had once made her feelings clear to me, before she and Crosier Hilliard had married. I nodded, covertly eyeing the shadowed valley. ‘Grenwood, last I heard of him, was in Belgium.’

‘Alas,’ she sighed theatrically, and unfeelingly, ‘he is no longer of this world.’

I grimaced, forgetting the heaving bosom. Grenwood’s death meant any tiny hope I had retained of getting my money back had evaporated.

‘What happened?’

‘It was in Bruges. He fell in the canal. Drowned.’

I was silent for a little while. The irony of his death did not escape me: I still remembered the image of his pregnant mistress being dragged from the Thames by Inspector Redwood. She had committed suicide. Drowned. And now Grenwood had suffered the same fate. I wondered which would have been the dirtier end: the choking black sludge of the Thames, or the clogging muck of a dark canal in Bruges.

‘He would have been inebriated, of course,’ she said in a muttered tone. ‘Why is it that men will so degrade themselves?’

I stared at her. Her eyes met mine. There was a strange glitter in their depths. I had the sudden feeling that she was not speaking of the deceased Lester Grenwood.