Breaths of Suspicion (8 page)

Captain Thomas’s troubles as far as the Horsham election was concerned were ended.

But my involvement was far from over, and a scandal was looming large.

M
y forensic experience at election committees meant that I was not surprised, some days later, when I heard that Fitzgerald had decided to try to unseat young Jervis. The grounds on which his supporters intended to proceed were that the elected candidate had indulged in bribery and corruption!

I met Sir John Jervis in his chambers. I was shocked by his appearance; he did not look well. His face seemed thinner, a racking cough disturbed him constantly and he seemed to have lost some of his self-assurance. He was not long for this life, of course, though I was unaware of that at that particular time.

‘I am not unduly disturbed at the threat of this petition, James,’ he remarked with a slight smile. ‘They can hardly hope to deprive John of the fruits of his victory by proving his success at methods which they themselves had tried and failed.’

I readily agreed with that view.

‘On the other hand there are other considerations to take into account. Have you seen the report in the
Sussex Advertiser
?’

I had not. The Attorney General handed me the cutting he had taken from the newspaper. I can quote it still, from memory:

I looked up at Sir John. His eyes were fixed on me: he did not need to tell me how disturbed he was by the allegation of corruption on the part of the Government itself, and the tarring of his own reputation as Attorney General.

‘Newspaper talk,’ I muttered unconvincingly.

He shrugged, raising his lean shoulder in contempt. ‘But damaging. It cannot be allowed to go on. We have made representations to Mr Fitzgerald. It has been made clear to him that he would fail in a petition because of his own … responsibility for what went on. He has seen the wisdom of the advice. It has been agreed that he will not contest John’s election. But …’ he coughed into his handkerchief; it was a raw, throat-raking dry sound, ‘but, his stepping back does not mean that his supporters will follow his lead.’

I waited, thinking. He was right, of course. If the Pinks could find someone, a nonentity perhaps who was untainted by what had gone on at Horsham, embarrassment for all might follow. And Lord George Bentinck, in his malice, would no doubt be prepared to fund the proceedings.

‘Mr Padwick, Mr Fitzgerald’s agent, has been in touch. He tells me a certain Mr Newmarch is prepared to bring the petition. However … Mr Padwick proposes a meeting.’ He paused, eyed me carefully as he coughed into his handkerchief. ‘This is no reflection upon your efforts, James, and I remain indebted to you. But with the rumours that are now circulating in the coffee houses, and the Government’s delicate position … I think my son’s interests must be disregarded for the moment. Mr Padwick has a proposition to
make which will relieve both sides of anxiety. You would do me a great service if you would be so kind as to meet Padwick and … discuss financial matters.’

‘As your agent, to reach a compromise, Sir John?’

He hesitated. ‘An agent—’

I held up a warning hand. ‘No, on second thoughts, perhaps we should not formally discuss an
agency
. It might be better if I were able to act freely … not
exactly
on your behalf.’

I don’t know if he then knew what I had in mind: he had a keen legal intellect, but he had not been schooled in the world of the Old Bailey. Because it’s all about how you present a case, how you bamboozle the other side, how you
seem
to make promises but in fact do not do so.…

I met Mr Padwick the next day, when he consented to join me at The Nunnery for a private discussion.

I was already aware that Mr Fitzgerald’s agent held no great love for me: he had been irritated from the beginning of the campaign by the efficacy of our methods and the speed in which we adjusted our strategies. Now, refusing the offer of a glass and a cigar, he was inclined to move straight to business as he sat there before me, legs wide apart, hands folded over his extensive belly, bald head shining in the afternoon sun that streamed in through the window.

‘So, Mr James, you have agreed this meeting to discuss the election petition we intend to bring.’

‘That is so. Though, as an experienced advocate at election committees, I would advise that you will have little chance of success.’

Padwick permitted himself a wintry solicitor smile. ‘That’s as may be. If we present the petition in the name of the candidate—’

‘You will be laughed out of the committee room. Mr Fitzgerald would be complaining of practices in which he himself indulged.’

Padwick’s eyes were stony. ‘That is not our intention. A
supporter of the candidate, Mr Newmarch, will present the petition—’

‘Which, even if it succeeded in unseating Mr Jervis could not result in the election of Mr Fitzgerald, against whom our side would proffer similar charges.’ I paused. ‘So where is the advantage to either?’

‘Ah. But you disregard the other matter.’

‘Which is?’

‘The illegal use of Government funds to support the candidature of Mr Jervis.’

He had read the
Sussex Advertiser
. I suspected he had even placed the story there. ‘Can you prove the use of Government funds?’ I demanded.

He smiled a fat, confident, self-satisfied smile. ‘Would we need to? The embarrassment would be huge for the Attorney General; the Government would find mud sticking. The consequences for the party would be unimaginable.’

We both fell silent, watching each other like sparring fighting cocks. At last, almost diffidently, I said, ‘I believe we could find a way out of this … impasse. I have considerable experience in these matters and am prepared to admit that an election committee could find both parties equally to blame if charges of bribery and corruption were to be brought. That would be in the interests of neither your candidate nor Mr Jervis. However, if the charges brought were to be reduced to, say,
treating
, I think that, in the circumstances, we would be prepared to accept the possible unseating of the Attorney General’s son.’

A gleam of satisfied triumph appeared in Padwick’s cold eyes. ‘If we confine the charge to mere treating, and raise no issue of Treasury financial support, your side would raise no defence?’

I hesitated, but knew that we had no choice, really: the position of the Attorney General was too delicate. His son would have to wait another day to make his appearance in the House of
Commons. ‘We would raise no defence.’

Padwick nodded slowly. I waited. At last, he smoothed one hand over his bald pate, tugged at his side-whiskers and murmured, ‘You act as agent for Sir John in this matter, I take it.’

I stared at him, said nothing, but nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Our side has been put to considerable expense.’ He stared at me coldly, now convinced that he had the upper hand. ‘Sir John has much to lose, not least his reputation and that of the Government. Whereas on our side, it is merely a matter of
money
rather than honour. So, Mr James, I am instructed by Mr Fitzgerald that our side will be prepared to confine our charges at the hearing next week to
treating
merely, on condition that your candidate makes no defence to the charge and gives up the seat.’ He paused. ‘And furthermore we would require that Mr Jervis—or preferably Sir John Jervis himself—shall pay the costs of the petition.’

His smile hardened. ‘In this way the name of the Attorney General will not be directly connected with charges of bribery and corruption, he will be relieved from a very unpleasant and undignified position and the Treasury itself will not be drawn into a damaging financial dispute with serious political connotations.’

I nodded, seeming to acquiesce. ‘You speak of the costs of the petition—’

‘We would estimate these to be in the nature of £1,500,’ Padwick said blandly and flicked some non-existent fluff from the shoulder of his coat.

I watched specks of dust dance in the shafts of sunlight through the window and considered the oft-repeated claim that attorneys were often no better than highwaymen but I retained the solemn expression that befitted the occasion, and my situation. At last I sighed, as though in defeat. ‘Mr Padwick,’ I said, ‘in the capacity as agent of Sir John Jervis I am able to say that I believe we are in agreement. You will water down the charge, we will not defend the claim of treating and Mr Jervis will relinquish the seat. And
Sir John will make a payment to your office sufficient to cover the costs of the petition—’

‘One thousand five hundred pounds,’ Padwick intervened smugly.

‘Agreed.’

Padwick rose and extended his hand. I took it: his grasp was limp and damp. ‘It is a pleasure to deal with gentlemen,’ he said, ‘in a gentlemanly fashion.’

And so, the following week, the election committee had little to do. The petition was presented on the grounds of treating; no defence was raised; and the declaration was made: John Jervis was to relinquish the seat at Horsham.

But Fitzgerald, of course, was not automatically given the seat. That worthy gentleman went down on the last London train that same day and entered Horsham in triumph preceded by the town band and with his supporters celebrated at the Kings Head. But it was all show and
bravado
.

The Sussex Advertiser
reported the events:

I duly reported to Sir John Jervis and advised him of the next steps we should take. Accordingly, a few days later when Padwick presented his bill for £1,500 it was rejected politely by the Attorney General.

The furious solicitor stormed around to my chambers in Inner Temple Lane. Waving Sir John’s refusal letter he shouted, ‘The Attorney General refuses to pay! You made a fool of me, Mr James! Sir John denies that he ever instructed you as his agent in this
matter! You took the task on yourself, without reference to him! It’s to you now, sir, that I turn to demand redress.’

I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands over my waistcoat and smiled at the plump, flustered solicitor.

‘Redress? In what matter?’

‘The agreed costs of the election petition!’ he spluttered. ‘The money you promised me would be paid—’

‘I promised? You are mistaken, Mr Padwick, I made no such promise
in my behalf
!’

‘I’ll have satisfaction of you, sir, I shall take the matter to court—’

‘Where your suit will fail, my legal friend.’

‘Sir John refuses to pay—’

‘Because he authorized no such promise.’

‘So
you
must pay!’

I spread my hands wide, mockingly helpless. ‘But you must know the law, Mr Padwick. I made no such promise
in my own name
. You were aware at all points that I was acting as an agent for Sir John … unfortunately, unauthorized, but there you are! If Sir John denies liability, how can you fix liability on me? I made no promise that I would pay
in person
. You knew that. How could you then persuade a court otherwise?’ I smiled. ‘I regret, Mr Padwick, there will be no £1,500 forthcoming.’

There was a long silence, broken only by the harsh, frustrated breathing of the infuriated, outwitted solicitor. At last he turned away, pausing only to stop at the doorway to snarl over his shoulder, ‘You sir, you are a
rogue
!’

I dismissed him from my chambers with a disdainful flick of the hand. ‘I fear, Mr Padwick, that of rogues at Horsham there were a very great number.’

Rogues. It was only a short time later while at the Nottingham Assizes, that I received the request from Lewis Goodman, demanding that I attend a meeting at the hostelry near Welbeck
Abbey. There, I found myself in the presence of four men, who my old enemy, Sir George Bentinck, immediately described in the same manner. Rogues.

A meeting of rogues, on the day that he came to his mysterious end.

I
t’s a curious thing that when a man of notability dies a torrent of words will gush forth about him, mostly exaggeration, much ill-informed, and a great part wishful memories endowing an individual in death with qualities he never actually possessed in life.

Such was certainly the case with my bitter enemy, Lord George Bentinck, after his demise near the Abbey Inn.

He was the younger son of the Duke of Portland and had devoted his young adulthood to sporting pursuits including an overwhelming passion for horse racing. Although he had been an MP since 1828 he had displayed no great interest in politics until he came out as an opponent of Peel’s Corn Laws, the dispute that split the Tory Party and sent it into the wilderness of Opposition. After his intervention—the first time Bentinck had spoken in Parliament in eighteen years—Sir Robert Peel’s administration ended and in due course Bentinck emerged as Leader of the Opposition in the Commons.

Now, after his death, the journals were filled with glowing accounts of his greatness, his perspicacity, his unflinching courage in debate, his gargantuan efforts in the cleansing of the Augean Stables of the racing fraternity and, according to his unctuous admirer Disraeli, his indomitable support for all that was decent
and honourable in public life. I could have disputed with Disraeli on that account.

It was only later that a more reflective view began to appear, not least when his cousin and diarist Charles Greville wrote of Bentinck’s meanness, avarice, vicious hounding of men with whom he disagreed and long-lived malicious persecution of those he felt were his enemies. This was more like the man I knew, and heartily disliked.

In my estimation and experience Lord George had been an arrogant mean-spirited liar, a hypocrite and a cheat: his greatest quality in my view was that he was quite the best hater I ever came across. And it was well enough known that he held a bitter dislike of me and my doings. I had first incurred his ire in the
Running Rein
trial; later I had disgraced and mocked his aristocratic friend Lord Huntingtower in the courtroom and I had bested his minion Fitzgerald in the Horsham by-election; on the other hand Bentinck’s only successful recourse, to his intense frustration, had been to blackball me at the Carlton Club—a disappointment which I had turned aside by becoming a Radical and joining the Reform Club instead, and to his fury had since been enjoying the patronage of his political opponents, Sir John Jervis and Viscount Palmerston.

So, having such a notable enemy, it was not unexpected that I should be questioned, eventually, about the matter and manner of his death. The task fell to another of my
bêtes noirs
, Inspector Redwood of the Metropolitan Detective Squad.

The narrow-eyed, lean-visaged detective officer cornered me some three weeks after Bentinck’s death. As I came out of a hearing in the Court of Exchequer there he stood, frock-coated, his
black-varnished
hat in his hand as he waited in the echoing Great Hall, among the scurrying clerks, sellers of scrip, nervous witnesses and urgent barristers, and he asked me politely if he might be granted the privilege of a few words. I was not pleased, and was tempted to deny him the pleasure on the ground of pressing engagements
elsewhere, but on reflection I thought it best to give him a few minutes.

He gestured me to a bench against the wall. We sat side by side, subjected to occasional curious glances from passing lawyers of my acquaintance.

‘Well, Redwood, what is it?’ I growled unhappily.

Redwood smiled faintly, took out his notebook, glanced at it briefly and then began. ‘I have been entrusted by the Commissioner with the handling of inquiries into the unhappy demise of Lord George Bentinck some weeks ago.’

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. ‘My understanding is that he died of a heart attack.’

Redwood nodded sagely. ‘That is what has been put about by the family. But privately, between you and me, Mr James, there are still questions to be asked, avenues to be investigated, tracks to be pursued in considering the circumstances surrounding his death. There are certain mysteries.…’

He waited briefly but I made no response so he went on.

‘We have fairly full information about the events of that unhappy day near Welbeck Abbey, his ancestral home. Indeed, the facts are well known; the information has appeared in the newspapers. On the fatal day, Lord George wrote three letters after breakfast—they are of no consequence—and then announced he intended to visit Lord Manvers at Thoresby, making his way there on foot. A valet was despatched to Thoresby that afternoon with a trap, preceding him, to be available for his return. Lord George left Welbeck Abbey at a little after four in the afternoon.’

‘I read an account of all this in
The Times
,’ I muttered, but my pulse was beginning to race.

‘There were few sightings of his lordship after he began his walk, though he was seen near the ancient Abbey. At about half past four, some woodmen saw him leaning against a gate, apparently reading. At first they thought it was his brother, Lord
Titchfield, but they then realized that it was, in fact, Lord George. They did not address him; as they passed by he ignored them, appearing deep in thought.’

‘What has this got to do with me?’ I demanded suddenly.

Inspector Redwood had the temerity to smile at me. ‘Ah, well, Mr James, it is a well-attested fact that Lord George held certain strong views about you.’

‘Among many others,’ I growled, irritated.

‘And we are speaking to others apart from you, Mr James,’ Redwood replied blandly. ‘But in view of the bad blood between you, I consider it wise that we should talk. You will have read the reports and you will be aware that the body of Lord George was found early on the Monday morning. He had not appeared at the home of Lord Manvers, and after waiting until evening the valet had returned alone in the trap. So it was only after some hours that the alarm was raised, a search of the surrounding area was instigated and the body was found near the footpath leading to the ruined Abbey.’

I was having difficulty breathing. I glanced around at the passing groups: litigants, lawyers, pamphlet hawkers, sellers of pies. ‘You seem to be treating this as a murder inquiry, but I have read that there were no signs of violence on his corpse,’ I said savagely.

‘No one has yet mentioned murder, Mr James! But as to signs of violence, that is so. Apart from one large bruise, high on the chest,’ Redwood replied, watching me keenly. ‘And I may say the post mortem investigation proved … inconclusive.’

‘I still don’t know why you’re talking to me. How can I help you in this business?’

‘Well, sir, a number of rumours have been circulating since his lordship’s death. Regarding quarrels he has had recently—’

‘Of which there have been a large number, I’ve no doubt,’ I muttered.

‘We have already investigated a rumoured dispute he had with his elder brother, the Marquis of Titchfield—’

I had already picked up on that one: Charlie Wilkins, who had a fine ear for gossip, had recently told me the dispute concerned a certain lady, a Miss Barkley. She took the Marquis to court, incidentally, a year later, averring he had gone through a ceremony of marriage with her, he using the pseudonym Druce. But that’s by the way. Redwood was waiting for my reaction. I kept my own counsel.

Redwood sighed. ‘And there is the quarrel he has of long standing with Mr Greville, his cousin. He has been interviewed. There have been others I have had discussions with, not least among the racing fraternity, John Day, Squire Osbaldeston—’

‘With whom he once fought a duel,’ I muttered.

‘Quite so and there are others but … ah … it was during such discussions that
your
name came up again.’

‘Lord George made no secret of his views as far as I was concerned.’

‘You saw him as an enemy?’

‘He saw me as one.’

‘And your view of the matter?’

‘I have no reason to answer that question.’

Inspector Redwood was not put out of countenance. He nodded, smiled again, baring his yellowing teeth. He had shaven badly that morning; he scratched the dark stubble on his cheek with a thoughtful finger. ‘But as a matter of interest, what were you doing that Sunday, Mr James, the afternoon Lord George died?’

I turned my head to glare at him. ‘I consider it none of your business, Redwood, but if you must know, I was working at my chambers in Inner Temple Lane.’

His tone was lugubrious. ‘But according to my information, gleaned from the newspapers, you were attending the Assizes at Nottingham that week. You were briefed on the matter of a certain
Drury Lane actress claiming breach of promise by a certain
well-respected
member of the House of Lords—’

‘The matter was concluded on Saturday. Successfully. I immediately returned to London,’ I lied.

‘I see.… And on the Sunday, in your chambers, you were alone?’

‘Naturally.’

‘So there is no corroboration—’

‘I see no need for you to seek any,’ I snapped.

‘So it would have been impossible for you to be anywhere near the footpath where the
accident
occurred, that day?’

‘For what purpose would I be there?’ I countered.

I had already given him the lie; it would be his problem to find me out in that lie. Certainly, none of the men who really knew of my whereabouts that day would be inclined to talk to the police. I felt on safe ground, but nevertheless I was trembling.

Redwood did not seem disturbed, but I felt he was aware of my little evasions. He merely smiled again, in that wolfish way he had, sat in quiet contemplation for a short while then folded his notebook into his pocket and stood up. His tone was falsely apologetic. ‘It’s merely there have been rumours, and one must follow all lines of inquiry. But I am grateful for your assurances. Should any further questions be necessary I know your address in chambers. Good day to you, Mr James.’

I did not rise with him, nor follow him immediately from the Great Hall. My thighs were twitching, and I was weak at the knees. It was several minutes before I regained control of myself and on quivering limbs made my way back to Inner Temple Lane.

Ah, yes, I’m not surprised you ask me again about that meeting at the Abbey Hotel, and the men I met there that day. Who were they? Well, let me say that when Bentinck burst in on us, he was correct in his description of them as rogues. I’ve told you that one was a man I had represented already: Edward Agar. At Lewis
Goodman’s behest I had got him off a charge of passing forged notes, as I have already related. He walked free on that day, but whether or not the notes had been planted on him by the police on that occasion, matters little: he really
did
make a living as a forger of banknotes. An activity for which he paid the penalty, eventually. Transportation for fourteen years.

Agar was also a known associate of James Townshend Saward, who was seated beside him that day at the Abbey Inn. At that time I knew only that Saward was a barrister who had been called to the Inner Temple about 1840, I believe. He had chambers close to mine in Inner Temple Lane, but appeared rarely in the courts. Much later I learned that he had always been more proficient with the forger’s pen than the practice of the law: indeed, he was known among the criminal fraternity by the sobriquet of Jem the Penman, and he and Agar worked together for some years stealing blank cheques and presenting them for payment with forged signatures. When things got too hot for them in London they removed their predations to the south coast and elsewhere in the provinces. Saward was caught passing forged cheques at Great Yarmouth some years later. He faced his trial at the Old Bailey in 1857, and was transported to Australia for fourteen years, shortly before Agar.

Lewis Goodman had called me to the meeting. I have already told you about him: a person with wide criminal connections, a rogue who held me in a tight financial grip, a night house owner, a member of the swell mob, a man to be feared. The last person present that afternoon was the banker and Member of Parliament, John Sadleir. I’ll tell you more of him later because he was to play another important role in my rise—and my downfall.…

Yes, yes, you’re right to upbraid me! I’ve lost my drift again. Where was I?

Ah, yes. The Horsham by-election. It was over, and young Jervis had triumphed, albeit briefly, and his success had been due to my considerable exertions. His father, the Attorney General, had good
reason to be grateful to me, not merely because of my activities as his son’s election agent—unsuccessful though they might have been in the end—but also for the manner, at the cost of my own reputation, that I had salvaged his from the taint of corruption.

I have said that Sir John was a good promiser. And in that he showed himself true to me. When the noise and chatter over Horsham had died down he showed himself true to his word: I was gazetted by the Lord Chancellor as one of Her Majesty’s Counsel. I took silk, had become a senior practitioner at the Bar, and was now entitled to have the letters QC after my name with a consequent considerable rise in fees. But I had not entirely escaped the echoes of the business at Horsham.

The fact is, as a member of the Inner Temple I would have rightly and reasonably expected, upon my elevation to Queen’s Counsel, to be automatically elected as a Bencher of my Inn—that is, one of the senior members responsible for conduct of the Inn, as was Charlie Wilkins, already at Serjeants’ Inn. This automatic elevation was undertaken by a vote of the already elected Benchers. And it was normally a matter of formality only. But to my fury and chagrin I was not elected. I was blackballed, as I had been at the Carlton Club election years earlier.

Thus, I had the doubtful honour of being the first Queen’s Counsel ever to fail election as a Bencher of his Inn.

I was humiliated, of course, and furious. But it was my old friend Charlie Wilkins who explained it to me. We sat in Evans’s that evening, before the really raucous singing had started, and, tugging at his luxuriant side whiskers in a somewhat embarrassed fashion, Charlie said, ‘You’ve made too many enemies, James, that’s the plain truth of it.’