Dead Ringer by Roy Lewis Page B

a slippery customer who keeps all his affairs at a distance. He don’t get caught with fingers in tills. He’s sharp, Mr James – too sharp for flats like the Solicitor General.’
    ‘But not too sharp for Ben Gully, hey?’ I encouraged him with a wink.
    Gully brought his errant eye back under control and observed me sourly. ‘You can forget the flattery, Mr James. I’m telling you Lewis Goodman is dangerous. He’s got interests and connections in London at all levels and some of those connections can be violent. A lot of people owe him, and he’s a man who collects his debts … one way or another.’
    ‘You sound as if you’re afraid of him, Ben.’
    Ben Gully hunched his powerful shoulders. He did not care for the raillery in my tone. He wrinkled his battered nose and looked down, as though inspecting his clothing. On this occasion he was dressed soberly, like an undistinguished clerk in the City. But I’d caught sight of him at Epsom occasionally, dressed as one of the swell mob. I’d also seen him recently emerged from the rookeries where he’d been in search of information: on suchoccasions he was almost unrecognizable from the neatly attired man in front of me now. He dressed the part for the job in hand. But he didn’t like the comment I’d made and he scowled. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone, Mr James, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know when to go careful, like.’
    ‘Then go careful by all means,’ I replied, sipping my brandy and water. ‘But find out what you can, so I can be prepared against eventualities. And then there’s the other end of the scale.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘What do you know about Lord George Bentinck? I don’t mean about his activities in Parliament – I mean his activities on the Turf.’
    ‘Depends what you want to know, Mr James,’ Ben Gully said, eyeing me carefully.
    I wanted there to be no room for mistake. I leaned forward confidentially. ‘Look here, Ben. I’m pretty sure Bentinck is behind the attack on my client. He’s the man who’s stiffened Colonel Peel’s determination to bring the case. And he may be able to prove some sharp dealing went on. But he’s been involved with the Turf for years. And that can only mean that his own hands won’t be entirely clean!’ I snorted contemptuously. ‘He announces to the world that he intends to expose the corrupt practices and behaviour of those who frequent the races, but from time to time there have been rumours … For instance, I heard at one stage that he himself ran a number of horses under assumed names – Jones, Edwards, Bencliffe …’
    ‘Nothing illegal about that, Mr James. And I heard tell it was because he didn’t want his ancient father to know how deeply involved with racing he was. It’s out in the open now, anyway, that old story.’ Gully scratched at his broken nose thoughtfully. ‘There’s no mileage to be gained in starting that hare.’
    ‘But there are other … hares?’
    Gully shrugged. ‘When a man regularly frequents the race track, or the Berkeley Club for roulette and chicken hazard,there’s always the likelihood of hares.’ His errant eye swivelled in my direction.
    I smiled ruefully and winked, so that Gully knew the shot had gone home. He would be aware of my own recent losses at chicken hazard at Almack’s. I watched Gully carefully for a few moments. ‘As far as Lord George is concerned, I did hear a rumour, something … somewhere … about a horse called
Crucifix
, a year or so ago.’
    Gully shrugged. ‘There was some kind of story going the rounds, as I recall.’
    ‘You could find out if Bentinck was up to something fishy. Something I could use to discredit him in court if he gets up and starts spouting about morality and honour….’
    ‘Aye, I could ask around. The jockeys, the trainers, the stable boys … they’ll know a few things, I don’t doubt.’ He eyed me warily. ‘But it won’t come cheap. It’ll cost, Mr James.’
    ‘Don’t it always?’ I