Breaths of Suspicion Read Free

words, a sort of friendship arose between us. We shared interests in common. He enjoyed card-playing as a pastime, and he had scrambled out of enough West Country windows in his youth, in avoidance of angry husbands, to be amused by my own predilections in that respect. Mind you, he had a better figure for that kind of escapade: he was far slimmer than my own portly self.
    I have no doubt that he was, to some extent, responsible for my easy acceptance into the higher ranges of Society also: the fact he was a companion of mine from time to time at the night houses was noted by the gentry who frequented these locations, and my name began to appear much more frequently alongside his on the guest lists at fashionable houses in Norfolk, Sussex, Yorkshire and even Scotland. I would not go so far as to say that Cockburn and I became boon companions, but during that period we enjoyed each other’s company, and this was duly noted among people who mattered.
    It was an expensive business, of course, moving into the world of bankers and politicians, aristocrats, admirals and major generals, but the briefs were coming in and I found myself rushing between Exchequer and Old Bailey and Common Pleas, travelling by coach over rutted roads to the Assize Courts on the Home Circuit and acting as junior to some of the more prominent Queen’s Counsel in the land. Expensive, yes, but the curious fact was that although that underworld villain, Lewis Goodman, held so much of my paper, and my financial indebtedness to him grew ever larger each year, he made few attempts to dun me … in fact, he made none. From time to time he would cancel a debt due, or extend the time limit on a bill for no apparent reason, although there were other occasions when he made use of that indebtedness to put some pressure upon me.
    I recall, for instance, that he approached me one night when Iwas at the tables at one of the night houses he owned in Regent Street. I was reluctant to recognize him, but he stood beside me, tall, elegant, immaculately attired, gravely observing the play for a little while before turning to me and murmuring softly, ‘A word, if I may, Mr James?’
    I hesitated, reluctant to be observed in his company, but it was an opportune moment to leave the table for I was losing heavily, as usual, so after a moment’s delay I followed his slim form towards a far corner of the crowded room. A table stood there, empty apart from a bottle of claret and two glasses. Goodman flicked up his coat tails, seated himself and gestured to the vacant seat beside him. I glanced around: the bulky form of Porky Clark hovered nearby. The scar-faced ex-pugilist was never far from his master, like a protective bulldog. I took the proffered seat reluctantly, as Lewis Goodman poured two glasses of claret, his lean, delicate fingers almost caressing the glasses.
    ‘To your continuing professional health, Mr James,’ he murmured, raising his glass.
    It was a toast I could hardly refuse since so much depended on it.
    ‘It seems you are doing very well these days,’ Goodman continued, his gleaming eyes fixed on me and a slight smile playing on his sensuous lips. ‘I follow the law reports in the newspapers with much interest in view of your forensic exploits.’
    I made no reply, still unhappy at the thought of being observed in the company of such a notorious villain.
    ‘And the Society papers too,’ he added. ‘Fashionable houses, balls, the attention of high-born ladies of light temperament, no doubt …’
    ‘What do you want, Goodman?’ I demanded irritably. ‘I’m aware there are some bills falling due next week, but I assure you—’
    He chuckled. He raised a hand, and I caught the glint of gold at his wrist. He was always expensively dressed, this prominentmember of the flash mob, and was known for his propensity to sport considerable jewellery about his person: gold wristbands, diamond tiepins, ruby rings on his left hand. I always considered it