Adelaide would scold him for missing the girls’ departure! No, not scold – that was quite the wrong word. Whatever possessed him to use it? Adelaide was not that kind of woman. She would simply grow insufferably calm and polite, and for the rest of the day she would experiment with little sarcasms at his expense. She would stop the game tomorrow, but he would have been made to feel uncomfortable at his neglect of family duties.
Quite right, too! Whatever chiding came his way, he deserved! It had been wonderful having the girls and their husbands to stay for the week, helping them to celebrate their Silver Wedding. And Baby would be home from Paris today – a delightful bonus. But the celebration had clashed awkwardly with the Davidson trial, and there could be no question of dereliction of duty in that matter.
So, he’d missed luncheon at home, because he wanted to hear what young Forster had to say, and he’d miss not only the departure for Cannes of Mary Jane and her husband, but also that of Lydia and John Bruce for their home in Northampton. And Adelaide would be cool and detached, hiding her anger behind that infuriating aloofness. Still, surely he’d be back for afternoon tea? Baby would have arrived home by then. She and her mother would have so much to chat about that he might sneak into his own house unobserved, and so unscolded….
*
How kind! thought Mrs James Hungerford. Sir William is coming to tell me the result of the trial. Coming personally. She had heard the grating of iron tyres at the kerb, and had seen Sir William Porteous getting out of his cab. That was him now, executing a vigorous assault on the front-door knocker.
Anticipating her little maid, who was busy upstairs, Mrs Hungerford hurried out into the passage, and opened the front door.
‘Sir William! How very kind of you to call.’
Sir William took Mrs Hungerford’s hand. She thought: How infinitely sad he looks…. He’s eyeing my black dress, and the jet mourning beads that Mother left me. He seems so sad – almost anguished, as though my sorrow were his, too.
As Mrs Hungerford invited him to sit down on a velvet chair near the window of her front sitting-room, she saw Sir William’s eyes swiftly appraising the room and its contents. Well, he was more than welcome to do so. They were not wealthy, but they were comfortable people. He was admiring the Sheraton desk in the window…. She’d left it open, and some of poor James’s papers were spread out, together with some old family miniatures, and his watch.
‘My dear Mrs Hungerford,’ said Porteous, ‘I have come to tell you that justice has been done. My small efforts have not been in vain, and your husband’s murder will now be avenged.’
Mrs Hungerford went very pale, and was silent for a moment. She felt quite overcome by the earnestness of his words.
‘You are too kind, Sir William. I have been very much moved by your personal interest and concern. After all, we had no claim upon you—’
‘Oh, but you did! You had the claim of an innocent party for justice. Your husband was innocent of any crime. He had no association with criminals. And yet he was done to death. The widow cried out for justice, I was the instrument of that justice.’
‘You are too kind,’ Mrs Hungerford repeated. She motioned towards the open desk. ‘At a time of great agony and worry, you sent a cheque…. Such kind and selfless men as you, Sir William, are rare.’
She saw a very becoming blush suffuse the ample features of the great advocate. He looked modestly to the floor and said nothing.
Mrs Hungerford picked up the watch, only half realizing what she was doing. Sir William was watching her with a kind of expectant interest. She held out the watch towards him.
‘This was his watch,’ she said.
‘And you are giving it to me!’
Mrs Hungerford was suddenly embarrassed. What on earth should she do? There had been a tone of infinite appreciation and thanks in Sir William’s voice. It hadn’t been a question, it was a statement, a belief that she wished to give him an intimate and personal token of her gratitude for his services.
She placed the watch in his pink, pudgy hand, noting idly the number of rings he wore, some set with precious stones. He put the watch away in one of his waistcoat pockets. Had he realized that it was the very watch for which her husband had been murdered?
‘Will you take some refreshment?’
He could see that she was embarrassed – that would be part of his forensic skill, she thought, to detect the various moods and emotions that people hid behind the formality of their words.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hungerford,’ he said, ‘but no. I must get back to my house in St John’s Wood, where more labours, alas, await me! Meanwhile, remember: if you need help, or if you need advice – I am at your service. You must think of me in future as a friend.’
He bade her goodbye with infinite charm.
Mrs Hungerford resumed her seat at the open desk. Her mind was far away in earlier times, and she jumped slightly as the door opened to admit a girl of twenty or so.
‘Was that Sir William Porteous, Mother? How kind of him to call.’
‘Yes, Kate, it was…. It’s very embarrassing, really, though he’s so thoroughly kind. I gave him your papa’s watch. I was holding it, you see, when Sir William was talking to me, and I just said, “This was his watch”. “And you’re giving it to me”, Sir William said. He thought I’d looked it out in order to make him a present of it! So what could I do? I had to give it to him, and of course, I was so grateful for what he’d done, and so touched that he had come to visit us.’
‘Well, Mother, that’s all right. That man murdered Papa in order to steal his watch, so I’m sure Sir William is more than welcome to it.’
‘You’re right, my dear, and I’m glad to be rid of it. There was a curious tale attached to that watch. Your father found it, you know. One day I’ll tell you the whole story.’
Mr Gideon Raikes leaned back against the leather upholstery of his carriage, and listened to the rhythmic trot of the horses taking him back home to Grosvenor Square from the National Gallery. It had been a grand affair. The Duke of Connaught had shown himself surprisingly knowledgeable about medieval art. Surprising, really, considering that His Royal Highness was a professional soldier.
The Director of the National Gallery had formally named the new Medieval Room the Raikes Salon. Raikes, in his turn, had presented to the gallery his own collection of Italian primitives.
The carriage skirted Piccadilly Circus, and turned into Regent Street. His eye caught a newspaper vendor’s placard, and he frowned in anger. ‘Albert John Davidson found guilty.’ The fool! He would hang, and the world would be well rid of him. He had no time for mindless brutes and bunglers.
Sir William Porteous QC would be preening himself in front of his cronies in one or other of the clubs in Pall Mall. Well, pride, so they said, came before a fall. Porteous was becoming a dangerous nuisance.
The carriage turned out of Brook Street into Grosvenor Square, and drew to a halt in front of Raikes’s imposing residence. A footman emerged to let down the carriage step, and an imposing, white-gloved butler appeared at the door, to bow Raikes into the house. It was at moments like this that he felt the glamour of his own peculiar powers. He was a man of substance, principal owner of one of the most successful insurance companies in Britain, and a renowned patron of the arts.
The butler preceded him up the wide staircase, past Botticelli’s Coronation of the Virgin, glowing in its gilt frame above the half-landing, and bowed him with supreme deference into his fascinating library on the first floor, where he housed his renowned collection of rare bindings and illuminated manuscripts. Over the course of many years, Raikes had turned the substantial town house, which was usually swarming with connoisseurs, into a magical palace of art and sculpture.
The library formed an ideal setting for its owner, who was himself a parchment-pale man in his fifties with wavy hair illuminated by tints from the palette of his hairdresser. He was very handsome, and dressed in beautiful clothes of foreign cut. There
was a suggestion of perfume about him.
Gideon Raikes took his seat behind a gilt French Baroque desk in the centre of the library, and looked in silence for a moment at a man who stood to the right of the fireplace, biting voraciously into a leg of chicken. A plate of salad, and a silver salt cellar, had been placed on the end of the mantelpiece, near to one of a pair of Sevres porcelain vases.
Percy Liversedge looked very much out of place in the exotic surroundings of Raikes’s house. He was a large man, who looked as though he had been reluctantly confined in his tight serge suit. Men like Percy, thought Raikes, would feel less inhibited if Society permitted them to wear animal skins. His squeezed-up face and puffy eyelids had earned him the nickname of Percy the Pug.
‘So, Percy,’ said Raikes, ‘Albert John Davidson will hang. I can’t say that he’s much loss. He was dangerously stupid, silencing the inconvenient James Hungerford instead of simply retrieving the watch that our client had requested. I wonder who our client was? These things are done so discreetly! I assume poor Albert John Davidson will keep his lips sealed? He’s not likely to blab on the scaffold, is he?’
Percy Liversedge tossed the gnawed chicken bone into the plate of salad, and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. At the same time, he pulled the bell rope that hung near where he was standing.
‘Blab? No fear of that, Mr Raikes. He done the murder, and he’ll pay for it. He exceeded his brief, and must take the consequences. Besides, he’s got a wife and bairns. If he keeps mum, as he signalled from the dock that he would do, he knows they’ll be looked after. If he blabs – well, he also knows that accidents can happen.’ The door opened, and the immaculate butler appeared.
‘Brucchiani,’ said Liversedge, ‘remove this plate, if you’ll be so good.’
‘Certainly, Mr Liversedge. I trust everything was to your satisfaction?’
‘It was. Very nice. Very tasty.’
Brucchiani deftly cleared the mantelpiece, bowed to both men, and silently retired. The great connoisseur was frowning. Speaking about Albert John Davidson had made him think again of Sir William Porteous.
‘Sir William Porteous,’ observed Gideon Raikes, ‘receives plaudits from all sorts and conditions of men as a matter of course. He will have received a few more for today’s work at the Old Bailey. But there are some folk, Percy, among whose number I would include myself, who are growing tired of his continuing successes. I’m beginning to wonder whether he isn’t ripe for a fall. It’s just a thought. A philosophical speculation, as it were.’
The connoisseur darted a keen glance at Percy, and then looked out of the window.
Percy Liversedge still stood where Raikes had first seen him. He was content to stand virtually motionless until told to do otherwise. That disciplined stillness, thought Raikes, was part of his deadly nature. Murder sat lightly on his broad shoulders, and it was certain death to cross him. Percy the Pug, they called him. Ravening Wolf would be more to the point.
‘I take it, guvnor,’ said Percy, ‘that you’re just thinking aloud? I don’t suppose I was meant to hear what you said? About Sir William Porteous, you know.’
‘You’re right. I didn’t, in fact, say anything at all. So you heard nothing. Least said, Percy, soonest mended.’
Raikes fished out a slim gold hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened the cover. Part of the escapement was visible through a crystal window, and a little enamel jester eternally nodded his head. It always made Gideon Raikes smile. He snapped the watch shut and returned it to his pocket.
‘Nearly two o’clock. Mr John Ruskin is coming at half past to look at my Venetian oils. I don’t think he’s very well. He looks terribly frail.’
Raikes’s mind seemed to wander for a moment. He bit his lip and drummed his long slim fingers on the table. He was making up his mind to broach an unpleasant topic.
‘Percy, you know what Porteous’s next brief is, don’t you? He’s prosecuting in the Mounteagle Substitution affair. He skirted very near me in this last business of the shooting of James Hungerford, but if he delves deep enough into Mounteagle he’ll lay everything bare. That will be the end for me. And for you.’
Percy the Pug moved ponderously across the hearthrug to the other side of the fireplace, where he fixed his eyes on a round miniature of Charles I. He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a leering laugh.
‘Well, now, guvnor, you know how things are shaping in that direction. We’re all doing our bit, you included, if I may say so without disrespect. It’s all going very smoothly. Smooth as oil. Prestidigitation is what they call it: the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. So, don’t you worry!’
Percy turned round and looked directly at his employer.
‘We’re living in dangerous times, guvnor, and there’s a lot of political trouble about, especially from the anarchists and the Russians and the likes of them. Explosions in post boxes, explosions in stations – well, I needn’t tell you what a lot of trouble there is of that kind. I shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t hear of more outrages of that nature in the coming weeks.’
The piggy eyes glanced at Gideon Raikes briefly, and then returned to their contemplation of Charles I. Gideon Raikes began to chuckle. Of course, Percy was right! It had been only recently that they had arranged to receive supplies of explosives from people Percy knew about, people who carried on their business in obscure streets in Elephant and Castle and Newington – and further afield, which was more to the point.
And then, Inspector Box of Scotland Yard had followed them so assiduously around London, that it had been positively difficult to shake him off … Always supposing, of course, that one wanted to. Yes; Percy was right!
Gideon Raikes rose from his chair. He slid aside a panel in the wainscot to reveal a small safe built into the wall. He opened it with a key, and took from it a fat wad of Bank of England notes. Still holding the notes, he closed and locked the safe, and slid the panel back into place.
‘I’m afraid my mind was preoccupied just a little while you were talking, Percy, so I didn’t really hear what you were saying. Something about anarchists, wasn’t it? But I’m in a generous mood today, Percy, and I’ve been really cheered by your little visit. I want you to speculate a bit – to branch out in various directions. Here is five hundred pounds, Percy. Invest it how you like, and with whom you like. I won’t ask you how you invest it, and I certainly don’t want any of it back!’
He handed the notes to Percy and resumed his seat behind the ornate desk. Percy Liversedge glanced inscrutably at his employer, then placed the money carefully in the inside pocket of his coat.
3
A Flurry of Silk
‘To judge from that commotion in the hall, Diana,’ said Lady Porteous, ‘your father has arrived home at last.’
She had heard the carriage halt in the slip road, and had imagined her husband hurrying up the steps of his white mansion, wondering what kind of reception awaited him. What a fuss and flurry the man made! There was the great, booming voice, and the inevitable opening and slamming of doors. Here he was, now.
Adelaide Porteous closed the long dark lashes of her eyes while her husband pecked her cheek. He had all but thrown himself into the elegant drawing-room in his anxiety to show that he had finally returned to the bosom of his family.
‘Adelaide, my dear! As always, I am late. I promised you that I’d be here for tea, but I see that you’ve already had it. Surely it’s only half past three?’
‘It’s twenty past four, Sir William. The Assam tea was delicious. So were the sandwiches, and the rich fruit cake. And before you ask the inevitable question, yes, the girls have long gone, together with their husbands. Rupert sends you his regards. John Bruce didn’t say anything. Baby, as you may have noticed, has returned from Paris. She arrived just an hour ago.’
A young lady in grey, clearly her mother’s daughter, rose from a settee, and kissed Sir William on the cheek. She treated him to an engaging smile, and quickly sat down ag
ain.
‘Diana! You’re home from Paris! Well, of course you are. My dear child, you look delightful, as always. I must go. Sorry I missed tea. Stevens can bring me something in the study. It’s one of the penalties attaching to my office that I must neglect my family! Goodbye, my dears. Lardner will be waiting. We’ll all come together again at dinner.’
The great advocate had gone before his wife could frame any kind of reply. What a ragbag of windy, incoherent sentences he’d offered as an excuse! Anything would serve, as long as he could get back to his books and papers.
Lady Porteous settled herself into the corner of a couch and looked appraisingly at her youngest daughter, Diana, still referred to as Baby. Diana was ‘finishing’ in Paris, at the pensionnat of Mme Beauharnais; sending her there had proved to be a very wise investment in her future. Darkly elegant herself, Adelaide saw the same quality in her youngest child, and was delighted to see that the girl knew how to enhance her allure by dress and deportment. The clothes that she had brought with her to England had been tailored by the Parisian fashion house of Charles Worth, and there was a certain élan about them that made even Mary Jane seem a trifle provincial.
Baby’s father was content, apparently, to strew the occasional compliment in his young daughter’s path, leaving him free to bolt into his study. Nothing was going to change there. But Baby was seventeen – eighteen at the end of next March. It was time to plan for her future.
‘As your father remarked, Diana,’ said Lady Porteous, ‘you look delightful. You did us credit as a pupil at St Mary’s, Ascot, and now you are absorbing all that Paris has to offer a young lady of quality. You’re the sole child left in the nest, and I look to you to make a brilliant marriage, to match those of your sisters. You’ll be coming out next year, so it’s time that you made up your mind what you intend to do.’
The Advocate's Wife Page 4