Breaths of Suspicion (9 page)

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I demanded truculently.

‘You’re too controversial … and too successful as well, if the truth be known. And then there’s your Radical views. The Benchers are Tories to a man. Oh, yes, the Old Bailey judges like you—they
enjoy your quips and your rhetoric—but there are others who deem you too flippant, if you know what I mean. A capital man to a jury, yes, but sometimes it puts the noses of your opponents out of joint. And then there’s the business of Horsham.…’

‘My agency at Horsham has nothing to do with the Benchers of my Inn!’ I snapped. ‘It was beyond their jurisdiction, a private matter and—’

‘I agree, my friend, but it ain’t about
jurisdiction
, is it? It’s about emotions, feelings of moral panic, their sense of probity—’

‘Probity!’
I exploded. ‘What did I do at Horsham that the other side didn’t do—if not as efficiently?’

‘But that’s part of the problem,’ Wilkins explained patiently, his big, beefy, restraining hand on my arm. ‘They saw what you did, and muttered about it in the Inn, and to top it all there was the sleight of hand you displayed with that rogue Padwick.’ He chuckled. ‘A master stroke, if I may say so, protecting Sir John Jervis that way. But to some of the aristocratic noses on the Bench it was all a little too … clever.’

The
Judge and Jury
skit was just starting up and ‘Chief Baron’ Renton was beginning his salacious routine. I was hardly aware of the mock trial he conducted as I sat there fuming with a brandy and water on the table before me. I had my own personal trials to mull over in discontent.

‘Anyway, James,’ said Wilkins, patting my knee, ‘so you’re not a Bencher. It’s an insult—the first QC ever to be refused election at his Inn—but it’s not important, not where it counts. It ain’t going to affect your professional career!’

And Charlie was right. It was a snub by my peers, it was an insult, but I still had the support of Cockburn, Sir John Jervis and Viscount Palmerston. The Treasury briefs continued to pour in; as a QC I was able to command higher fees and I found myself soon enough alongside Alexander Cockburn again. We formed an effective partnership, and when Sir John Jervis suddenly died and
Cockburn took his place as Attorney General, I became Cockburn’s right-hand man in the handling of important Treasury briefs.

That was how I came to be beside him in the most sensational murder prosecution of the age. Unfortunately, once again, it raised considerable controversy.

And I was mired in the middle of it.

A
lthough I had largely set my back on Basinghall Street Bankruptcy Court I was still in regular receipt of briefs that called for my experience in financial matters, and it was one of these that led me into the biggest criminal trial of the decade. It was my financial acumen and experience of bankruptcy hearings that first brought me face to face with the fraudulent surgeon, rogue and horse-fancier Billy Palmer.

I had already used Ben Gully over a delicate matter that involved some detective work into the activities of Lord Cardigan—you’ll recall him, the numb-skulled hero of the charge of the Light Brigade—and a certain lady of quality who was accustomed to welcoming the gallant cavalryman to her drawing room on afternoons when her husband was at his club. When the case later came on—a crim.con. action—Gully’s evidence as to what went on between the pair, astride her ladyship’s settee, while Gully was ensconced underneath the same item of furniture, caused a week-long sensation in the press. We met regularly, Gully and I, to exchange information and when I asked him to provide me with details regarding Billy Palmer it was at our usual meeting place: Stunning Sam’s in Panton Street.

Stunning Sam’s.

Ahhh.… The name brings back memories. I might mention
that my first personal acquaintance with the clap was the result of an encounter at Stunning Sam’s. The donor in question was a tall, blonde young lady who went by the name of Sovrina and claimed to be Russian, of noble extraction, naturally. Her speciality was that she could unbreech you with a few flicks of the wrist, and then, while your ankles were still encumbered Sovrina, dressed only in highly polished leather boots, would grab you around the neck, climb aboard with her long legs wrapped around your hips, and after she’d wriggled around somewhat to obtain the necessary docking, she’d apply a light riding whip to your buttocks and persuade you to stagger around the room. Quite stimulating, really. As you lurched around in this hobbled fashion she’d call out
‘Avanti! Avanti!’
Although she persisted in claiming she was Russian, it would seem Italian was her preferred language of passion.

I’m not sure what finally happened to her. Went to France I believe, married a count. But then, every other Frenchman I’ve met since the end of the Revolution has claimed to be a count. As most upper class whores have claimed to be of noble Russian extraction.

But all that’s neither here nor there.

Stunning Sam. He was an amiable enough fellow, and his nickname certainly did not arise as a consequence of a handsome appearance: he had a shaven head, lantern jaw, nose broken in several places, knuckles like paving bricks. But I never made inquiry as to the origins of his sobriquet. I felt to do so might be unwise, and I’d learn more than I wished. I suspected it had something to do with the cudgel he kept behind the bar, always available to settle drunken disputes in his presence. But his establishment in Panton Street was a well-known location for cigars, chops, drink and varied entertainment in a few upstairs rooms where one could be accommodated with young ladies. Not the
habituées
of the Haymarket, or the dollymops of Leicester Square. No, more discreet, a little refined, a lady you could have
conversation with, if that was your intention. With Sovrina, of course, the intention was to hear her expound her limited vocabulary of Italian while demonstrating her ability as a horsewoman.

Anyway, as I was saying, Stunning Sam’s was the particular establishment at which I usually met Ben Gully, out of sentiment I suppose. Memories of Sovrina, and the discomforts she visited upon me later.…

I entered the narrow doorway and walked through the dim, familiar passageway until it opened out into the saloon: a scattering of high-backed Coburg chairs, a haze of cigar smoke, sporting prints yellowing on the walls, dark-panelled corners protected by wooden screens, the odours of stale ale and discreet sex. I sat down near one of the grimy, diamond-paned windows, called for a brandy and water and awaited Ben Gully’s arrival. I had had a good morning that day: success in a fifty guinea brief. I was prepared to relax for an hour.

I could tell by the look on Ben’s battered features when he came in that he didn’t entirely approve of my choice of meeting place. He looked around him, his mouth twisting. ‘You know Stunning Sam’s not the owner here,’ Ben muttered, controlling his wandering eye. ‘He fronts for Lewis Goodman.’

‘Goodman doesn’t seem to be much in evidence these days,’ I observed.

Ben nodded. ‘The story is, he’s gone to France because of his daughter. Some frog’s got her in the family way—married Army officer, apparently—and Goodman has gone dancing off in a rage to rescue her. Leastways, that’s what I hear. But I got my own suspicions. My guess is he’s left these shores because he’s got other reasons than family: maybe things have been getting too hot for him.’

He was probably right in his surmise. I looked him over. For our meeting Ben had dressed with some care. His frequently
rearranged features still betrayed some of the results of the daily vicissitudes of his existence, but he wore a high stock, a sober dark coat with polished bone buttons, and high boots. The nap on his hat was still good, and his stick of dark walnut gleamed with polish. The heavy brass handle told me it was appropriate not just for show: it also provided a useful means of defence. Or, more likely, assault.

I pushed in his direction the mug of porter I had previously ordered and as he sat down I picked up my own brandy and water. ‘I haven’t seen much of you lately, Ben,’ I announced cheerfully. ‘And you’re looking quite the swell.’

Ben’s odd eye swivelled as he took in his surroundings. ‘Been out and about.’

‘Noon’s Folly, for the Bendigo Boy battle?’ I hazarded a guess.

Do you follow the practice of the Noble Art, my boy? I guess not, spending so much time at sea. You’ll be more familiar with dockside barroom brawls, I imagine. Well, Noon’s Folly was one of the best known places for the prize fights, and was located a few miles from Royston where the counties of Cambridge, Suffolk, Essex and Hertfordshire meet. The magistrates were supposed to interfere, of course, to stop the public display of pugilism but in reality they themselves attended in droves, while hoping the fight did not fall within their personal jurisdictions. Ben Caunt had recently battled at Noon’s Folly with the Bendigo Boy, over two and a half hours. Ninety-three rounds were fought but constant threats of the police forced them to move from Newport Pagnell, then to Stony Stratford, on to Wheddon Green and finally Lutfield Green. The crowd followed the pugilists over more than thirty miles before the battle was awarded to Bendigo.

Gully grunted and sipped his porter, wiped his mouth with the back of his gnarled-knuckled hand. ‘Noon’s Folly? No, I been out of town. Up north. On your business, Mr James.’

There was a sourness in his tone. As I believe I’ve intimated to
you before, Ben Gully was a London man: he knew every nook and cranny in the rookeries, every shady waterman along the river, and every sharp who tried the game in the casinos, public houses and dens of ill repute from Stepney to Mill Hill. In the course of his business, he was a frequenter of dark haunts in Wapping, odorous alleys in St Giles and less than respectable locations behind the smart houses in Regent Street. However, I was aware from his expression that a sojourn in the north—or more precisely, the Midlands—was not to his taste.

‘So, was your visit productive?’ I asked.

He watched me for a little while without answering. Finally, he grimaced and said, ‘I went to the races at Chester.’

‘Ha! A change of air, but still following the habits of a lifetime. Did you do well?’

‘Backed a few. Lost a bit. Won a bit.’

‘Chester Races used to be a favourite venue for Lord George Bentinck,’ I mused.

Ben eyed me quizzically. ‘That gentleman caused you a lot of trouble when he was alive. I consider his death would have been a kind of relief to you, Mr James.…’ He hesitated, still eyeing me. ‘They never did really find out just how it came about, did they? Him dying up near Welbeck Abbey, I mean.’

I shook my head. I had told Ben nothing of the part I had played in Bentinck’s demise. I made no reply now.

Ben was silent for a little while, staring at his porter. Then he looked up at me with clouded eyes. ‘Anyway, to business. You asked me to make inquiries about the surgeon William Palmer. So I spent a week at the Chester Races. Watching the nags. Making a few contacts. Talking to people. Listening to the chatter. There was a great deal of that. In fact, Mr James, it was the common talk all week. Mr Palmer, he’s well known as a regular frequenter of Chester Races.’

‘So what is the talk mainly about?’

Gully caressed a bloody nick on his recently shaven jaw. ‘First of all, what you asked me to look out for. There’s a lot of talk about the winning nag called
Polestar
, owned by the gent called Cook. Him who died in convulsions.’

‘You’d better tell me everything you’ve heard.’

Alexander Cockburn had already received the brief for the prosecution of William Palmer for murder. He had asked me to be at his side, not least because I had already received a different brief in which Palmer was involved. My first contribution was to find out what was not in the instructions received by Cockburn—which was concerned mainly with the death of John Parsons Cook. We had to be ready for anything the defence might throw at us … for in my view the case against Palmer was weak.

Cook and Palmer had been at the Shrewsbury races where Cook’s horse
Polestar
had won. Cook had been taken ill thereafter, regularly vomiting, managing to keep little down. He was not alone in his suffering: many in the area had been taken ill at that time. Finally, on the Saturday night after Palmer had returned from a visit to London, John Parsons Cook had died, after taking some pills administered by Palmer. Cook’s betting book had disappeared, and our brief called upon us to prove that Palmer had poisoned his friend Cook to avoid paying him what was owed to him. But there were too many holes in the case to afford me satisfaction—or belief that we could bring a successful prosecution.

Ben twisted his mouth. He had lost a tooth since last I saw him. I wondered what the other man would have lost. The waiter was at my elbow. He placed the drink in front of me. Ben leaned back in his chair and grimaced. ‘Right. Well, first of all, the general conversation concerned
Polestar
. After the nag won last December, someone is supposed to have said to this man Cook, the owner of
Polestar
, he’d be lucky if he lasted the week.’

‘Lasted? How do you mean?’

Gully shrugged. ‘They didn’t really pursue it … they just
laughed. But then the gossip in the beer tent went on. I picked up all sorts of information. I went into Stafford and made further inquiries to see how far the locals went along with what I’d heard. In fact, the whole place was alive with chatter. Not least how after
Polestar
won, the aforesaid Mr John Parsons Cook, owner of the nag, he turned up his toes.’

‘As predicted.’

‘But that could just be gossip after the event, Mr James.’

Frowning, I stroked my chin thoughtfully. I stared at Gully. ‘There’s more, of course.’

‘That’s right, Mr James.’ He took a deep breath. ‘From what I heard, Cook picked up nearly a thousand guineas at the course, with more to come, as a result of
Polestar
winning. But when he died, well there was no sign of the cash he must have picked up.’

I had the feeling Ben’s account would be lengthy. We were well away from the serving hatch where the waiter obtained the drinks but I was aware of the enticing odours that were wafted from the kitchen, where pork chops were sizzling on the grill. ‘I think a couple of chops would go down well,’ I suggested quietly. ‘And meanwhile, you can tell me about the general
feeling
in Stafford.…’

‘And Rugeley,’ Ben nodded grimly as I placed the orders. He put down his mug and leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘It all circulates around William Palmer. He was a close friend of
Polestar’s
owner, Mr John Parsons Cook, and together they went to Chester Races that day. Palmer had a couple of horses running. He lost considerably. And he was with Cook the night the man died. But more than that, from what I’ve heard in Stafford and Rugeley, this Dr Palmer, well, you might say he’s got a bit of history.’

‘That’s what I need to hear.’

‘He’s been somewhat embarrassed for some time, by his financial commitments. Unwise investments.’ Ben’s eyes fixed on me as though to add something about my own position, then flicked away, aware he might be touching on a sore spot. ‘William
Palmer’s been up to his eyes in debt as the result of spending money at Chester on horses of poor character, and on Liverpool whores of even less.’

‘Earnings?’

‘Steady,’ Ben shrugged. ‘But not large. His surgeon’s practice in Rugeley is not a flourishing one. And what with knock-kneed horses, cards and women of easy virtue.…’ He eyed me carefully, uncomfortably aware of my own predilections in those directions. I sipped my brandy and water. The chops were on the way. I waited, but Ben was silent for a little while, brow furrowed.

‘This William Palmer, well, it’s not just the races and whores. He’s got a history that’s, shall we say, unfortunate? He was the sixth of seven children: one sister drank herself to death and there’s a brother who worked diligently towards the same end, with the assistance of Dr Palmer, it seems. But his early history, well, Dr Palmer has a doting mother, Sarah Palmer. She arranged for him as a young man to be apprenticed to a Liverpool chemist. He wasn’t employed there long. He was caught with his fingers in the till but his mother saved him: she’s always seen him as the apple of her eye.’

Ben paused, leaned back as a plate of sizzling chops was placed in front of him. He eyed the chops appreciatively. ‘Anyway, after the Liverpool incident, gossip reckons she persuaded a surgeon in Rugeley to give the lad a chance. He was took on as apprentice, but after various incidents of fraud, deceit and seduction he was told to leave. He showed up next at Stafford Infirmary. Went on to St Bart’s Hospital and finally qualified in 1846, Royal College of Surgeons. By way of a correspondence course—’