Dead Ringer (25 page)

The fog was thicker now, lying heavy on the river so it was no longer possible to see the small tenders tied alongside the colliers. The ballast heavers had started work with pieces of old sail tied around and halfway up their legs as protection against the gravel, and we became aware of the rhythmic, crashing sound of the gravel being thrown up onto the board stage on the partition beams of the lighter, from which it was transferred by two shovellers into the porthole at the side of the collier. Gully moved on quietly, stepping like a cat, surprisingly light on his feet for such a heavy man, and his head was held low as though pointing for his prey. Stray lights from taverns in the side streets illuminated his progress fitfully, but the curling fog obliterated most of the scene while the tall masts of the ships moored to our left faded and vanished creakingly into the thick, smoky air.

‘Gully, do you think there’s any point—’

Even as I spoke there was a sudden clattering and Gully leapt forward. An empty wine cask came rolling at his legs; he hurdled it and then was in close pursuit of McGuire,
materializing
from behind a stack of drums and casks. I struggled hard to keep up, following them, and I saw Gully reach out, grabbing McGuire’s shoulder, causing them both to fall, crashing down heavily and rolling on the damp stone of the quay, fetching up hard against the wall at the end of the quay. There was a brief struggle on the ground before McGuire staggered to his feet, aimed a kick at Gully’s head, which was deflected by an arm,
and then he was off again, but staggering now, winded and breathing harshly, heading back towards me. Gully lurched to his feet and set off once more in pursuit, as McGuire staggered along the quayside, cannoning into me, thrusting me aside as I vainly tried to grab him, hold him until Gully could arrive. I was no match for a desperate villain: a powerful, flailing blow to my chest sent me to my knees. Gully shouted hoarsely as McGuire ran away from us down the quayside, seeking the safety of the enveloping fog.

Then out of the mist came a group of coal-heavers. They had been paid off, they were half drunk, and they had linked arms in a roistering group. Gully cried out in desperation, ‘A guinea if you stop that man!’

It was doubtful if they heard him; it was doubtful if they would have tried to prevent McGuire escaping for they would have sympathy for a running man. But the shout startled McGuire; he swerved, hesitated, glanced around him for an escape route and saw the lighter tied up beside the empty collier. He ran back towards the ballast heavers.

The deck of the collier was riding high beside the lighter, and McGuire ran for it desperately. He jumped down to the lighter deck and then leapt up onto the staging from which the two ballast heavers were working. One of them stopped, startled, swearing in surprise. Almost instinctively he raised the blade of his shovel, swinging it; the flat of the blade caught McGuire on the upper arm. The fugitive cried out in pain but Gully was launching himself down on the deck of the lighter, grabbing at him. McGuire ran along the staging board and leapt for the gunwales of the collier above his head. His fingers took firm purchase; he was a strong man and he dragged himself slowly upwards. Gully cursed behind him, and reached for his legs, trying to pull him back down towards the staging of the tender. There was a long moment when McGuire hung there, kicking violently, before Gully was forced to release him.

The ballast heavers were shouting angrily as McGuire tried to haul himself onto the deck above them but he was weakening, his strength failing him after the struggle with Gully and his flight through the streets. He hung there for several seconds, dangling helplessly, out of Gully’s reach but unable to summon up enough strength to drag himself onto the deck of the collier.

I heard Gully yelling a curse. McGuire was going nowhere: there was no escape route for him on the collier. Then slowly a surge in the black water pushed the tide of the river and it swung the lighter gently out of position. A sudden gap yawned up between the collier and the ballast heavers. They stopped work, waiting until the port hole was accessible again, staring and shouting, swearing at the man dangling six feet above their heads. Gully saw the danger. ‘Swing back to the lighter, man – you’re not going to make it!’

McGuire laughed almost hysterically, and swore, but his muscles were straining and the gunwales were slippery. His fingers were losing purchase, and he was unable to support the weight of his body, dangling with feet desperately seeking support from the dark, coal-streaked sides of the collier. He glanced downwards, his muscles cracking with the strain, and a grimace of despair twisted his features as he realized Gully was right: he swung his legs to the left and as his hands finally slipped from their grasp on the gunwales, he tried to launch himself sideways, to regain the stage of the lighter. But the river swell had widened the gap, and it was a gap he could not bridge. As his hands slipped he fell, down between the great wall of the collier’s hull and the side of the moored lighter.

I heard the violent splash and the cry and, standing helplessly beside Gully, I peered over the edge of the quay, down to the dark water swirling between the two vessels. McGuire was somewhere down there, flailing in the dark water. Then I
realized
in horror that the tide was swinging the collier again, slowly, in a long crushing movement against the lighter. We
heard the grinding of the hulls, became aware of a sharp scream cut off in the foggy murk, and then the ballast heavers were shocked from their blaspheming into silence.

We all stood there for a little while, as the noise and bustle of the docks swirled around us and a small crowd of curious,
chattering
half-drunken labourers and sailors gathered about us, but from the dark waters below there was only the occasional gurgle, and slapping sounds as the river lapped against the hulls of collier and lighter.

For a moment I had a vision of another time, of poor Harriet, dragged up from the mud of the river. I wondered where the body of Sam McGuire would finally emerge. I turned, looked at Gully. His features were dark, set grimly. After a few moments his wandering eye swung to mine. His voice had a croaking, depressed tone, as he put into words what I was already thinking.

‘That’s it, Mr James,’ he said. ‘The game’s over.’

The long, hot summer was over. We had experienced late storms when the skies had turned black and gusts of rain had sheeted down the streets, thunderous, lightning-laden clouds, and
startling
rainbows appearing over the rooftops. A black man was admitted as a member of the Middle Temple, and barristers began writing openly for the newspapers. The new county courts were now doing much business and my colleagues complained that there were fewer briefs coming their way. And when the coat of the Solicitor General was stolen from the robing room at Lincoln’s Inn it was stated bitterly that there was no longer any respect for the old traditions.

But some things continued in the old ways. The open garden area of Leicester Square was still a repository for dead cats, dogs,
and dustbins. Drinking houses near the White House restaurant were still the favoured locations of the scum of Europe: Parisian plotters, Italian bomb-makers, forgers, forgers, coiners and the army of French, Belgian and German whores. You could still obtain a chop and kidney supper for 1s 4d, and a pint of claret for 1s 6d. And the
Law Times
inveighed against the highly indecorous practice of one member of the Bar who had
demonstrated
a lack of taste in sitting down in a public house with a policeman and a witness.

And London could still put on a spectacle for the masses.

I always enjoyed pomp and circumstance.

That autumn the procession to open the New Royal Exchange left Buckingham Palace at eleven in the morning to drive along Pall Mall, the Strand, Fleet Street and Cheapside. It was due to reach the Exchange at midday. The streets had been gaily
decorated
and the sun shone brightly. There were seven state carriages clattering along with the Queen’s carriage drawn by the famous eight cream-coloured horses. The Queen wore a diamond tiara and a white ermine mantle and acknowledged the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd with grace and charm, while that pompous uniformed ass Prince Albert sat stiffly at her side, pretending to be a soldier.

The City authorities joined the procession at Temple Bar where the usual ceremony was gone through with the presenting of the keys. My father, as a newly appointed Secondary of the City, took his place in the procession with the other officials. He was clearly proud of his regalia of high buckled shoes, knee breeches and scarlet and gold coat and tricorne hat. He had to march like that to the Exchange. He enjoyed the experience.

The royal party, preceded by the Lord Mayor with his sword of state, then crossed the quadrangle to the ambulatory and went on to Lloyds’ Merchants’ Room, through the Underwriters’
Room to the throne which had been placed in the Reading Room. That’s where we all assembled for the Queen to receive the address prepared for the occasion.

Bulstrode was beside himself with happiness. He had accepted the invitation to be present at the official function – my father had arranged that for me – and he’d told all his cronies in Exeter about the honour that was being done him. He had
travelled
to London by train, dizzy and proud, and could hardly believe that I’d become so friendly as to make use of my family connections in the City to bestow an invitation upon a humble West Country solicitor.

I didn’t really have much choice, of course. After the death of Sam McGuire I had been forced to explain to him that our enquiries into the
Running Rein
fiasco were now over: Bentinck was out of reach; we had no evidence against Goodman, we had reached a dead end. Literally, as far as Sam McGuire was concerned.

I explained to him that the money he had handed to me had been expended in a good cause but we had reached a point where we could do no more. Oddly enough, Bulstrode seemed almost relieved about that, and he was not constrained to ask me too closely about precisely how the money he had provided had been spent. He seemed to have forgotten the last paper he’d signed for me, in a drunken stupor. Or perhaps he chose to forget it. He appreciated it when we commiserated with each other, and I was relieved that he was not inclined to add himself to my growing list of pressing creditors. At least, not after I arranged to invitation to the Stock Exchange opening.

After the ceremony was over he expressed his pleasure at the sumptuous
dejeuner
provided in the Underwriters’ Room, where places had been laid for over a thousand guests. He joined enthusiastically in the toasts – Her Majesty, Prince Albert, the Royal Family, the Lord Mayor, the City of London – and noted with delight the vivacity with which the Queen joined in the last
toast. And all the while his good friend Edwin James was at his elbow, kindly steering him through the protocol, generously urging he take more wine with the chicken, and partridge, and pheasant, and duck, pointing out Lord Clanricarde and Sir Robert Peel, the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Wilton, Lord John Russell and the infamous Mr Bright MP.

Lord George Bentinck was also there. At one point our paths crossed and he hesitated, uncertain whether to acknowledge my presence. But he had won, after all, and he was cool enough finally to nod to me condescendingly, with a lift of his elegant eyebrow.

It soured things for me somewhat, but nothing was going to bruise Bulstrode’s enjoyment: for him it seemed to be a day of unmitigated happiness, an exhilarating occasion, and when I suggested in the late afternoon that we should take a hired brougham back to Inner Temple Lane, Bulstrode readily agreed. He chattered all the way as we clattered and rumbled back to my chambers. My clerk Villiers was still working there when we arrived, but after I dismissed him I opened a bottle, poured a generous glass of claret for the West Country solicitor. He protested only half-heartedly, before accepting it and settling back in his chair.

We went over the whole sad story for a while. I explained to him there was now no chance that we would ever bring out the truth about the
Running Rein
affair. The horse itself had been put down; the man who might have been forced to tell the truth – McGuire – had been crushed to death at London Docks; and while we might force some admissions out of Cornelius Smith, it was highly unlikely that Porky Clark – who knew as much as anyone about the business – would turn Queen’s Evidence against his paymaster, Lewis Goodman. We had come to an impasse. And as for the murder of Joe Bartle, while we could hazard a guess whose hand was behind it, we would never be able to prove it in a court of law.

Bulstrode seemed largely unconcerned; he waved it all aside in a happy, inebriated haze. There were always winners and losers, he opined generously, and on this occasion it seemed we had lost, but no matter. There would be other times – a rogue like Goodman would slip up one of these fine days. And when I poured him some more claret and off-handedly explained that there were still some outstanding expenses to be covered, laid out in our noble endeavour to get at the truth Bulstrode waved his glass grandiosely. ‘No problem, my dear Mr James. If you come back to my lodgings with me I’ll let you have a bill
immediately
. It’s been a splendid partnership, splendid – and this has been a most splendid and memorable day.’

Satisfactory, at least, was how I saw it, thinking back that evening as I attended the Waverley Dress Ball at Willis’s Rooms. Of late I had realized it was futile to continue thrashing over the whole affair in my mind. I had to be philosophical about the whole thing: I was certain Bentinck had arranged the abduction and killing of the colt and that Goodman had arranged the death of Bartle. But how it all linked together … I had to leave it, set it aside. I had to get on with my life, and my career – there were other matters to turn to: a commission in lunacy at the Court of Chancery in a few days’ time, a conspiracy case in Queen’s Bench, and a prosecution arising out of a fatal accident at the Blackfriars Bridge steamboat pier.