The Advocate's Wife

by Norman Russell

  Box listened to Sergeant Knollys’ heavy tread as he came back up from the cellar. ‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘the cellar door is bricked up. The steps are inches thick in dust…’

  The handcuffed men stood in a line, passive, almost uninterested. Why had they not tried to resist? The great fight for freedom had not taken place. The area was ridiculously over-policed. Liam Doyle treated the inspector to a mocking smile, revealing broken black teeth.

  Box began to feel sick.

  ‘Open the crates,’ he said curtly, and a constable produced a jemmy. The wood was rent asunder, nails flying, splinters falling on the stone floor. Both villains and police looked mutely at the collection of white china plates, jugs and bowls reposing in straw.

  ‘We all wanted to go straight, so help me God, and we clubbed together to rent this shop and start a little business. But give a dog a bad name …’

  The teasing Irish voice droned on, whining out a story that Liam Doyle knew was a lie. Box nodded curtly to a uniformed sergeant, who in turn ordered the men to be released from their handcuffs.

  It was sickening to hear grown men giggling, even though an instinctive fear of the police prevented them from laughing outright. Liam Doyle carefully locked up the shop, and the gang, writhing with inner merriment, swaggered from the mews.

  Before they had reached the main road, a shattering explosion from somewhere across the city rent the air. It was half past eleven.

  At 4 Queen Adelaide Gate, Sir William Porteous prepared for a prestigious luncheon appointment. Every year, he spoke at a function given by the Wax Chandlers’ Company in their livery hall at the corner of Gresham Street and Gutter Lane. The subject was always of legal interest, and his speech was printed in a limited leatherbound edition at the Company’s expense. This year Sir William was to talk on the Law of Deodands.

  ‘I suppose, Sir William,’ said Lady Porteous over breakfast, ‘that it would be obtuse of me to ask you what a “deodand” is? Or was?’

  ‘My dear Adelaide! Why should it be obtuse? And in any case, why shouldn’t you be ignorant of such an obscure topic? A deodand was any household object that had inadvertently caused the death of a human being. A man might, for instance, stumble over a scythe, cut himself, and bleed to death. The scythe would then be considered a deodand, and thus forfeit to the Crown.’

  The dark, handsome features of Adelaide Porteous betrayed a quiet but cynical amusement. She motioned to the liveried page, and pointed to her coffee cup. The page filled it from a silver pot.

  ‘I see. Yet another picturesque way of raising money for the Exchequer. I wish I had such powers of taxation. Diana and I are ashamed to leave the house in the evenings. We have nothing seasonal to wear.’

  Sir William Porteous beamed, and waved a pink be-ringed hand in the direction of his wife. He patted his lips with his linen napkin and rose from the table.

  ‘You must have whatever you need, my dear. Take Diana with you into town and get some things. What do you need? A hundred?’

  ‘Two hundred would be more convenient.’

  ‘Then have it. I must go. You look radiant this morning.’

  Lady Porteous smiled. He always tried to excuse his errant behaviour by turning a meaningless compliment.

  ‘“Radiant” is for girls of Diana’s age: I’m a bit too advanced in years to be radiant.’

  Sir William regarded his wife appraisingly. His hands strayed to the lapels of his morning coat. There was no jury to address. He would have to make do with Adelaide, and Stevens, the page.

  ‘I would demur at your restriction of the word “radiant”, and I protest most heartily at any suggestion that you are too advanced in years. I put it to you, Lady Porteous, that you are not only elegant, luminous, numinous, beauteous, and exquisite, but that these qualities are daily reflected in those most dear to you – namely, our radiant daughter Diana, and myself. You cannot deny these accusations. You must plead guilty and be done with it!’

  Adelaide Porteous laughed.

  ‘You must go. Lardner will want to extract an hour’s work from you before you are carried off to Wax Chandlers’ Hall. Diana and I will sally forth to Bond Street. I’ll see you at dinner.’

  Sir William left the room. Lady Porteous sat looking at the closed door. She gnawed her lip. Was he really a pompous bore? Or was there more to him after all? Perhaps she should take him more seriously, think about him more. She started from her reverie as Stevens hovered at her elbow.

  ‘More coffee, madam?’

  ‘No. Let it be. I will rise presently.’

  Yes, perhaps he deserved more attention. He certainly deserved gratitude. Loyalty, of course, he could take for granted: She would always give him that.

  Lardner looked up from the document that he was reading as the great barrister came into the study. Sir William, he thought, looked pleased. He thrived upon work, as Lardner well knew, and although he always enjoyed his annual speech to the Wax Chandlers, he would be itching to return to the great mahogany table and its array of cardboard folders.

  Sir William sat down and put on his small wire-framed spectacles. They looked incongruous on the wide, splendid face. He picked up one of the folders and flicked through it.

  ‘You know, Lardner, Vincent Mounteagle is a devious fellow, and a brilliant fraudster. It has been a monumental task for Deloitte and the other high priests of accountancy to untangle the mesh of companies and fake family trusts through which he’s passed the fruits of his villainy, but it’s clear at last.’

  ‘It is, sir, and we are ready for the preliminary skirmish next week. Regina versus Mounteagle and Others. First we’ll reveal the fraudulent companies and trusts. Then you will expose the details of the Substitution Scandal itself – the gradual acquisition of access to the bank accounts of noble landed proprietors, and the mingling of the fraudulent with the legitimate until it seemed impossible to identify the source of the frauds. It will be a triumph, and when Mounteagle has gone, sir, I believe that you will be considered for the office of Lord Chancellor in the next administration.’

  A brilliant smile crossed the face of Sir William Porteous. Lord Chancellor … The Right Honourable the Lord Porteous … The smile was suddenly replaced by a frown of anger.

  ‘You flatter me, Lardner – or perhaps you merely state what could be true. But I must not leave criminal practice until I have brought down the scoundrel lurking behind Mounteagle, and behind a hundred other such rogues. Gideon Raikes is the man I mean! Day by day, more people are realizing that the great patron of the arts is a dangerous enemy of society. People like me are tired of putting the lesser fry behind bars while the great shark goes free. Mr Box, my friend at Scotland Yard, knows that Raikes lies unpunished behind cases that seem to have been solved—’

  Sir William suddenly froze, as though jolted by a dawning revelation. He continued to speak to Lardner, but his eyes were fixed on some point beyond and outside the comfortable study.

  ‘Unless, Lardner, unless Raikes feels impelled – driven! – by some need that we can’t even glimpse, some imperative from beyond himself… Yes, maybe he walks along a path that has been reserved for him alone. No one must impede his progress along that path. You see? He is driven towards his objective, while those around him, the mere mortals, become mere shadows – insubstantial nothings …’

  The moment passed, and Sir William glanced sheepishly at Lardner. The secretary had witnessed these uncharacteristic shirtings of perspective before, and after each one of them his employer had looked comically chastened, like a naughty schoolboy detected in some act of mischief.

  ‘But there, Lardner, I’m talking nonsense! Let’s put Raikes behind bars, first, and then we can think of high office!’

  Following this conversation the two men worked in almost complete silence for nearly an hour. Then Sir William glanced at the clock.

  ‘The luncheon starts at twelve. Perhaps I’d better prepare myself.’

  He removed the wire spectacles and
blinked a little.

  ‘Lardner, will you fetch me my gold-framed glasses? I’ll take them along with me to Wax Chandlers’ Hall. I fancy they’re a shade stronger than these old things. They’re in my desk in the snug.’

  The ‘snug’, a tiny private bolt-hole of Sir William’s, lay in the back quarters of the house. It contained little more than a fireplace, a roll-top desk, a chair and a motley collection of novels and magazines. Lardner opened the desk and found the leather case containing Sir William’s best glasses.

  He was about to close the desk when he saw a watch reposing in a pigeon-hole. He knew it had not been there a few days earlier. He took it out and looked at it. A silver watch, slightly battered, with a hinged cover over the face. A capital ‘C’ was engraved on the cover, centred in a square composed of eight tiny blue sapphires. This, perhaps, was the very watch for which James Hungerford had been murdered. Perhaps Mrs Hungerford had given it to Sir William as a token of her regard? He placed the watch back in the pigeon-hole, closed the desk, and hurried back to the study with Sir William’s glasses.

  The time had come for Sir William to bustle forth, and this was accompanied by the usual measure of noise and fuss. The Voice boomed through the hall, the footmen and pages hovered with silk hat, silver-topped cane and gloves. The door was opened, the great man descended the steps. Roberts, the second footman, who had preceded him, opened the door of his heavy old coach. The great man set off for Wax Chandlers’ Hall.

  The measured beat of the hooves had a soothing effect on Sir William as he leaned back against the upholstered seat. Adelaide laughed at his preference for the antiquated, patched-up coach, but it was an old friend of twenty years’ standing, a more substantial affair than the two light carriages. A man could take forty winks in the coach without anyone noticing … he closed his eyes. Lord Chancellor… Well, why not? He had sensed for a number of years that he had become part of the permanent scheme of things. There were certain immutabilities in English society, and he was one of them. There was much in his life for which he was humble, and thankful. Well, perhaps ‘humble’ was overdoing things; but thankful? Yes, he was that.

  It was a long journey by coach from St John’s Wood to the Company’s livery hall. Sir William’s eyes closed, and he found himself dozing off. As the vehicle entered the thriving and busy thoroughfare of Euston Road he opened his eyes. What time was it? He took out his watch and opened the lid. It was just on twenty-five past eleven.

  ‘Percy,’ asked Mr Gideon Raikes, ‘do you ever read Shakespeare?’

  Percy Liversedge stood at the window of Mr Raikes’s fascinating first-floor library, looking out across the roofs and smoking chimneys of London. His little piggy eyes were screwed up against the light.

  ‘I don’t read him as much as I’d wish, guvnor. I’ve such a lot of things to do. I’m helping a few poor fellows to open a china shop, and that takes a lot of organizing.’

  Mr Raikes smiled. He turned the pages of his latest acquisition, a First Folio of the Works of Shakespeare, printed in 1623. Eventually, no doubt, he would present it to the Nation. Eventually, perhaps, the Nation would present him with a fitting honour. Sir Gideon Raikes …

  Would that be all? A mere knighthood? Surely not!

  ‘“Sir Gideon Raikes, the noted philanthropist, was today received by Her Majesty, who was graciously pleased to bestow upon him a barony, in the name of Lord Raikes of Bloomsbury”.’

  The great connoisseur brought himself back to reality.

  ‘Well, Percy, Shakespeare said – in one of his plays, you understand – “The time of universal peace is near”. And so it is. Is there anyone we know out there on the pavement?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Raikes. One of Mr Box’s minions is shivering down there in a doorway, watching you and me very keenly to see we don’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘And would we?’

  ‘Not us, guvnor. You and me know how to behave proper, like what gents should.’

  ‘Very true. Well, as I said, or Shakespeare said, “The time of universal peace is near”.’

  Mr Raikes consulted his slim gold hunter watch. The little enamel jester was still nodding his head. The minute-hand was creeping towards 11.30. The second-hand hurried on its way around its own tiny dial. The black enamelled tip of the hand touched the figure six at the bottom of the dial.

  A shattering explosion somewhere across the city rent the air. Percy, looking out of the window, saw a plume of smoke rising into the air somewhere in the direction of Euston Road.

  ‘Universal peace,’ said Mr Raikes.

  The wreckage of Sir William Porteous’s coach lay tilted in the middle of Euston Road, just opposite the entrance to Gower Street. Splintered fragments of wood and slivers of glass littered the pavement. The horse lay dead and shattered between the shafts. It seemed almost an affront that one of the coach wheels still rotated idly.

  All traffic had come to a halt, and a crowd had gathered, though the police had very soon arrived to control the situation. The coachman had miraculously been thrown clear from his box by the explosion, and sat on the pavement, where he was tended by a nurse who had run out from University College Hospital.

  The police had summoned the fire-engines, and two firemen had begun to clamber into the ruins of the coach, using their axes to hew the shattered timbers out of their way.

  The crowd held its breath. What would the firemen find? They say it was Sir William Porteous, the great lawyer. Poor thing. Maybe it was those Russian murderers who did it. They’re getting him out now …

  There was a stir among the crowd as the two fireman emerged from the wreckage carrying a bloody bundle. Other nurses and doctors had appeared at the scene. Men hurried forward with blankets and stretchers, and the burden was carried swiftly through the parting crowd towards the great hospital in Gower Street.

  People spoke in hushed tones, as though at a funeral.

  ‘He’s a goner! Poor blighter. Even with bags of money you’re not allowed to live these days.’

  ‘You’re right, mister. The police don’t seem to do anything about it. Where are they all, today? And you reckon he’s dead? A bomb, it was. The whole coach just rose up in the air and flew to bits. Sir William Porteous, it was, the great lawyer. A crying shame it is. All this anarchy! The police don’t seem to do anything about it.’

  Superintendent Mackharness stood to attention and listened to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Sir Edward Bradford, Baronet, was in no mood for ceremony. His normally amiable face was flushed with anger, and his white moustache bristled with indignation.

  ‘Why was this allowed to happen, Mackharness? Why was everybody so smug? You have the intelligence, all of you. You have the training. Why don’t you use it? This outrage – it reminds me too much of the things I had to deal with in India, years ago. The Thugs. The Dacoits. Sedition … It’s anarchy, Mackharness!’

  Bradford glanced at the frock-coated figure standing stiffly in front of his desk. He waved his right hand in a gesture of impatience.

  ‘Oh, stand at ease, man, for goodness’ sake. All that tomfoolery won’t catch the perpetrators of this foul outrage.’

  Mackharness stood at ease. Sir Edward Bradford sat down. He sighed.

  ‘I say “perpetrators”, Mackharness, but you know well enough who I mean. It was that fellow Gideon Raikes! He seems to be unassailable. Perhaps he harbours a grudge against society – something arising from his disability. But disabilities are there to be overcome. To be set at defiance.’

  Mackharness glanced almost in spite of himself at Sir Edward’s empty left sleeve, pinned to the breast of his jacket. The commissioner continued his angry tirade.

  ‘So disability is no excuse… I thought Detective Inspector Box had driven that damned scoundrel into a corner. And now this! The Queen is angry, and has let me know how she feels.’

  The commissioner sprang to his feet again.

  ‘Tell Box to get off his seat and out into the streets! You can t
ell them all to get off their seats. Damn it all, they’re too smug, all of them. I want the men who did this brought to book. And I want you – all of you – to find some crack in Gideon Raikes’s armour. Now go, Mackharness, and get those self-satisfied loafers off their bottoms and out on the streets. That’s all. Let me see some results!’

  Mackharness left the commissioner’s office at three o’clock. By four, it had begun to rain. The superintendent burst into the reception room at King James’s Rents, and barked out a series of commands. In less than ten minutes, all the inspectors and sergeants still on the premises had assembled in the exercise yard. They stood in lines in the drizzle while Mackharness ranted at them from the shelter of the inner porch. Any illusions they may have had concerning their abilities were well and truly dispersed.

  ‘There are some of you,’ he shouted in conclusion, ‘who think very highly of yourselves, and are so pleased when you’re appointed to a particular case that you can’t act clearly through self-regard. Well, it won’t do. Now, all of you: get out there, and get to work! I want these villains caught. Dismiss!’

  As the silent phalanx of police officers dispersed, Mackharness stepped out from the portico and seized Box by the arm. He looked almost beside himself with rage.

  ‘Box,’ he hissed, not deigning to look at the inspector, but instead fixing his eyes on the rain-soaked cobbles of the yard, ‘confound you, and your china plates and teapots! Raikes led you by the nose, just where he wanted you to go!’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Be quiet! He led you into a trap – and damn it, man, I was the one who unwittingly arranged it for him! Forty policemen, and all of them on the wrong side of the town! I thought you were about to sweep the scum off the surface of this particular cauldron, Box, but evidently I was wrong. Well, if you want to wear the uniform again, and go out to a suburban station, that’s up to you.’