Breaths of Suspicion (5 page)

I stood watching him till he disappeared. I was trembling with
anger and disappointment. I stared at the closed, barred door to Marianne’s room. It was an insurmountable barrier to my passion. There was nothing more to be done. I turned away; my stomach was in turmoil as I groped my lonely way back to my bedroom. I found it with some difficulty after clawing ineffectually at several doors along the corridor. I was cold with disappointment, my feverish expectations of a hot encounter dashed, and as I lay at last in my own bed I was unable to sleep, turning, twisting, shifting restlessly against the pillows until the first few slanting gleams of dawn crept in through the shuttered windows, dancing dust motes mocking my restlessness.

I lay sleepless, seeing still in my mind’s eye the hunched, despondent form of Viscount Lord Palmerston as he shambled away disconsolately from his expected assignation, and it was only with a sense of personal frustration that I heard over and over in my brain the words he whispered drearily on disappointed lips as he faded slowly into the darkness of the corridor.…

‘Je suis foutu! Je suis absolument foutu!’

M
y younger brother Henry took not to the law but to medicine. He eventually came to specialize in the treatment of female urethral disorders—he was always a man of an exceptionally serious disposition—and I well recall numerous grave late-evening discussions with him regarding my view that sexual connexion was absolutely necessary if one was to prevent atrophy of the
testicles
. I’m not certain whether these conversations were an attempt on his part to give me some support in the consummation of my evening proclivities or a subtle essay in advising me to slow down, but either way it did nothing to change my ways. After all, wet dreams can be nothing more than a God-given safety valve, and the real thing cannot be surpassed for satisfaction.

Yes, my boy, I’ve always held that sex is good for a man’s health and sexual deprivation is damaging. I’ve known many women who held the same view, in direct opposition to that fool Acton’s comment that the majority of women are not much troubled with sexual feeling of any kind. He had not moved much in high society, I tell you!

Since hearing of my frustration at Lord Yarborough’s Friday to Monday, you’ve expressed some interest in hearing more about that side of my life, and I’m happy to talk about it, on the principle that I can trust you not to mention such matters to your dear mother,
of course. Like other young men, my early adventures were in the Strand, naturally enough, because of the slimness of my purse: the ladies of the night who were
habituées
of that area could not be regarded as of the higher class. And there were many street encounters, for the Strand had many corners where the doxies copulated like cattle in the shambles, dark places where low-class whores plied their wares, and relieved themselves afterwards in the gutters … the police never interfered, as I recall, unless the encounters occurred in the main thoroughfare.

At the time of my early escapades there were occasional, largely ineffectual attempts by the authorities to clean up the area, and by the time I had progressed to the theatres, where it was possible to pick up the amateurs, the dollymops out for a good time, mingling among the crowd outside, the peelers had begun to force the whores out of Leicester Square and the Strand. It was a pointless exercise, of course, since the ladies simply moved on to the casinos like Evans’s and the Holborn and the Argyll Rooms. Pickings were good there, I warrant you: I was able to move on from the £3-whores and make my choice among dancing girls and actresses of note (some of whom, interestingly enough, I later acted for in court). Incidentally, you could always tell the whores at the Argyll Rooms easily enough: they were the ones who left at dawn in cabs.

But the pressure soon moved to these establishments with spoilsports like Macready and Acton making life difficult for them, egging on the magistrates and the police. So it was fortunate for me that I had formed the acquaintance with Cockburn. Along with another couple of lawyers of similar inclination, he’d formed a private Cock and Hen club and eventually I was invited along. He’d taken a lease of discreet premises in St John’s Wood and I was invited to join the club where we entertained bored wives in the afternoons, particularly during the Long Vacation. The location was an unexceptional double-fronted villa tucked away in an attractive shady little cul-de-sac. The Club became a sort of
seraglio
 
for us where four or five young ladies who were uninterested in permanent liaisons (being married to wealthy and usually elderly men more interested in shooting grouse than taking part in erotic adventures) attended for conversations of an intimate character, if you understand what I mean. Port wine, songs around the piano, a rustle of discarded skirts in cool shadowed bedrooms above and post-activity relaxing cigars.

As I recall, I took advantage of Cockburn’s Cock and Hen club for perhaps two years, but by 1847, when Cockburn was elected to his seat at Southampton it was no longer convenient for him to enjoy the St John’s Wood afternoons. So within a year the villa was regretfully released to other tenants and was no longer available to me, but by then the money from election committee hearings was rolling in and I was of the inclination to find somewhere discreet on my own account. I decided I would look around for a place where I could set up an establishment similar to that which I had enjoyed with Cockburn, where I could entertain whom I pleased … and discreetly. I found such a property at Rusper, near Horsham.

The irony of its former history rather pleased me: it had been a retreat for ladies who had taken the veil. The Nunnery, it was called. I rather enjoyed the irony of that, and so did Cockburn. We met there regularly for afternoon assignations with complaisant ladies, drank French and Rhenish wine, smoked excellent Havana cigars and admired the beautiful ladies in their resplendent gowns. Of which we usually divested them in the course of proceedings. And fine fun it was. Thackeray joined us occasionally, as did several members of the Temple. Wilkie Collins came along once. But we kept members of the club few in number, to ensure discretion.

And oddly enough The Nunnery played its part in the next phase of my life, which began when I kept my dinner appointment at the Reform Club with the Attorney General, Sir John Jervis.

As a seaman wandering the oceans of the world, you won’t
know the Reform Club in Pall Mall. The magnificent new house was built by Charles Barry in 1841: it opened its membership to Radicals and Liberals; every bedroom had a white marble basin with hot and cold taps and valets always stood by ready to shave and dress you. The famous chef Alexis Soyer ran the kitchen using gas for cooking—quite an innovation then—and there was even a gas flame in a little alcove by the main door where you could light your cigar. Ah, yes, the Reform.… I also joined the Garrick, of course, and gambled in Boodles in St James’s Street, and I regularly frequented White’s as my practice flourished. But the Reform was necessary to pursue my political aspiration: the grand interior entrance, the portraits of eminent former members, the political atmosphere which hung like scented smoke in the air.…

Sir John was a gracious host. He did not keep me waiting long in the colonnaded hall of the club, and I was soon ushered into his presence in a small side room occupied only by two elderly gentlemen dozing over editions of
The Morning
Post
. He rose to greet me, lean, elegant, affable, gracious of manner, and waved me to a seat at some little distance from the other members. He raised a hand to the attentive waiter, arranged for a brandy and water to be served me, while he contented himself with a glass of Madeira.

‘I’ve been looking back over your career so far,’ he mentioned after we had indulged in some polite inanities of the kind which are socially necessary at meetings of gentlemen who are not well known to each other. ‘I believe you commenced your practice by concentrating on work in the bankruptcy courts.’

I agreed that this was so.

‘And you even chose to write a book on reform of the laws in that sector,’ Jervis observed.

I smiled. ‘I cannot claim a great success for it. It did not run to a second edition.’

The Attorney General smiled. ‘It nevertheless demonstrated two things: one, that you have thought deeply about legal matters of
reform, and that you are perhaps thinking of a political career in due course.’

I nodded thoughtfully, fixed a frown of concentration on my features. ‘It is why I applied for membership of the Reform Club.’

‘Quite so.…’ A slight, gentle smile touched Sir John’s thin lips. ‘After you had been blackballed at the Carlton Club.’ As I opened my mouth to explain he raised an elegant hand. ‘It’s quite all right, James. I understand that a young man interested in politics might wish to take his first steps with the party that happens to be forming the Government of the day.’ He paused, eyed me reflectively. ‘And I understand about the blackballing also. It seems you have made enemies of some powerful people in the Tory party.’

I grimaced. ‘One in particular.’

Sir John Jervis nodded. ‘Yes. None more powerful. Leader of the Tory Party in the House … you refer to Lord George Bentinck. He makes his … dislike of you very apparent. From what do you believe this arises?’

I shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s because I struck at him where he feels himself vulnerable. His love of horse racing.’

Jervis laughed quietly. ‘His own father criticized him for years over his attachment to the Turf. And the extent of his gambling, not to mention the low characters he has been involved with at Newmarket and elsewhere. But your verbal blows … they arose out of the
Running Rein
affair, I understand.’ He eyed me closely. ‘Matters there were never satisfactorily resolved, I believe?’

I nodded. I did not feel able to tell him all I knew of the business: the chicanery involved, the body of a woman in the Thames, the beating of a man to death. All that had to remain a secret between me and that unscrupulous villain, Lewis Goodman. To whom I still owed a great deal of tin. I made no reply.

‘It’s of no consequence,’ Jervis remarked after a little while, as he sipped his Madeira and watched me with eyes that seemed to
be seeking confirmation of a view. At last, he remarked, ‘You are not a close friend of my son.’

‘We have met from time to time in Westminster Hall,’ I admitted, ‘but we are not confidants.’

‘Yet you went out of your way to assist him that evening in the Strand.’

I shrugged diffidently. ‘It was a matter of circumstance. It’s merely chance that brought me into proximity with what happened on that occasion outside the night house. At the tables, I could see that your son was winning a considerable amount of money. And my guess was there was a certain amount of chicanery at the table. He was on a winning run, which would lead him finally to be fleeced. So I thought it wise to step in, advise him he should leave. But then, well, you see, Sir John, it’s not been unknown for unscrupulous dealers to reach an arrangement with undesirable characters outside the night house, lurking in the dark. They allow a gull to win a considerable amount and then their confederates outside relieve him of his winnings. The money is then split between the garrotters and the dealer. I cannot be certain that was what occurred that night but your son … well, I deemed that he might be vulnerable. It seemed to me to be sensible to make sure that he found himself a cab, when he left. Even without the possible conspiracy I mentioned, the early morning streets can be dangerous.’

I paused: I saw no reason to mention that it had been that villain, Lewis Goodman, who had asked me to take care of young Jervis, nor that the actual physical side of the rescue itself had been largely down to that plug-ugly, Porky Clark.

‘In any event, it’s beyond dispute that you assisted my son John,’ the Attorney General remarked softly, ‘and put yourself into danger. That places him, and me in your debt.’

‘I would not seek to take advantage of such feelings,’ I lied.

The Attorney General raised his glass almost in salute.
‘Nevertheless, I feel that I remain in your debt. And I would like to repay you, while, at the same time, suggesting that there is a further service that you might be able to provide me … to your benefit, as well as mine.’

‘You need only to ask, Sir John.’

‘I believe that a little while ago you took the lease of a property at Rusper, near Horsham.’

‘That is so. The Nunnery.’ I held my breath. I hoped fervently that the Attorney General was not in receipt of rumours concerning the activities that went on in our Cock and Hen Club. And if so, it could hardly be that he desired to join our roistering there … or ask that his son be allowed to join us with the ladies.

Sir John Jervis nodded sagely, while I waited, on tenterhooks. He was silent for a little while, twirling his glass between his fingers, as though admiring the colour of the wine it held. At last, he murmured, ‘I imagine you are might be aware of the history of the Horsham seat.’

I frowned, and shook my head. ‘Only that it is held in the Tory interest.’

‘Held? Hardly
held
, in my view. The sitting member, a Mr Hurst, has not been seen by his constituents for some two years. Soon after his election there were rumours of his inability to survive as an MP on account of financial embarrassments. He went abroad and never afterwards took his seat so the borough was effectively disenfranchised. There is a by-election coming up, as a result. The sitting member has been contacted and Mr Hurst has informed the authorities that he has no intention of standing again. So the electors now seek a resident gentleman of independent fortune to represent their interests. A Mr Fitzgerald has recently announced he will stand in the Tory interest.’

I sat very still. ‘I had heard something to that effect.’

‘The gentleman in question has the strong support of Lord George Bentinck, who will be placing some of his considerable
wealth at the disposal of Mr Fitzgerald.’

‘Wealth, and the backing of the Leader of the Opposition. A strong combination,’ I agreed. There was a stirring in my veins as I watched Sir John twirling his wine glass between his fingers. His expression was thoughtful. ‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he murmured, ‘has this week issued a notice explaining his position. He has settled in a house at Holbrook, announces he intends to nurse the constituency with ardour, amiability and, no doubt, the results of Lord George’s generosity. Naturally, as a Tory Fitzgerald declares himself against Reform.’ Sir John’s glance rose from his glass and settled almost lazily upon me. ‘And naturally our own party will encourage someone of Liberal leanings to oppose him.…’

His words died away and yet seemed to hang in the air between us. Beyond the windows I could hear the faint rattle of cabs in the street. The room in which we sat was silent, apart from the occasional rustle of a newspaper being turned by the denizen of a deep leather armchair to our left.

My mouth felt dry. I sipped my brandy and water. My pulse was suddenly hammering as I dwelled on the implications of the silence that now arose between the Attorney General and myself. I had been of assistance to his son. He felt himself indebted to me. He was a senior member of the Government and there was a vacant seat arising where someone of a Liberal persuasion was sought to oppose Lord George Bentinck’s lapdog. My thoughts whirled: with Bentinck playing the cards a great deal of money would be spent in this constituency: the eventual winner of the seat would be put to a great deal of expense. I took a deep breath. I was now making a good living at the Bar even if most of my fees seem to drain away before they even reached me, but I had always known that attaining a seat in the Commons would be an expensive business, and at this stage in my career I was not sure I would be able to afford it. But then again, perhaps Sir John would be offering me more than mere opportunity: perhaps he, and other backers, would
also be prepared to finance me. The prospect was dizzying.