Dead Ringer (21 page)

There was always Bulstrode, of course, but he was financing the present operation and I had the feeling I would be well advised to keep him in reserve for the time being. But musing over such matters was boring. Finally, I dismissed thoughts of money, looked about me and enjoyed the drive, and considered the matter of our visit to the stables where Joe Bartle had worked,
Running Rein
had been trained, and from which the colt had been mysteriously abducted.

What was noticeable was that within a few minutes of our arrival at the stables, Cornelius Smith, our erstwhile witness at the Exchequer Court, was sweating.

The conversation with Ben Gully had begun casually enough.

We had arrived at the Epsom stables late in the afternoon and we found Smith, who had appeared for us in the
Running Rein
débâcle, in the stableyard, standing by while a groom rubbed down a sweating horse. As the animal shivered and steamed and stamped on the cobbled yard and Gully began to talk to Smith, I contented myself with observing the stables, the buckets and paraphernalia scatted about the untidy, straw-strewn area, and wondering about the general air of desuetude about the stables. There were few people about: two young lads desultorily mucking out a stable, a scattering of discontented chickens
strutting
in one corner, a steaming mound of evil-smelling manure and an arrogant, confident rat preening its whiskers in the sunshine against the far wall. I gave Gully my attention only when he moved away from the usual civilities and told Smith he was continuing the enquiries about the disappearance of
Running Rein
because the principals in the matter were still not satisfied, and the whole issue might be reopened.

My insouciance seemed to have unsettled Smith somewhat: he had been watching me from the corner of his eye as I stood casually by, but now that Gully had reached the reason for our visit to Epsom, Smith rolled his wall eye and adopted a surly tone.

‘I already done all I could to help, gents. I don’t like them courtrooms, but I came along, didn’t I? I gave my testimony, I was straight with his lordship and there’s nuthin’ more I can say, reelly….’

Gully sighed, a bit theatrically I thought, and rummaged in his ample pockets for some tobacco. He looked about him, then leant his broad shoulder against the stable door. As he lit his pipe he eyed Cornelius Smith silently; Smith avoided his glance and paid closer attention to the sweating animal beside him. I said nothing as Gully puffed at his pipe contentedly for a little while, but never taking his eyes off the stableman. Smith shrugged an
uneasy shoulder, barked snappishly at the groom and was clearly ill at ease under Gully’s scrutiny. At last, he glared at Gully and muttered, ‘Wot else is it you want from me, Mr Gully?’

When Gully made no immediate reply Smith shot a nervous glance in my direction. For some reason my presence unsettled him, but I’ve found that to be the case often in the courtroom. It was never just my situation as an advocate: there’s always been something about my pugilistic appearance that has worried men, even though, I am forced to admit, it seems also to have attracted women. Now, I looked at Smith, my glance slowly travelling from the top of his head to his stained boots and he shivered. His bow-legged stance was wary, and after a nervy silence he suddenly swore, snatched the curry comb from the groom, shouldered the youngster aside with a curse and begin to apply himself vigorously to the flanks of the nag standing in the yard.

We watched him in silence for a while, then Gully wrinkled his nose and said, almost casually, ‘Tell me, Smith, these men who took
Running Rein
that day: you didn’t know them, you say.’

‘Like I said in court, they was strangers,’ Smith muttered hoarsely.

‘Strangers, yes,’ Gully remarked ruminatively. ‘But
horse-stealers
like them, what’s your general experience?’

‘Dunno what you mean,’ Smith replied carefully.

‘Come on, you’ve been in this business a long time. You must have come across coopers like them before now. Who
are
these people, in the main?’

‘Horse-stealers, you mean?’ Smith wiped a sleeve across his sweating brow. He leaned one elbow on the flank of the horse, frowned, shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘A low, unprincipled class of men, if you arsk me, Mr Gully. Horse-coopers like them, they’re usually wandering gypsies, or tinkers.’

‘So you’re saying the men who took
Running Rein
… they were of that kind?’ Gully persisted.

Cornelius Smith was too fly to be caught out that simply. Warily, he shook his head. ‘No, I can’t say that. Never seen them afore. They didn’t look rough, if you know what I mean. But then, maybe they was rigged up, of course, to look better than they was but though they
could
have been horse-coopers, I couldn’t have sworn to that.’

I watched him closely. He shot another nervous glance in my direction and I guessed the reason for his reticence: he knew that if I had been allowed to question him closely in court on the matter and had given such evidence it would have raised all kinds of further questions – from me, and from a more
suspicious
judge on the bench. But by indulging in his own prejudices Baron Alderson had let him off the hook, preferring to attack the Fancy.

Gully drew on his pipe, expelled some satisfied smoke in Smith’s direction. ‘So you certainly saw these men. You said so in court. And from what you say now, well, they wasn’t the swell mob then … nor gypsies, neither.’

Smith scratched his head, non-committedly. ‘I couldn’t really say either way, Mr Gully.’

‘But they could have been Lord George Bentinck’s men, maybe?’ Gully mused.

Smith was not being drawn on that. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he replied swiftly. ‘I wouldn’t know such men if I seed them.’

‘And you
did
see them. And would know them again, I guess.’ Gully straightened from the stable door, tapped out his pipe and looked piercingly at Smith. ‘I’m sure you’d be able to identify them to me if you was to see them again. Sharp character like you.’

The stableowner shuffled uncomfortably. He knew about Gully: he was well aware of his reputation. He could be a hard man. Facing me, an unknown quantity, in court was one thing. Ben Gully was another.

‘I saw them … spoke to them, of course. But I keep telling you Mr Gully, I didn’t know them … they was strangers,’ he insisted.

Gully shrugged his shoulders unhappily. ‘Pity. But then … speaking broadly, using your experience, let’s get back to general things … What’s the usual practice of these men: these so-called horse-coopers?’

Smith breathed more easily. ‘Well, from what I hear… not that I been involved in such practices, gentlemen … generally they remove a horse from the park or the stable, shut it up close until the hue and cry dies down, then they trim it up to alter its appearance, take it to some market at a distance, up north maybe, and sell it … often at an underprice. They don’t try to run the nag themselves, up country. They’re just after the money, you see.’ Smith hesitated uncertainly, concerned that he might already have said too much. ‘Leastways, that’s what I’m told.’

‘They sell the animal on?’ Gully wondered.

Smith shrugged. ‘Well, yes, so I believe. That’s where their profit lies.’

‘At market, you say. Smithfield?’

Smith shook his head. ‘No, when I say market, I mean they usually stables the animal quietly near the market and then finds a low horse dealer….’

‘Londoners?’

Smith grinned conspiratorially. ‘There’s more than a few in the Old Kent Road, I hear.’

‘And you’re absolutely sure you don’t know these men who took
Running Rein
?’

‘No, Mr Gully, that’s the honest truth. Look, it’s just like I said in court, in front of Mr James here, with me hand on the Book. These lowlife characters, they just told me they come from Mr Wood to collect the horse, and I took ’em at their word, and….’ His voice died away, and he brushed even more vigorously at the flanks of the sweating horse he held by the bridle.

‘Mmm …’ Gully looked quizzically at his empty pipe as though it held some secrets for him, then slowly placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat. He stood up away from the stable wall
and shook his head. ‘Pity. You acted like any innocent man would have done, I suppose. Now if Joe Bartle had been here, maybe
he’d
have known these horse-coopers. You think so, Smith?’

‘Bartle?’ Smith squeaked. ‘How would he have known them?’

Gully shrugged. ‘Well, ain’t it possible? Joe Bartle was working here at the stables … putting in the hours, looking after
Running Rein
. Maybe he’d have seen these suspicious characters hanging around.’

‘He didn’t say anything to me about it,’ Smith replied warily. ‘But maybe he could have …’

‘And if he
had
seen them, would he have reported the matter to you?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Gully.’

‘You’re in charge of the stables, Smith.’

Cornelius Smith paused in his labours, seemed to consider the matter, then nodded his head vigorously. ‘Well, yes, that is right, but you got to understand I didn’t know Joe Bartle very well. Not a very communicative man. Said little for himself. His
business
was his own. Hadn’t been at the stables long. Mooched around with a face as long as a fiddle, most times….’

‘And he didn’t speak to the men who came for
Running Rein
?’

Alarm flared in the stableowner’s eyes. I could guess at his thoughts: you don’t catch Cornelius Smith like that. ‘’Course not. I already told you clear. The horse was took during the trial. On the Sunday. Joe Bartle didn’t show up here at the stables after that Wednesday previous …’

‘Ah, yes, I remember.’ Gully walked slowly towards the horse as it stood shivering slightly beside Cornelius Smith. He ran a gnarled hand gently along its flank. The twitching horseflesh steamed gently in the afternoon air. Gully stroked its quivering muscles, appreciatively. ‘Nice animal … I hope you’ll take good care of it, Mr Smith. Better than you did
Running Rein
.’ Gully smiled coldly at the bow-legged little man. ‘But as to Joe Bartle.

You say he didn’t turn up at the stables after the Wednesday. That’s a couple of days before the trial began.’

He glanced at me. I nodded. ‘Saturday,’ I confirmed.

Ben Gully turned back to the nervous stableman. ‘So, why was that?’

‘Didn’t talk to him,’ Smith said boldly, ‘so how would I know?’

‘When you last saw him … on that Wednesday, perhaps … what was he like? What was his demeanour?’

Cornelius Smith leaned against the horse, both arms along its back as he wrinkled his brow and assumed an air of earnest thought about the matter. ‘Well, he was always silent, kept to himself, like I said, but that day … it was the Wednesday, like you said … well, he seemed worse than usual.’

‘Worse? How do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, it was like something was worrying him. He had a brow like thunder, as they say. Snapped at the grooms. Was in some kind of temper.’

‘So he seemed … upset.’ Gully considered. ‘But he gave you no reason for his disappearance. What was it made him leave the stables, do you think?’

‘Can’t say, Mr Gully.’

‘You’ve no idea why didn’t he turn up for work after Wednesday?’

‘I honestly don’t know, Mr Gully,’ Smith replied, staining his tones with innocence.

‘It wasn’t because he had an argument with you? No fuss about
Running Rein
?’

‘No, I swear!’ Smith protested.

‘No argument with anyone else?’

There was a brief hesitation. ‘There wasn’t anyone else around that day, apart from the grooms, I mean,’ Smith replied earnestly. ‘I mean, Bartle looked out of sorts, but there was no quarrel.’

‘Mmm.’ A light breeze had arisen, ruffling Gully’s hair. He
looked at me, thoughtfully, and then turned back to Cornelius Smith. ‘So I suppose, in a sense, as far as we can tell, you were the last person to see Joe Bartle before he went off … wherever he went off to.’

Smith shrugged. ‘I suppose you can say that.’

‘Do you think maybe he disappeared because he didn’t want to give evidence in the
Running Rein
trial?’

‘I couldn’t say, Mr Gully.’ An edge of confidence was creeping into Smith’s voice. He was feeling more self-assured.

‘Perhaps it was because he’d been
told
to make himself scarce,’ Gully suggested softly.

Cornelius Smith shrugged his narrow shoulders, carelessly. ‘I already told you. I keep telling you. I don’t know why he
disappeared
, Mr Gully.’

‘It would hardly be Mr Wood who’d want him to disappear,’ Gully mused, almost to himself. ‘Bartle was due to give evidence to support Mr Wood … and confirm Mr Goodman’s evidence, of course … so
they
wouldn’t want him out of the way.’

Smith shook his head, indifferently. ‘I can’t say. Not thought about it.’

‘Of course, there’s always the thought that perhaps Bartle had decided
not
to support Goodman’s story. Now that would have made his presence in the courtroom uncomfortable for Mr Goodman, wouldn’t it?’

‘I don’t really see—’

Gully held up a warning hand. ‘Just let me think this through for a moment, Mr Smith. Aloud. There was no quarrel, you say, but Bartle clearly had something on his mind on the Wednesday. Next day he didn’t turn up at the stables: he just disappeared, and you made no enquiries about him.’

‘No cause to. Employed by the horse owner, he was. Wasn’t my place to arsk around. He’s a growed man …’

‘But he was a witness in the
Running Rein
hearing and the evidence he would have given, in support of Mr Wood’s case has
now gone. Disappeared with him.’ Gully shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it seems to me that the whole question of Bartle’s disappearance has to do with the trial and the later abduction of
Running Rein
. Wouldn’t you say so, Smith?’

The stableowner shrugged his shoulders regretfully. ‘I don’t really have an opinion, Mr Gully.’ The curry comb began to work briskly once more.