The Advocate's Wife (25 page)

Adelaide Porteous walked as far as the Edgware Road, where she felt it safe to take a cab, which she left at the junction of Park Lane and Upper Brook Street. From there she walked through the growing mist into George Yard. For a moment she fancied there were stealthy footsteps behind her, but she was afraid to look back.

Within minutes she was standing in front of the French window at the rear of Gideon Raikes’s house. She knocked on one of the glass panes.

The curtains were not fully drawn, and she could see her tormentor sitting behind a table, looking straight at the French window, and smiling. He had heard her knock, and had chosen to make her wait. Eventually he rose, crossed to the window, and opened it. He did not speak, but motioned for her to enter. He pushed the window closed and resumed his seat at the table.

‘So, my fine lady,’ he said, ‘you have done as you were commanded. I must commend your taste in hooded cloaks. Ideal, I should have thought, for slinking through the London streets.’

It was a small, undistinguished room, not one of Raikes’s usual gilded chambers. It was, perhaps, his butler’s pantry. The table at which he sat was a plain wooden one, upon which stood a shaded oil-lamp. It threw a yellow pool of light on the single sheet of paper that held her future, and that of her children, in thrall.

Raikes leaned forward in his chair and looked at her intently. His evening clothes were exquisitely tailored, and she could smell the perfume of his hair-dressing. He took his slim watch from his waistcoat pocket. He released it from its chain and placed it open on the table. The little jester bobbed and bowed. Raikes smiled. It was a cruel, gloating smile.

‘I can give you five minutes. Here, on the table, is your
snivelling
letter. “Dear Gideon” – pah! You disgust me. Have you brought the written apology from Porteous? I will not be trifled with, madam! There will be no second chance in this matter.’

‘Give me the letter first.’

‘Show me Porteous’s letter, and then we will make the exchange. You can go, then. You can go to the Devil – you, your
husband, and all your brood. Give me Porteous’s letter!’

Adelaide Porteous loosened the strings of her reticule. A sudden scornful smile agitated her lips, and she said, ‘It is a remarkable thing, Mr Raikes, that a man can dress so well and yet contrive to look so irredeemably vulgar.’

Raikes’s eyes widened in anger and the raging serpent was revealed. She felt a sudden clutching at the heart, a reeling panic. Would no one help her? Her hand fumbled in the canvas bag and withdrew the revolver.

‘There is no letter of apology. Do you think I would demean Sir William Porteous by asking him for such a thing?’

As she spoke, she tried and failed to seize the fatal letter from the table. Raikes seemed quite unafraid of the gun pointing at his chest. He screamed in frenzied rage, and rose up from his seat like vengeance incarnate. Adelaide Porteous closed her eyes, her own scream of fear merging with the enraged bellow of her enemy. Then she heard the explosion as her finger
convulsively
squeezed the trigger.

She opened her eyes and saw Raikes lying back dead, his shirt front stained with blood. The little jester in the watch still bobbed and bowed the seconds away. A thunderous hammering began on the door, accompanied by shouts. Raikes must have locked the door to ensure that their meeting was private. This gave her time to stumble hysterically out into the fog and away from the scene of death.

She sat at her dressing-table, and thought of the ruin of her family. No one, she was sure, had seen her re-enter her house, and venture up the back stairs to the first-floor landing. She had put the hooded cloak away, and stood in her black beaded evening dress. If anyone saw her now, they would not realize that she had been out of the house.

She had fled Gideon Raikes’s house leaving behind the letter, her reticule, and the revolver, which she had dropped on the floor as soon as she saw that Raikes was dead. And thus she had brought about the ruin of herself, her husband and her three daughters.

She sighed and stood up, eyeing herself in the full-length
mirror. How odd, she thought, to look just the same. No one would guess that she had just killed a man – not with intent, no, not that – but through sheer terror. She had brought about that evil man’s death, but she had not murdered him.

She left the room and descended the wide staircase in a kind of dream. She went into the drawing-room and sat down on one of the brocade-covered sofas. The room was brilliantly lighted and a cheerful fire burned in the grate. How utterly alone she felt! The police would arrive soon, and she would be taken away. What—?

Glancing casually to her left, she saw her reticule on the couch beside her. At first she thought it was an hallucination, but when she hesitantly stretched out her hand and touched it, she
realized
that it was real. She drew it towards her and loosened the strings. The incriminating letter had been crammed roughly inside.

The door opened quietly to admit the stooping, deferential figure of Lardner, who was carrying a tray upon which reposed a single cup of coffee. He betrayed no particular emotion as he placed the tray on a small table beside her.

‘You … it was you …’ she faltered. He smiled very kindly and nodded.

‘Yes, madam. I followed you, and did all that was necessary. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you some coffee. Perhaps, later, you will take a little more solid refreshment.’

‘But Lardner, the gun …’

‘It is cleaned, madam, and back where it belongs. I will bid you good night.’

Before he could turn away she had seized his hand and kissed it. Then she looked at him very calmly and smiled.

‘Thank you, Lardner,’ she said.

He bowed, and left the room. Lady Porteous rose, went over to the fireplace, and dropped the letter into the flames, watching it as it curled up, glowed, and disappeared.

‘My dear Box! How kind of you to come! Do sit down. This sitting-room they’ve given me is very comfortable, with commanding views of the pine-woods, but the company is –
how shall I put it? – rather antiseptic! What I need to divert me is something forensic, and that, I assume, is what you’re bringing me?’

Sir William Porteous, leaning only lightly on his
walking-stick
, had risen from his chair to receive Inspector Box. His keen eyes shone with pleasure behind his plain wire-framed
spectacles
. The table at which he had been sitting was strewn with newspapers.

Box looked at him, and tried to imagine him as one of the three young legal sprigs at Foxley & Forwood’s, three young men with their ways to make in the world, thrown by an
indifferent
fate into one another’s company. That coming together of the three juniors had led to the violent death of one, and the deep corruption of the others.

It was impossible to see Sir William Porteous as an eager young man. That round, smooth face and bland forensic manner belonged firmly to the here and now. Box saw the eager pleasure at his visit in the great advocate’s eyes, and felt his bitter
indignation
melt away.

‘Yes, Sir William,’ said Box. ‘I’m bringing you something forensic. I can see that you’ve seen the papers.’

Sir William Porteous sat down. He looked grave, and there was a brooding discontent on his normally placid features. Box knew instinctively what that look portended. Sir William had been cheated of his prey!

‘Yes, Inspector. So Gideon Raikes is dead! Even now, I can scarcely believe it. It’s such a crushing anticlimax – so banal, as to be unbelievable. I was convinced that my life’s work was to bring that scoundrel to the gallows. But there, he’s dead, and before another Judge! So, he was shot?’

‘Yes, sir. Shot in the chest, sitting at his own table. When his servants broke down the door there he was – dead. French window open, but no sign of the weapon. It was a revenge killing of some sort, as like as not.’

‘Will you apprehend whoever was responsible?’

Box shook his head. Raikes had evidently gone too far in some deep matter, and someone had come after him. Maybe it was one of Razor Jim Gagen’s crowd, avenging Sam Palin. It could be one
of dozens of disaffected criminals, or members of a victim’s family who had bided their time.

‘I very much doubt if we’ll ever know the truth of it, sir. He had many enemies – well, you don’t need me to tell you that. It’s almost certain that he was shot with a .38 Colt revolver. Not that that helps. They’re almost a fashionable accessory in the criminal world. We’re delving, as you might expect, but I don’t think we’ll solve this murder.’

‘Murder,’ said Sir William thoughtfully. ‘Yes, murder it is, without a shadow of doubt. But I can’t say that I’ll grieve for Gideon Raikes. I thought I was destined to bring him down, Box, but I was wrong. Well, somebody’s paid him out.’

There was silence for a while, then Box spoke. His tone carried a careful nonchalance, as though he was doing little more than making conversation.

‘I have reason to believe, Sir William, that, during the evening of Tuesday, the sixth of September in this current year, at Sleadon, in the County of Essex, you did garrotte, or strangle with a scarf, one Amelia Garbutt, so that she died; and that you did murder her.’

Sir William Porteous looked interested. His eyes twinkled. ‘Now why should you think that, Mr Box?’

‘Well, sir, I think she was blackmailing you. I’ve seen the note you sent to her, agreeing to meet her, and a colleague of mine in Essex has found a witness, an old man who actually saw you carrying Amelia Garbutt’s body up to the water-channel.’

Sir William laughed, and wagged his finger playfully at Box. He looked highly diverted.

‘My dear Inspector Box, can you imagine what
mincemeat
we could make of such a witness in court? Of course you can. How did he know it was me? If he was old, how was his sight so keen as to make such a positive identification? How light was it? How dark was it? Oh, dear! Your poor old man wouldn’t help you much.’

‘You claimed that you had seen Gideon Raikes in the train at Bishop’s Longhurst, when I have absolute proof that he was in Sunderland at that time.’

‘Did I say that? Oh, yes, I remember. I was evidently mistaken.
A man is permitted to make a mistake in the dim light of an unfamiliar railway station. Let’s talk of something else, Box. I’ve been through all this before, with Colbourne.’

Inspector Box glanced at the smiling lawyer. He suddenly recalled something rather cryptic that Mackharness had said to him. ‘Talk to him about Henry Colbourne and Amelia Garbutt, and see what he says to you in reply. It could be quite
interesting
….’

The old fox! Mackharness had been privately warned about the state of Sir William’s mind! It was fascinating to be sparring with Porteous in this way – fascinating, but frightening, too.

‘Colbourne, sir? Henry Colbourne?’

‘Yes. It is quite the most amazing thing, Inspector, because Colbourne died in 1867. I find it so
very
odd that he should come here, and lecture me on truth and duty as though he were still alive! He’s just as insufferable now as he was then.’

Box watched as Porteous suddenly clenched his hands and stared into space. His voice came loud and clear, but his features remained expressionless.

‘Providence had decreed that I would be the scourge of crime. It was fated – written in the Book of Life! Henry Colbourne defied what Providence had decreed. His vision could not rise above the pettiness of his narrow creed, the constraining bonds of his hideous piety. And so I took him from this earth. It was the work of a moment, and he had gone.’

Sir William remained transfixed for nearly a minute, his body still, his eyes unblinking. Then the old, familiar personality seemed to pour back into his frame. His eyes kindled with their old light, and he gave Box a rather sheepish glance.

‘There, Box, I expect I’ve been talking some nonsense! We can forget whatever it was I said. I only half heard it myself! It was all preordained, you know.’

Sir William’s attitude, that of a man humble in the face of the gods, a man who had simply done his duty, was awesome to behold. Box took Henry Colbourne’s jewelled watch from his pocket and placed it on the table at Sir William’s right hand.

‘Ah! Colbourne’s watch! I took it, you see, to suggest that garrotters had killed him, with robbery as the motive. Crude
enough, I admit, but it worked. And then I forgot about the whole wretched business!’

‘Sir William,’ Box ventured, ‘you have just confessed to the murder of Henry Colbourne—’

‘Oh, no I haven’t! A lawyer has to be very careful, you know, and when they told me that you were coming to see me on an informal visit, I thought to myself, “Informal my foot!” I never said I murdered anybody. Nothing I’m saying now is admissible, my dear Box, because you’ve not shown me a warrant, you’ve not cautioned me, and I am not making a deposition. I am simply talking.’

‘What about Mr James Hungerford, sir?’

Sir William Porteous stirred angrily.

‘I was very, very vexed about that business, Box! The whole thing had been forgotten years ago. And then, one day, I went into a restaurant in Oxford Street and ordered a meal. I’d been in Portman Mews on a matter of business. Suddenly, a man thrust Colbourne’s watch in my face and started to talk about Hyde Park and the Serpentine – for a moment I thought it was Colbourne himself! You’ll know what happened by now, I expect.’

For the first time during the interview Sir William Porteous faltered. He blushed and bit his lip.

‘By various indirect means, Box, I hired Albert John Davidson to get that watch back into my possession. The watch was no danger in itself, but I wanted it back. And then that fellow Davidson shot and killed James Hungerford! I had not foreseen that he would do such a murderous deed. And another thing – that day in court, when I spoke to you, I realized that Davidson was one of Raikes’s creatures, and that I had indirectly hired my greatest foe to retrieve a mere bauble. And in the attempt to retrieve that bauble, Box, poor Hungerford was murdered! So there was a debt to pay, a wrong to put right. I prosecuted in Regina versus Davidson and made quite certain that Davidson hanged for his crime. I owed that to poor Hungerford’s widow.’