Lady Porteous had been allowed to visit her husband on Monday. She seemed to have found fresh reserves of strength since Sunday evening, when she had confided to him that she had once been engaged to her husband’s deadly enemy. Did she realize how much he adored her? Probably. That was why she had summoned him to the drawing-room. She would know instinctively that he would do anything for her.
It was quiet in Sir William’s study, and the bright morning beckoned the secretary to work. The monthly hand written statements had arrived by the first post from Hoare’s Bank. The first task of the day would be to copy the bank balances into the day-book.
The secretary’s pen moved smoothly over the pages, copying in the credits and debits from the two separate accounts, that of Sir William’s legal practice, and the barrister’s private account.
‘To: George E. Dale. Forty pounds.’
(George E. Dale, a very discreet private enquiry agent, richly deserved that large sum of money. The service he provided was impeccable.)
‘To: Peter Hale & Partners. Three pounds.’
(Very dependable law-stationers, if rather pricey.)
‘To: Malcolm Perrivale. Thirty pounds.’
(Unexpectedly high, that sum. Michael Perrivale usually charged twenty pounds for —)
Lardner sat up in his chair, suddenly alert. The name ‘Michael’ had been written as ‘Malcolm’. Culpably careless. Or—?
Half an hour later the secretary put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He felt shocked, and slightly sick. In both the practice and the private statements of account there were nine payments, totalling £638, that had been made to subtly altered names. He was not looking at the carelessness of a clerk. He knew only too well what those altered names meant.
Each altered name would have had an empty account opened and ready to receive the transfers when the authority went to the clearing-house. As soon as the sums were paid in, some of the accounts would be closed. Others would remain open, until a sufficient amount of money had been transferred by default, then they, too, would be closed.
Sir William Porteous’s own accounts had fallen victim to the Mounteagle Substitution.
Lardner turned his attention to the balances. To his surprise they seemed broadly even. He examined the receipts.
‘From Eric Loader. Seventy pounds.’
‘From Keith McLaren. Thirty-two pounds.’
There was little need to read further. Loader and McLaren were criminal agents of Mounteagle himself, and ultimately creatures of Gideon Raikes. By showing these sums as apparently genuine receipts, a serious attempt had been made to inculpate Sir William himself in Mounteagle’s frauds.
Should he inform Lady Porteous? Not yet. Major Bruce, her son-in-law, had called, and was doing his usual heroic best to cheer her up. Lardner carefully re-planned his morning. A visit to Sir William was imperative. Sick or not, he would be able to cope with Lardner’s discovery. He would probably be vexed with himself for not having foreseen this cunning move. From the hospital Lardner would go to King James’s Rents, and consult Sir William’s police contact, Inspector Box.
‘They shouldn’t have killed poor Sam Palin, Inspector. He had some fearsome friends, you know. Terrors. They may try a spot of vengeance. Percy Liversedge has gone a teeny bit too far, this time.’
George Boyd stood near the old-fashioned fender in the front office. He contrived to speak around the cigar he was smoking, so that grey ash cascaded into the fireplace.
‘Vengeance? They’d better watch out, these fearsome friends of his,’ said Box. ‘Percy’s no amateur! Someone had copied a key to that cell block at Edgware Road. Copied it months ago, as like as not, and put it aside in case it came in handy.’
‘They couldn’t have known you’d cart them all off to Edgware Road, Inspector.’
‘No, they couldn’t have known that. But someone slipped in when the chance presented itself, and did for Sam Palin. It’s being looked into. It’s a divisional problem, George. Nothing to do with me.’
The glazed doors were pushed open, and Sergeant Knollys came into the room. Sergeant Boyd threw the stub of his cigar in the fire, and began to button up his greatcoat.
‘Hello, Jack!’ he said. ‘How are you? Is he treating you well? Cruel hard he is, you know. A cruel hard man. I’d best be on my way, Inspector. But before I go, are you going to tell me anything about the Home Secretary and the American Ambassador? Or is it a secret?’
‘It is a secret – but not from you, you cheeky individual! Cruel hard, indeed! I’m kindness itself. Anyway, I’ll tell you all about it. After Mr Mack left here on Saturday night, he reported straight away to the Home Secretary. Apparently, that august individual called on the American Ambassador in the middle of the night. “What are you going to do to help us?” he asked. The upshot of that visit was, that the Atlas Powder Works in New York sent a reply first thing Sunday morning via the Atlantic cable.’
George Boyd chuckled.
‘It’s amazing, sir,’ he said, ‘what a bit of torchlight and drama can do!’
‘It is, Sergeant. The New York folk were able to trace the batch of explosive used to blow up Sir William from that number Mr Mack retrieved from the ruins of the coach. That dynamite had been bought legitimately in New York, and then brought over by courier to Patrick Maguire in Liverpool. Mad Pat. He’s a friend of the Doyle brothers. The Liverpool police are holding him.’
‘Well, Inspector, it’s a wicked world. I’ll be on my way. Good morning, Jack.’
Inspector Box looked thoughtfully at George Boyd as he clattered out of the office.
‘He thinks Sam Palin’s mates will cut a few throats because of what happened in Edgware Road. I pooh-poohed the idea, but he may be right. Sam used to be in with Razor Jim Gagen, years ago. So maybe Percy the Pug will have to watch out for high jinks.’
‘I wonder where Percy is at this moment, sir? He seems to have gone to ground.’
‘He has, Sergeant. He crossed the Channel to Dieppe on Tuesday night. He thinks we don’t know. He’ll lie low there for a month or two, I expect.’
‘And what about Gideon Raikes, sir?’
‘Raikes? Well, Sergeant, he’s resting on his laurels, I expect. He made fools of us over the china-shop business, and almost achieved his aim in blowing Sir William Porteous sky high. Mr Raikes still holds some of the winning cards, though I don’t think he’ll risk another go at Sir William.’
‘Do you think he knows we’re following his every move, sir?’
‘I expect he does, Sergeant Knollys, but I don’t think he cares. He’s past worrying about us little folk! I rather think—’
He broke off as PC Kenwright came into the room. He was holding a calling-card. ‘There’s a gentleman outside, sir, asking particular to see you. He’s sent in his card.’ Box took the calling-card from the constable and held it a little way from his eyes.
‘“Mr H. M. Lardner”. Well, well, Sir William Porteous’s secretary. Show the gentleman in, Constable.’
Lardner burst into speech as soon as he had seated himself facing the two detectives on one side of the big office table.
‘Detective Inspector Box, I have come to you straight away, because I have this morning discovered that my employer, Sir William Porteous, has himself become a victim of the Mounteagle Substitution. Although the man is locked up close, his activities appear to be continuing unchecked!’
‘I believe you, Mr Lardner, and to tell you the truth, I was half expecting something like this to happen. Pray continue your account. This officer sitting beside me is Detective Sergeant Knollys. He will take down your narrative in shorthand.’
Box listened as. Lardner gave the two detectives a detailed account of his morning’s discoveries.
‘When I had finished my preliminary scrutiny, Inspector, I left the books and took a cab from Queen Adelaide Gate to University College Hospital. I wanted, you see, to tell Sir William what I had discovered before I came here to consult you about the m
atter. For some alleged medical reason they would not let me see him. A tiresome, unnecessary nuisance! On my way here in the cab, Inspector, I tried to remember what the accounts looked like when the statements came in from Hoare’s last month. After all, it’s only a few weeks ago. I’m more and more convinced that they were clean, and that this imposture is only of recent occurrence!’
For a few moments Inspector Box seemed lost in thought. Clean accounts until this month, then corruption, to coincide with the attempt on Sir William’s life … But that attempt had been meant to end in Sir William’s death. Why go to the trouble of infiltrating his accounts? There was something else.
‘It’s a dumb threat, Mr Lardner, a dumb threat, a hint in figures rather than words, that the twisted intelligence behind Mounteagle is still active … Wait! It’s more than that. It’s designed partly to suggest that Sir William himself is a party to Mounteagle’s villainy – yes, I see you’ve realized that yourself. Now, Mr Lardner, you’ll know that Mounteagle has been in our grasp for five months, so he could not have infiltrated those accounts personally. Therefore someone else has done it. Do you know who?’
‘Yes. It can only have been Gideon Raikes, or, rather, yet another of his burrowing creatures. He stands high in the public esteem, and appears to be unassailable. But I know, and Sir William knows, that he is a plague-sore on the body politic.’
‘He is, Mr Lardner. Now, here’s what I propose to do. I will ask Mr Deloitte, the accountant, to trace those deposits and withdrawals back to their sources. It is work that he can do with ease. He won’t, of course, get back as far as Raikes, but he will help us to trawl in yet another of his minions. In the end, we’ll leave Gideon Raikes without support or sustenance!’
Box was pleased to see the look of awed respect that Lardner bestowed on him. It wasn’t a bad thing to let the public see that the police really did know what they were doing!
‘I am constantly amazed, gentlemen, that such criminals can move in society, as he does, with apparently total impunity.’
Box had been watching Sergeant Knollys uneasily. Why was he smiling to himself like that? He hastened to answer Lardner’s question.
‘Nevertheless, Mr Lardner,’ he said, ‘such criminals do. They seem to lead charmed lives, because there are too many people who are content to accept a generous patron at face value. But all’s not lost for people like you and me, and Sir William Porteous. We have to mine patiently at the foundations of these rotten edifices, so that in the end they fall in ruin. That’s what’s going to happen to Gideon Raikes.’
*
Inspector Box crossed the little iron bridge that spanned the old canal at Sleadon, and descended the rough track down the embankment. It was very quiet, though there was a light breeze fretting the leaves on the trees in the plantation of Heath House. The great white mansion once again gave the illusion of being so near that Box could have touched it by simply stretching out his hand.
He opened the green-painted door in the boundary wall that he had seen on his last visit to the area, and walked through the expensive plantation. The grounds of Heath House consisted mainly of well-cut lawns flanked by numerous trees. He was admitted to the house by an impeccable butler, and, as he was led through a series of high coffered rooms, he saw a number of other servants busy about their duties – footmen in blue and silver livery, and housemaids in cap and apron. At length he was conducted into what the butler had told him was Lady Hardington’s private sitting-room.
It was, Box thought, a decidedly masculine room, its walls covered with portraits, and its many tables crammed with sets of almanacs and atlases. French windows looked out into the plantation.
Box regarded an imperious, grey-haired woman, who was standing beside an elegant carved mantelpiece. She wore a severe grey dress and jet beads, and was content to look her years. Her handsome features stirred some teasing memory. Where had he seen this lady before?
‘Detective Inspector Box? I received your letter. I must say, I admired your reticence. You wished to speak to me, you said, on a delicate matter. Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.’
Lady Hardington’s voice held a quality of amused detachment. Again, Box wondered where he could have met this lady before. Her voice was tantalizingly familiar.
‘This was my late husband’s study, Inspector Box. I prefer to be here than anywhere else, as it reminds me of him. He would like to know that I still cherish the memory of our days together.’
‘Very commendable, I’m sure, Lady Hardington—’
‘Commendable? There’s nothing at all commendable about it. It’s just natural. We’ll have none of this flannelling, Inspector. I know you took tea with Mary Courtney at Bardley Lodge – she came here, you know, and told me all about it. She was very taken with you, Mr Box, in her own quiet way. But flannelling won’t work here. Sit down on that couch. I’ve sent for Mr Fergus Mackay, and he’ll be here presently.’
‘Mr Fergus Mackay, ma’am?’
‘Yes. I like him to be here when there are official visitors. He – he winds my clocks, you know, and catalogues my porcelain. He’s my resident amanuensis.’
Lady Hardington threw him a penetrating glance and changed the subject.
‘I see that you have noticed the fine portraits. Over the fireplace here is my late husband by Luke Fildes. Rather fine, so they say. I expect you know that my husband, Lord Hardington, was Vice-Marshal of the Diplomatic Corps. On the easel over there is a spirited drawing by Walter Crane of my husband’s young friend Edgar Vincent, who, as you may know, was our representative on the Council of the Ottoman Public Debt. I am no judge of Mr Crane’s work. I’m told it’s excellent of its type.’
Box duly registered the vigorous drawing of Edgar Vincent, but it was Luke Fildes’ splendid full-length portrait of the late ambassador that claimed his attention. He leapt to life in a riot of crimson and gold, looking eagerly from his bright blue eyes into his own study.
‘A very fine painting, ma’am,’ he said.
‘So it is. Now, to business. I expect you’ve come about my brother. Well, any news in that direction is welcome. You will not have seen his portrait by Mr Watts. It’s considered to be one of his finest works.’
Lady Hardington motioned towards a full-length portrait hanging above a lacquered cabinet, a dark but highly impressive work in oils.
Inspector Box found himself looking at the likeness of Sir William Porteous, QC. That, then, had been the basis of the tantalizing memory. Sir William Porteous and Corinna, Lady Hardington, were brother and sister.
‘So how is William? Have you seen him? He sometimes spoke of you, so I assume you’ve called on him at Gower Street,’
For once in my life, thought Box, I’m at a loss for words. Sir William had told him how he’d fled from the trial of Albert John Davidson to hide in his sister’s house for a while. This formidable woman was the sister, and this great mansion was the house.
‘Sir William is making a most hopeful recovery, ma’am. We’ve detained the man responsible, and he may expect a most rigorous punishment.’
How stilted he sounded! Lady Hardington would think he was some kind of prim dummy. How absurd that no one had even considered a connection between the diplomat’s widow and the great London advocate! But then, why should they?
‘The man responsible, indeed!’ Lady Hardington gave vent to a snort of disgust. ‘Do you really think that I don’t know the truth? It’s that fellow Gideon Raikes! Why don’t you arrest him? No – that’s foolish talk. But he’s the man behind the attempt on my brother’s life. Poor William! The last time he was here—Ah! here’s Mr Mackay now.’
The door had opened to admit a genial, pipe-smoking man of sixty or so, clad in a tweed suit and wearing carpet-slippers. What hair he had stood up in little wisps around the crown of his head. He waved his pipe amiably at Lady Hardington and threw himself on to a sofa.
‘Now, Corry,’ he said in a pleasant Scots accent, ‘what’s up?’
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‘Nothing’s “up”, as you so quaintly put it, Fergus. This man is Detective Inspector Box of Scotland Yard. Be quiet, Fergus, and listen to what he has to say.’
Box cleared his throat. It was going to be an uphill struggle against this woman, especially as she had summoned this Fergus Mackay to her aid. A resident amanuensis, was he? Well, that word was probably as good as any other. Maybe life without Lord Hardington had become a trifle too lonely. Fergus, thought Box, certainly looked very much at home in Lady Hardington’s house. Amanuensis? He’d look it up in the dictionary when he got back to King James’s Rents.
‘As a matter of fact, Lady Hardington,’ said Box, ‘I’ve not come down here to talk about Sir William Porteous. I’m here to continue the investigation of the murder of Amelia Garbutt.’
‘Ah! Mary Courtney’s mysterious maid! Pray continue.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Various leads are being followed, and it’s now become desirable for me to hear an account of the reception that you held on the evening of Miss Garbutt’s murder. I will remind you that it was the evening of Tuesday, the sixth of September.’
‘Indeed it was, Mr Box. It was still quite mild, and we’d strung coloured lanterns in the trees around the lawns. People do like to spill out into the gardens on these occasions, after they’ve imbibed a little, you know. They become hot and voluble, and pour out into the gardens. What do you wish to know?’
‘First, ma’am, I’d like to know what kind of occasion it was. A birthday, perhaps? Something of that sort?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact it was a birthday, that of my late husband. September the sixth. I always hold a reception and dinner here rather than at my London house in Buckingham Gate because it was here that my husband died. It’s quite a big affair, you know, and a good deal of business is done between the guests – diplomatic and political business, I mean.’
‘And who came to the reception, Lady Hardington? Can you furnish me with a guest list?’
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