The Advocate's Wife

by Norman Russell

  Lady Hardington gave vent to a comic groan.

  ‘Oh, dear! It will take me some time to write it all down. There were forty-two people here. Some stayed with us, others went back by special train from Bishop’s Longhurst. Fergus?’

  The good-humoured Scotsman smiled benignly at Box.

  ‘Corry, write out a list from memory next door, while I try to set the scene for Mr Box. That’s much the best way.’

  ‘You see, Box,’ he continued, when Lady Hardington had left the room, ‘these are grand affairs, everybody in boiled shirts and orders and ball gowns and so forth. We’ve a grand saloon here with an orchestra balcony, and there’s dancing and so on. A great crowd of folk milling about, sitting out in the reception-rooms, wandering around and out into the grounds. There are coloured lanterns in the trees, and the summer-house is illuminated. It’s very grand – and very pleasant too, in its own way. Corry’s a grand organizer.’

  ‘It sounds very impressive, Mr Mackay. And there were forty-two guests, you say?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. It’s all diplomatic stuff, you see. The Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs was here, and Sir Humbert Carmichael, who speaks Turkish more fluently than the Grand Turk. Sir William Porteous was here, of course, but not Lady Porteous this year. I don’t know why. I’ve a feeling that Porteous had slipped away from one or other of his interminable trials to come down here for a day or two. The Marquess of Dover came, and a whole crowd of foreigners from the Diplomatic Corps. The Chief Constable came, and his wife, the Dean of Chelmsford, and that funny little man with only one eye – what’s his name? Prince Eugene of Rhine-Westphalia. Then there was – oh, what’s the point? Corinna will bring you the complete list, presently.’

  Inspector Box was not really interested in the list any more. The general picture of that evening at Heath House was sufficient to tell him that no one would have noticed an extra guest, a lady in a fashionable green silk dress wandering in the grounds, or sitting in one of the many rooms of the palatial mansion. Amelia Garbutt had walked from one house to the other, presumably by arrangement with someone there: someone present at the reception.

  That person had met her, accompanied her into the illuminated gardens, and used a silk scarf to garrotte her. At some stage he had removed her outer coat and hat, and secured her handbag. These he could hide later in the reeds bordering the mere. It was a dramatic touch, to present his victim as someone who had simply walked out of a house in her dress. He had carried her out through the garden door and up the slope to the canal, where he had deposited her in the water. Then he had rejoined the company in the festive mansion.

  Lady Hardington returned, and gave Box a list of the guests which she had written carefully on a sheet of headed notepaper.

  ‘I won’t ask you why you want this list, Inspector, but I wish you every success. Let me, though, emphasize to you, that in the matter of the attempt on my brother’s life, the real villain for you to apprehend is Gideon Raikes. I suspect, too, that he’s shed the blood of others on occasion. Poor William was quite put out when he arrived here for the reception. “I do declare, Corry”, he said to me, “that scoundrel Raikes was travelling down on the same train! He was still sitting in a compartment when we arrived at Bishop’s Longhurst”.’

  ‘Gideon Raikes was on the same train? Well now, ma’am, that’s one of the most interesting facts that you’ve told me! I must go at once. May I bid you good day, and thank you for your helpful co-operation.’

  ‘No flannelling, sir! Do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Once again, good day.’

  11

  The Man of Righteous Habits

  The London train stood at the buffers in the station at Bishop’s Longhurst. In a compartment near the engine, Inspector Box sat looking out of the window at Sergeant Bickerstaffe. The elderly sergeant seemed hot and embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve not been much use to you this last week, Mr Box. Joe and me had searched all that stretch of heath, right up to the canal, but it was you who came down a week Tuesday gone, and found those clothes hidden on the edge of the mere. And now you tell me that Amelia Garbutt had walked across from Bardley to Heath House on the night she was murdered. Nobody round here heard of anything like that.’

  Why, thought Box, should this honest old rustic sergeant try to justify himself like this? What would he have made of Box’s own shortcomings – his blundering into Liam Doyle’s appalling trap, for instance? Everyone made mistakes …

  ‘Detectives have different ways of going about things, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘You don’t have to cope with cases like this every day. That’s why you called in Scotland Yard! But there is something I want you to do for me, Sergeant Bickerstaffe. On the evening that Amelia Garbutt was murdered Lady Hardington held a fancy birthday reception for various notables. There were forty-two guests, lanterns strung in the grounds, an orchestra – not the kind of thing to go unnoticed in rural spots like High Barrow and Sleadon—’

  Sergeant Bickerstaffe looked uncomfortable again.

  ‘I never associated the woman in the canal with the folk at Heath House, Mr Box. But now we know the way of it all – yes, of course, I remember the reception. In fact, I’d posted the constable from Sleadon to be present at the house for the evening. Bert Gordon.’

  ‘There you are, you see? You’ve done more than you give yourself credit for. So far it’s been all landscape, but now you’re painting in the figures. Bert Gordon, the constable at Sleadon. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. See Bert. Ask him whether he saw a woman in a green silk dress in the grounds of Heath House, or on the surrounding roads. You know what to do. Then weave the web.’

  ‘Weave the web, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Get Bert to go back to Sleadon and ask the folk there. Did you see a woman in a green silk dress? Did you see anybody with her? Who was it? Then, you see, the Sleadon folk will start asking the High Barrow folk, and they’ll maybe go further afield. Maybe Bert will have the sense to mention money at some stage, which people round about will turn into talk of a reward. And then, Sergeant, someone may pop up with a story. Someone who saw something, and has kept it to himself in case it comes in handy. Or kept it to herself likewise. Weave the web.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it right away, Inspector. Anything I hear I’ll telegraph right through to you. You’ve been very decent to Joe and me, sir. I’ve learnt a lot of lessons from your visits.’

  ‘Stand clear!’ shouted a porter. The train juddered into motion and then began to move gently out of the station. Box glanced back at the elderly uniformed sergeant, who saluted him. He raised his hat in acknowledgement, then pulled up the compartment window.

  So Gideon Raikes had come down this way, and had been spotted by Sir William Porteous lurking in a railway carriage. Perhaps, after all, Mr Raikes was not as clever as he thought. It was always some foolish mistake of that kind that tripped up these villains. It was time to approach the problem of Gideon Raikes from a different direction, time to make a foray into the obscure details of his dark past.

  *

  ‘It was a long time ago, Inspector Box. More years ago than I care to remember.’

  Box tried to guess the age of the man sitting opposite him at a table in the window of Morton’s Cocoa Rooms. He was probably sixty, but he looked older than that. His sparse white hair was carefully combed across his pink scalp. His face betrayed the half-healed ravages of a reformed alcoholic.

  ‘I know it was a long time ago, Mr Bentinck,’ said Box, ‘but the man who told me about you said that you’d always had a keen memory. He said you were “a quiet observer of the human condition”.’

  The man called Bentinck smiled, and the smile subtly altered Box’s perception of him. At first meeting that morning, he had seen a shabby, defeated sort of person, someone who was desperately trying to preserve the last shreds of respectability. Now, Box saw a man who was neatly and carefully dressed, a man who was emerging into the light after years of enslavement to drink.
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  ‘You’ve been talking to Dr Spencer,’ said Bentinck. ‘That’s the kind of thing he says. He has a literary turn of phrase, as the saying goes. He told me that he’s one of your police surgeons, as well as being physician to Holy Cross Almshouses, who’ve allowed me out for the day, to partake of cocoa and buns with you in Oxford Street. What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to hear you talk about your time as a ledger-clerk at Gray’s Inn. And it would help, Mr Bentinck, if you could allow your thoughts to roam in the vicinity of Mr Gideon Raikes—’

  Box suddenly found himself being scrutinized by a pair of very clear and intelligent blue eyes over the rim of a thick white cocoa mug.

  ‘Oh, yes? Roam in the direction of Gideon Raikes? Evidently Dr Spencer is another gossip, retailing my own indiscretions to you! I went to Gray’s Inn, Mr Box, forty-two years ago, in 1850. I was only a young fellow then, and came as fourth clerk on the battels ledgers. I stayed there for the rest of my working life.’

  The old clerk put down his mug, and bit appreciatively into a sticky bun.

  ‘I can’t tell you offhand the exact year Mr Gideon Raikes joined us, but I rather think it was 1862. That was a good year for all the Inns. Mr Raikes kept terms there for the customary three years, and then he was called to the bar.’

  ‘Had he been an able student while at Gray’s Inn?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Inspector. Very able indeed. He had an acute mind, and a genuine aptitude for the law. But… These QCs, or “silks”, can’t accept business direct from a layman: they have to be instructed by solicitors. There are very strict standards of conduct and etiquette required in the legal profession—’

  ‘And Mr Raikes wasn’t, perhaps, as strict as he should have been?’

  ‘Very elegantly put, Mr Box. You should have gone in for the law – well, you did, of course, but not in the way I meant. Yes, Mr Raikes wasn’t as strict as he should have been. When he left the Inn, he went to Foxley’s, in Carter Lane, and was set to do very well. He was starting to move in society, and there was talk of an understanding of some sort between him and Miss Adelaide Astley, who was supposed to be doing the season at that time, though nothing ever came of that.’

  ‘Miss Astley?’

  ‘Yes. She eventually married William Porteous. You look surprised, Inspector, but you must understand that these folk were all of an age, and the men were all starting out in the same profession. Lady Porteous, as she is now, is making a considerable name for herself as a social reformer. The urban villages project, you know. All honour to her! But there, I’m digressing. Let me finish telling you about Gideon Raikes.

  ‘In 1867, Inspector, Raikes accepted a bribe from a defendant to suppress evidence. A very grave and fatal breach of trust, you see. I don’t know why he did it.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Well, complaints were lodged against him at the Inn, and he was immediately disbarred. His only appeal would have been to the Lord Chancellor, and to the judges in their capacity as visitors to the society. He wisely made no attempt at an appeal, and went abroad. To Hamburg, I think, or maybe it was Antwerp. Wherever it was, he emerged from exile years later as a very successful businessman.’

  ‘If I were to mention the name “Henry Colbourne”,’ said Box, ‘would that ring any bells with you?’

  ‘Colbourne? Dear me, Inspector, we are raking up a lot of old history, aren’t we? Yes, I remember Henry Colbourne well enough. We were all much of an age then, you know. In our twenties, and set to put the world to rights. You’ll understand, of course, that there was a great gulf of rank and station separating us. Mr Raikes and Mr Colbourne were gentlemen benchers, whereas I was just a clerk in the offices. But youth calls to youth, as they say, and we would speak pleasantly enough to each other. Mr Henry Colbourne was a young man of righteous habits, very well regarded. He was murdered, you know. Stabbed to the heart in a graveyard, I seem to remember. Dreadful!’

  The word seemed more of a conventional piety than an expression of genuine feeling. It prompted Box to ask a question.

  ‘Did you like him, Mr Bentinck? Henry Colbourne, I mean.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly like him. I liked Mr Raikes, and was very sorry that he turned out a wrong ’un. He was a wild lad, you know, but we all liked him. Mr Henry Colbourne was too priggish for my liking. Too old for his years. It doesn’t do. I remember—’

  The elderly clerk stopped abruptly, and made a show of drinking the cold dregs of his cocoa.

  ‘What is it that you remember, Mr Bentinck? I can’t tell you what this is all about, but these memories of yours are of pressing interest to me.’

  ‘I don’t want to be seen as a gossip, Inspector. I used to blab too much when I was in thrall to drink, before Dr Spencer weaned me off it, and back towards something resembling a worthwhile life. But I’ll tell you what it was that suddenly came to mind.

  ‘At the back of the hall at Gray’s Inn, there’s a little office, not much bigger than a cupboard, where some of the kitchen ledgers are kept. It contains a single small window, which gives on to a blind yard. Well, I was working in there one cold autumn evening in 1867, and I overheard Mr Raikes and Mr Colbourne talking together beneath the window. They’d both left the Inn by then, but they’d returned for a dinner. I can hear their words now. They’d been talking together in the quadrangle, and I suppose Raikes had drawn Colbourne aside.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘It was Mr Raikes I heard first. “I earnestly beg you to reconsider, Colbourne”, he said. “Much more hinges on this than you can possibly realize”. And then Mr Colbourne, in that high, prim-and-proper voice of his, replied: “There can be no question of concealment or compromise, Raikes”. They moved off, then. I often wonder what they were talking about. Many things seem to be matters of life and death when you’re in your twenties. You get more philosophical with advancing years. But that was typical of Colbourne. “No concealment”. “No compromise”. Anyway, poor Henry Colbourne was murdered soon after that. Stabbed to the heart, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Mr Bentinck,’ said Box, rising from the table, ‘you’re a shining ornament, if I may say so. Your recollections have set me on the right path, and I’ll be starting out along it sooner rather than later. And Henry Colbourne wasn’t stabbed in a graveyard: he was garrotted – strangled from behind, with a silk scarf – on All Souls’ Eve, 1867, on the flags near St James’s Church, Garlickhythe.’

  ‘Please sit down, Mrs Hungerford,’ said Box. ‘That chair near the fire is very comfortable.’

  Box had been back at King James’s Rents for half an hour when the fair-haired widow of James Hungerford had been shown in to the office by PC Kenwright. She wore widow’s weeds, but drew back her veil as she sat down. Mrs Hungerford’s pale face looked sad and drawn. Box suspected that she was of delicate constitution. She sat twisting her gloved fingers nervously.

  ‘In what way can I help you, ma’am? You said in your note that Sir William Porteous had mentioned me to you—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Box. You see, before ever that man was tried for my husband’s murder, Sir William Porteous visited me. He needed to ask many questions about James – my husband, you know – and from time to time he would put me at ease by describing some of his cases, and some of the puzzles thrown up by them. He mentioned you on a number of occasions….’

  Mrs Hungerford’s voice trailed off into uncertainty and embarrassment. She took a deep breath, and made a fresh start.

  ‘Inspector, I have read of the monstrous attempt upon Sir William’s life. We are living in terrible times! One feels so helpless, so powerless to do anything … I’ve come today, because I want to share a little secret with someone in authority. It may be of no consequence, but I feel it must be told.’

  ‘And what is this secret, Mrs Hungerford? Take your time, ma’am, I’m all attention.’

  Mrs Hungerford’s eyes seemed to look beyond the room into the past. She sat in silence for a while, collecting
her thoughts before she spoke.

  ‘This whole tragedy – the tragedy of my husband’s murder – began with a watch, and the secret I want to share with you centres upon that watch.’

  ‘You are talking about your husband’s watch, the one that Albert John Davidson attempted to steal?’

  ‘Yes, but it was not really my husband’s watch. He found it, Mr Box. Please listen carefully to what I have to say. I’m not very good at describing things. James found that watch. He was only a young boy at the time – fifteen, I believe he was. He often told me the story. He had gone for a walk in Hyde Park. It was in the autumn of 1867. Just as he came to the Serpentine, he saw a gentleman standing on the path. This gentleman took the watch out of his pocket and dropped it into the water.’

  ‘You mean, it slipped from his hand?’

  ‘No, no! Please listen to what I’m saying. Every time I tell this tale to someone they say what you’ve just said. Perhaps I can’t find the right words … This man deliberately dropped the watch into the water, and began to walk away. James waded in and fetched the watch out. He fancied that the man turned round when he heard him splashing in the water. James went home and told his father what had happened. His father was always a practical man. “Well, James,” he said, “if the gentleman threw it away, then he didn’t want it. So, finders keepers”. The watch was none the worse for its dip in the Serpentine, and my husband kept it until his death.’

  Mrs Hungerford stopped speaking, and looked expectantly at Box. He listened to the hissing of the gas, and to the muffled bang of a door somewhere beyond the office wall. What did this unfortunate lady want him to say? And as a matter of detail, James Hungerford had evidently retrieved the watch, which was not quite the same thing as having found it.

  ‘An interesting and unusual story, Mrs Hungerford. I’ll make a written record of it—’

  ‘That’s only the first part of the story, Inspector. Please, please, let me finish. One day, some two weeks before his death, my husband had been to Oxford Street on business, and stopped for luncheon in a restaurant there. He looked across the restaurant and saw a man who he was convinced was the original owner of the watch – the man who had dropped it in the Serpentine.’