smiled and finished my brandy and water. ‘And it usually costs more when there are tight time scales involved, ain’t that so?’
‘When do you want the information?’ Gully asked, nodding.
‘The hearing is set for mid-July.’
Gully frowned. ‘That is tight, Mr James.’
‘Too tight?’
‘Not at the right price.’
‘It’ll be paid, Ben, never worry,’ I replied, nodding, and rising to my feet.
Not that I’d use all of Bulstrode’s silver, of course. An appropriate commission would be deducted for myself. But, as I shouldered my way out of the bar of the Blue Posts and passed the grimy window, I looked back to the hunched shape of the man seated inside. Ben Gully had not moved from his position: he had remained seated in the quiet corner, staring moodily at his beer. He seemed constrained. And yet I knew he would normally take pleasure in bringing down one of the aristocracy.Lord George was a preening, arrogant man who’d made enemies enough. I guessed Ben Gully would enjoy slipping some of the mask aside to help expose Bentinck for what he was.
But it was clear he thought Lewis Goodman was another kettle of fish entirely. It would account for his gloomy expression as he stared at his beer. Ben glanced up, saw me staring at him through the window. His eyes fixed on mine and then, involuntarily , he shivered suddenly, as though someone had walked over his grave.
A presentiment.
Presentiments are wonderful things, my boy. I’ve had a few when I had certain cards in my hand. Trouble is, they rarely came off as you’d expect. So I shrugged this one off. All I could think of was the glittering career ahead of me if I could pin a prominent member of the Jockey Club Committee to the wall. But there you are: when a man’s riding young, and full of confidence , he don’t realize all the ditches there may be in front of him. And he’s likely to tumble in more than one of those damned ditches, believe me.
As I did.
2
I was talking to your mother about you last night, about some of the voyages you took down Valparaiso way, and she tells me you don’t like the climate here in England. Different from South America! I am forced to admit, here in 1880, it’s been wet and miserable of late, with the yellow fog, and the infernal stink from the Thames – they only did half the job, you know, after I’d protested in the House of Commons, in my days as Marylebone’s MP, about the state of the sewage in the river. Mind you, it was really bad then, in the 50s … in those days we had to wrap our lower faces in vinegar-soaked kerchiefs…. Thatwas when I had built up a considerable reputation at the Old Bailey and was sought by all. … A long time ago.
But I digress.
The weather was different, the time I’m talking about. In fact, it was hot and dry that summer of 1844. The sunshine seemed perpetual. June saw no hint of rain. In between hearings at the Thames Police Court I used to enjoy the air in the Temple Gardens, away from the noise of the river traffic and the hurly burly of Fleet Street. But by the time the case came on in early July, I had no leisure for the Temple Gardens: the weather had still not broken and the avenues leading to Westminster Hall were crowded as people from all walks of life converged on the Exchequer Court, which was where
Wood v Peel
had been scheduled . To get to court I had to muscle my way past journalists and pie sellers, fruit stalls and print makers and all the other riff raff who shared Westminster Hall with the lawyers in those days. Inside the vast hall there was quite a hustling: Jockey Custance made an early appearance, paying at the door for entrance to a good seat, and an unobstructed view of the entertainment. Others of the sporting fraternity were shouldering their way about, various members of the swell mob had made an appearance , and then, a little later when the carriages arrived at the steps there were deposited numerous gentlemen of note, members of the Ten
‘When do you want the information?’ Gully asked, nodding.
‘The hearing is set for mid-July.’
Gully frowned. ‘That is tight, Mr James.’
‘Too tight?’
‘Not at the right price.’
‘It’ll be paid, Ben, never worry,’ I replied, nodding, and rising to my feet.
Not that I’d use all of Bulstrode’s silver, of course. An appropriate commission would be deducted for myself. But, as I shouldered my way out of the bar of the Blue Posts and passed the grimy window, I looked back to the hunched shape of the man seated inside. Ben Gully had not moved from his position: he had remained seated in the quiet corner, staring moodily at his beer. He seemed constrained. And yet I knew he would normally take pleasure in bringing down one of the aristocracy.Lord George was a preening, arrogant man who’d made enemies enough. I guessed Ben Gully would enjoy slipping some of the mask aside to help expose Bentinck for what he was.
But it was clear he thought Lewis Goodman was another kettle of fish entirely. It would account for his gloomy expression as he stared at his beer. Ben glanced up, saw me staring at him through the window. His eyes fixed on mine and then, involuntarily , he shivered suddenly, as though someone had walked over his grave.
A presentiment.
Presentiments are wonderful things, my boy. I’ve had a few when I had certain cards in my hand. Trouble is, they rarely came off as you’d expect. So I shrugged this one off. All I could think of was the glittering career ahead of me if I could pin a prominent member of the Jockey Club Committee to the wall. But there you are: when a man’s riding young, and full of confidence , he don’t realize all the ditches there may be in front of him. And he’s likely to tumble in more than one of those damned ditches, believe me.
As I did.
2
I was talking to your mother about you last night, about some of the voyages you took down Valparaiso way, and she tells me you don’t like the climate here in England. Different from South America! I am forced to admit, here in 1880, it’s been wet and miserable of late, with the yellow fog, and the infernal stink from the Thames – they only did half the job, you know, after I’d protested in the House of Commons, in my days as Marylebone’s MP, about the state of the sewage in the river. Mind you, it was really bad then, in the 50s … in those days we had to wrap our lower faces in vinegar-soaked kerchiefs…. Thatwas when I had built up a considerable reputation at the Old Bailey and was sought by all. … A long time ago.
But I digress.
The weather was different, the time I’m talking about. In fact, it was hot and dry that summer of 1844. The sunshine seemed perpetual. June saw no hint of rain. In between hearings at the Thames Police Court I used to enjoy the air in the Temple Gardens, away from the noise of the river traffic and the hurly burly of Fleet Street. But by the time the case came on in early July, I had no leisure for the Temple Gardens: the weather had still not broken and the avenues leading to Westminster Hall were crowded as people from all walks of life converged on the Exchequer Court, which was where
Wood v Peel
had been scheduled . To get to court I had to muscle my way past journalists and pie sellers, fruit stalls and print makers and all the other riff raff who shared Westminster Hall with the lawyers in those days. Inside the vast hall there was quite a hustling: Jockey Custance made an early appearance, paying at the door for entrance to a good seat, and an unobstructed view of the entertainment. Others of the sporting fraternity were shouldering their way about, various members of the swell mob had made an appearance , and then, a little later when the carriages arrived at the steps there were deposited numerous gentlemen of note, members of the Ten
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