Free Dead Ringer by Roy Lewis

tucked away on one of the end seats where he could escape the court easily if proceedings became boring, or his presence was required elsewhere. I nodded briefly: Gully rolled his errant eye at me in silent acknowledgement.
    Seated behind John Day was Lewis Goodman.
    Goodman cut an impressive figure. He was tall, clean-shaven and slimly built, with athletic shoulders and a dark, somewhat swarthy skin. His smooth black hair was thick, neatly sweptback on his head. He was of an almost Mediterranean appearance , the flash kind that would appeal to the ladies. His coat was expensively cut, a collar of velvet, the overall appearance fashionably moderate, apart from the heavy gold chain that adorned his vest. He would like gold, this man. Heavy eyebrows shielded Goodman’s eyes which seemed almost black. He caught my glance and held it, raised one eyebrow, riveting my attention. There was a certain appraisal in his eyes. Before I looked away, I noted that a slight smile touched his firm, confident mouth; it was as though he had summed up my character, filed away in his mind a picture of who and what I was. It made me feel uncomfortable as I turned away, leaned forward, to pay attention to Cockburn’s opening.
    I kept glancing back in a surreptitious manner, seeking out Goodman for a while, irritated by the impression he had made on me. I tried to match his attitude by making my own summation of the man. I concluded he was a little too elegant, too well dressed, too confident in his air of cool confidence. He was almost flash, as though he was trying too hard; his rolled collar waistcoat was not flamboyant but its cut was too precise and his satin stock was a little too rich for my taste, as was the diamond pin that gleamed on his breast. Lewis Goodman was a gentleman trying to
prove
he was a gentleman, and there would be reasons for that. I had heard some of those reasons lay in the dark corners of the Haymarket and the Strand, and at Epsom; they were backed by a clientele that would use him but perhaps never approve of him.
    Ben Gully had said he was a dangerous man.
    It was just then I began to feel uneasy, as I looked away and glanced around the packed benches. I still couldn’t locate the missing witness. I inclined my head towards Bulstrode, seated behind me. He leaned forward, eagerly. I tapped my brief with an irritated finger. ‘I’ve got a name … Bartle. Where is he?’
    Bulstrode grimaced, glanced sideways to John Day and wriggled unhappily. ‘I regret … it seems he has not put in an appearance this morning.’
    ‘Where the devil is he?’
    ‘No one seems to know. He works at
Running Rein
’s stables, but he just hasn’t turned up this morning to give evidence.’
    I was far from pleased, I can tell you. Even in those relatively inexperienced days I never did like missing witnesses. They were like unseen shore cannon to a man-o’-war: they could send an over-confident ship to the bottom of the sea. I went back to my brief and the notes that Ben Gully had provided concerning John Day. Perhaps we wouldn’t need the missing stable hand, Joe Bartle. He was only there to support the evidence to be given by Lewis Goodman. He was there for corroboration, but even so his non-appearance made me nervous.
    I waited as Cockburn wound up his opening statement. He then called Ernest Wood. We soon got to the nub of the matter, as the mob drummed impatient feet on the tiered benches.
    Ernest Wood was sweating, but determined in his evidence. ‘Prior to the race large sums of money had been laid upon horses other than my own – notably,
Orlando
and
Ionian
. When I proclaimed the intention of entering
Running Rein
I was informed that a protest had been lodged.’
    ‘By whom?’ Cockburn asked, glancing around the courtroom theatrically.
    ‘Lord George Bentinck.’
    ‘Why do you think such a protest was lodged?’
    ‘Because Lord George—’
    ‘My lord,’ the Solicitor General rose to his feet, twitching his robe