Dead Ringer by Roy Lewis Page A

brothels in Lambeth, and was well aware of what went on in 60 and 64 Regents Quadrant. Curious sexual activities I can tell you … but that is another story.
    Ben reckoned the smelliest part of London was Bermondsey: the south bank opposite the Tower of London was where the dog turds gathered by street urchins were used to tan skins and hides into leather, but the most dangerous area of the lot was Clerkenwell, because of the murders and manslaughters committed there. He could quote verbatim the reports of the Constabulary Commissioners who had access to the main sources of information, but his own network of informers and spies, vagrants, thieves and cutpurses gave him a wide range of additional information to supplement official returns.
    He was proud of his knowledge and achievements. I had been informed at one time that Gully had spent his early years among the wooden galleries and tidal ditches of Jacob’s Island, lived in cheap lodging houses down at the Docks and it was said that at one time he had robbed and assaulted with the best of them, emerging from the rookeries and vanishing again into theirdepths when the alarm was raised. But he got caught in the end, of course, by Inspector Whicher himself, on a charge of passing counterfeit bills. Charlie Dickens wrote about Whicher, you know – called him Witchem. And that sly, womanising reprobate Wilkie Collins, now – he used Whicher as the model for the rozzer in that book of his … what was it called?
The Moonshine,
that’s right. Or something like that. Inspector Cuff, Collins called him…. The charge against Ben Gully was trumped up by Whicher, naturally. Ben assured me that he had never in his life handled forged bills – but he couldn’t complain because he’d had a long run.
    Still, the spell in prison and the treadmill and the cockchafer convinced him there were better ways to earn a living for a man with his knowledge and understanding of the stews of London. Over the years he’d turned that understanding and knowledge of the London underworld to better account. He was now an enforcer, a purveyor of information, a servant to all those who wanted information and could pay for it. A boon for a lawyer seeking information. I was one of them.
    And that’s why I arranged to meet him. I had recognized specialist talents when I saw them, even then, as a young man. Though I have to admit it was Serjeant Wilkins who first introduced me to him.
    ‘It’s a delicate matter, Ben,’ I announced with an air of caution, after I had outlined the case in which I had been briefed. I leaned back in my chair in the quiet corner away from the bar in the main room of the Blue Posts and waited for Gully’s response.
    Ben had the ability to swivel one eye alarmingly to make an important point. He made use of that unique facility at that moment. ‘You want me to find out about the man who sold Mr Wood the horse. You’re talking about Lewis Goodman. That’s a matter that’s not just delicate, it’s dangerous.’
    ‘Come now, you exaggerate,’ I replied in an airy tone. ‘All I’m asking is that you let me have whatever information you candredge up on Goodman. I’ve heard of him, of course, as a result of his ownership of night houses, but rumours are vague. If you could place a few discreet questions here and there so I can have the background information that’ll be useful in the court hearing, I’d be much obliged.’
    Gully frowned thoughtfully. ‘You want to attack him in court?’
    ‘No, no, certainly not! The likelihood is that the Solicitor General may attempt to impugn his reputation. I don’t want our side to be caught out by any information the Solicitor General may have up his sleeve.’
    Ben Gully scratched at a recent scab on his shaven skull. A fracas down at Rotherhithe, I’d been led to believe. He shook his head in doubt. ‘I doubt there’ll be much for the Solicitor General to go on, apart from rumour. Lewis Goodman is a smart character ,