They Hanged My Saintly Billy (29 page)
On
the
second
day
of
the
trial,
then,
the
Attorney-General called
on
Swindell
to
discuss
chances
for
the
approaching
Derby over
a
bottle
of
claret.
George
Hodgman
was
there—a
young bookmaker
in
good
repute—and
we
have
this
account
from
him.
Swindell
opened
by
telling
the
Attorney-General
that,
so
far
as he
knew,
a
certain
horse
was
safe
enough:
the
owner,
running
him to
win,
had
engaged
detectives
as
watchers
by
day
and
night,
lest any
attempt
were
made
to
nobble
him—as
with
Wild
Dayrell
in
1854.
This
reference
was
made
in
compliment
to
Hodgman
who, that
year,
had
received
a
letter
from
a
'dangerous
party'
suggesting
an
appointment
'to
our
mutual
advantage'.
When
he
kept this
appointment,
the
leg
said:
'Lay
against
Wild
Dayrell;
get
all you
can
out
of
him,
and
th
ink
of
me
when
you
rake
in
the
jimmy o'goblins.'
Hodgman
cried:
'Hey,
whoa!
I
don't
understand.
Can Wild
Dayrell
really
be
dead
meat?'
'That's
it,'
the
leg
agreed, 'he's
due
to
be
settled.'
Said
Hodgman:
'I'm
much
obliged,
but I'm
afraid
you've
come
to
the
wrong
shop.
I
don't
wish
to
be mixed
up
in
this
business.'
The
leg
whined:
'Well,
as
you
say
you won't
act,
I
suppose
you
can
at
least
be
trusted
not
to
interfere?' Hodgman
nodded;
yet
as
soon
as
the
leg
had
slipped
away,
he jumped
into
a
cab
and
whipped
off
to
Frank
Robinson's
house
in Bishopsgate
Street.
Frank
Robinson,
who
had
been
charged
with the
London
backing
by
the
stable,
immediately
took
train
to Hungerford
where
Wild
Dayrell
was
in
training,
and
warned
old Rickaby
that
the
nobblers
were
after
his
horse.
Rickaby
pounced on
a
stableboy
whom
he
suspected
and,
without
a
word
of
explanation,
pitched
him
neck
and
crop
out
of
the
stable.
Wild
Dayrell was
th
en
even
more
carefully
guarded
than
before;
and
when
the day
came,
he
won
from
Kingstown
by
two
clear
lengths—much to
the
satisfaction
of
Hodgman,
who
had
backed
him
heavily.
Thus
invited
by
Fred
Swindell,
Hodgman
told
the
Attorney-General:
'And
now,
Sir,
I'll
reveal
the
name
of
the
"dangerous party".
He
was
that
little
dwarf
of
a
Dyke,
who's
always
to
be seen
at
Billy
Palmer's
side
on
the
course.
It's
my
guess
that
the nobbling
had
been
arranged
by
Billy,
who's
a
cool
hand
and
can buy
poisons
without
suspicion,
being
a
qualified
surgeon.'
The
Attorney-General
asked
Swindell:
'Do
you
know
anything
about
the
business,
Fred?'
'No,
Sir,'
Swindell
replied,
'nothing
definite;
but
seeing
that you're
engaged
in
prosecuting
Palmer,
I'll
tell
you
what
happened to
me
three
years
ago.
Hodgy,
here,
has
a
couple
of
bedrooms
and a
sitting-room
reserved
for
him
every
year
at
The
Swan
Hotel, Wolverhampton,
for
the
August
Meeting.
As
you
know,
the Handicap
is
a
rare
betting
race,
both
before
and
on
the
day.
In fact,
there's
more
money
won
and
lost
over
it
than
over
almost any
other
handicap
in
the
country.
So
we
don't
like
to
be
away from
Wolverhampton
when
the
fun's
on,
Hodgy
and
I
don't.
.
. Well,
Hodgy
couldn't
go
down
that
year,
because
of
a
death
in his
family,
so
I
asked
him
for
permission
to
use
his
lodgings. "Certainly,
Fred,"
says
Hodgy.
"But
tell
me,
whom
are
you going
with?"
"Billy
Palmer
or
Rugeley,"
says
I.
Hodgy
answers —now,
didn't
you,
Hodgy?—"All
right,
Fred,
but
take
my advice
and
be
wary
of
your
pal.
He
who
sups
with
the
Devil must
use
a
long
spoon!"
"Well,"
I
said,
"I've
heard
tales
about him
and
I
think
they're
all
flam.
By
the
bye,
Billy
Palmer
says
he has
a
good
thing
in
Doubt
for
the
Handicap.
Though
I've
put him
five
hundred
pounds
at
seven
to
one
against,
you'd
better risk
a
'pony'
on
the
mare,
lad.
Don't
be
misled
by
her
form
in
the Liverpool
Spring
Cup;
she's
come
on
a
deal
since
then.
I'm
taking a
chance
on
her
myself."
'
'I
remember
that
race,'
the
Attorney-General
remarked
ruefully.
'I
laid
on
Pastrycook
and
lost
four
hundred
guineas.'
Swindell
laughed.
'And
if
Doubt
had
lost
too,
Sir,
we
shouldn't be
drinking
this
bottl
e
of
claret
together!
Come,
let
me
spin
you the
yarn
of
how
I
was
doctored
for
death
in
case
of
her
defeat. Nay,
Sir,
I
assure
you,
Billy
Palmer
would
think
no
more
of poisoning
a
man
to
gain
his
ends
than
a
chemist
would
of
dosing a
mangy
cat
or
a
decrepit
dog.
On
the
Saturday
night,
then,
as
we sat
in
our
private
room
at
The
Swan,
drinking
brandy
and
water, I
asked
him:
"Why
do
you
always
empty
your
glass
at
one
gulp, Doctor,
instead
of
sipping
at
it,
and
prolonging
the
pleasure?"