listened with interest as they heard Cockburn claim that Ernest Wood, the corn merchant from Epsom, had bought the colt
Running Rein
and entered it in the Derby.
‘The animal had a good pedigree,’ he said, ‘and I will shortly prove that the dispute between Mr Wood and Lord George Bentinck had really arisen prior to the running of the Derby. The reason behind the dispute? Not the age of the animal that eventually won, the dispute had arisen because Lord George had a runner in the race, was concerned about the form of his animal, feared the danger presented by Mr Wood’s entry, and so earlier conspired to prevent the entry of
Running Rein
by unfounded claims. But he failed in his attempt. Later, after the race was runand his own horses lost, he persuaded the Jockey Club to support Colonel Peel in a refusal to honour bets made against the winning animal.’
Baron Alderson was already unhappy. He shifted uncomfortably on the Bench, glowered at Cockburn and sniffed. ‘I wonder whether learned counsel would make something clear to me,’ he growled.
‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘Precisely who is supposed to be the defendant in this case?’
‘Colonel Peel, my lord.’
‘From your opening remarks you would seem to be suggesting that it is Lord George Bentinck who should be the defendant, but I see his name nowhere in the pleadings.’
Cockburn’s thin nostrils were pinched. ‘There is a thought that Lord George Bentinck
should
be the real defendant in the case—’
The Solicitor General jumped up to intervene. Small, plump, soft-fingered, fussy of dress, precise of diction and careful of language, Fitzroy Kelly was one of those men who had got on at the bar in an uncommon fashion, by marrying the ugly daughter of a judge. Though come to think of it most daughters of judges are ugly … Kelly was also one of those benchers of the Inner Temple who did for me, years later, with trumped up charges. I disliked him in 1844: my dislike grew over the years.
That day in the Exchequer Court he exuded his usual air of finicky self-confidence. ‘As your lordship rightly points out, Lord George Bentinck is not a defendant here: the issue is a clear cut one, which Colonel Peel will defend to the death. The colt known as
Running Rein
is nothing but a—’
‘Mr Kelly, I need no assistance from you,’ Baron Alderson interrupted sourly, raising one hand. ‘You will have your opportunity for argument later.’
Unabashed, Fitzroy Kelly regained his seat. But he always was a thick-skinned man. Applepip Kelly he was called, aftermaking the preposterous defence in one poisoning case that the deceased had passed away as a result of eating apples.
As Cockburn continued his opening speech, I glanced across to the tiered witness seats. Ernest Wood, the plaintiff, was there, pale, his mouth uncertain, clearly unnerved by the situation. A great deal had been said of recent weeks: innuendos had flown about; it was understood he had been cut by certain members of the Jockey Club and some of the gentry had implied that he was lowering himself in the eyes of polite society, bringing this case against the Prime Minister’s brother. But there was a doggedness about his eyes, I noted: he had steeled himself to see it through. His honour had been impugned: Colonel Peel had welshed on a bet.
Beside Wood sat a small, wiry man with a bald head and fashionable muttonchop whiskers. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a tanned, wrinkled skin: a man of the outdoors. He was leaning sideways, listening to a lean, younger man with short cropped hair. I checked his witness list: the younger man would be John Marsh, a stable boy we would be calling to testify as to the age of the colt; the older, clean-shaven individual was the man Ben Gully had traced and persuaded to come to court.
John Day.
There should have been another witness from the stables, but I could not pick him out. As I looked around I saw that Ben Gully himself was in court, quietly
Running Rein
and entered it in the Derby.
‘The animal had a good pedigree,’ he said, ‘and I will shortly prove that the dispute between Mr Wood and Lord George Bentinck had really arisen prior to the running of the Derby. The reason behind the dispute? Not the age of the animal that eventually won, the dispute had arisen because Lord George had a runner in the race, was concerned about the form of his animal, feared the danger presented by Mr Wood’s entry, and so earlier conspired to prevent the entry of
Running Rein
by unfounded claims. But he failed in his attempt. Later, after the race was runand his own horses lost, he persuaded the Jockey Club to support Colonel Peel in a refusal to honour bets made against the winning animal.’
Baron Alderson was already unhappy. He shifted uncomfortably on the Bench, glowered at Cockburn and sniffed. ‘I wonder whether learned counsel would make something clear to me,’ he growled.
‘Certainly, my lord.’
‘Precisely who is supposed to be the defendant in this case?’
‘Colonel Peel, my lord.’
‘From your opening remarks you would seem to be suggesting that it is Lord George Bentinck who should be the defendant, but I see his name nowhere in the pleadings.’
Cockburn’s thin nostrils were pinched. ‘There is a thought that Lord George Bentinck
should
be the real defendant in the case—’
The Solicitor General jumped up to intervene. Small, plump, soft-fingered, fussy of dress, precise of diction and careful of language, Fitzroy Kelly was one of those men who had got on at the bar in an uncommon fashion, by marrying the ugly daughter of a judge. Though come to think of it most daughters of judges are ugly … Kelly was also one of those benchers of the Inner Temple who did for me, years later, with trumped up charges. I disliked him in 1844: my dislike grew over the years.
That day in the Exchequer Court he exuded his usual air of finicky self-confidence. ‘As your lordship rightly points out, Lord George Bentinck is not a defendant here: the issue is a clear cut one, which Colonel Peel will defend to the death. The colt known as
Running Rein
is nothing but a—’
‘Mr Kelly, I need no assistance from you,’ Baron Alderson interrupted sourly, raising one hand. ‘You will have your opportunity for argument later.’
Unabashed, Fitzroy Kelly regained his seat. But he always was a thick-skinned man. Applepip Kelly he was called, aftermaking the preposterous defence in one poisoning case that the deceased had passed away as a result of eating apples.
As Cockburn continued his opening speech, I glanced across to the tiered witness seats. Ernest Wood, the plaintiff, was there, pale, his mouth uncertain, clearly unnerved by the situation. A great deal had been said of recent weeks: innuendos had flown about; it was understood he had been cut by certain members of the Jockey Club and some of the gentry had implied that he was lowering himself in the eyes of polite society, bringing this case against the Prime Minister’s brother. But there was a doggedness about his eyes, I noted: he had steeled himself to see it through. His honour had been impugned: Colonel Peel had welshed on a bet.
Beside Wood sat a small, wiry man with a bald head and fashionable muttonchop whiskers. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a tanned, wrinkled skin: a man of the outdoors. He was leaning sideways, listening to a lean, younger man with short cropped hair. I checked his witness list: the younger man would be John Marsh, a stable boy we would be calling to testify as to the age of the colt; the older, clean-shaven individual was the man Ben Gully had traced and persuaded to come to court.
John Day.
There should have been another witness from the stables, but I could not pick him out. As I looked around I saw that Ben Gully himself was in court, quietly
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