The Advocate's Wife (14 page)

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 tell 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.’

Mackharness limped away towards the covered porch. Arnold Box stood, mute and disconsolate, in the rain. He had failed. Why had he underestimated his cunning enemy? And Sergeant Knollys…. How would he face him, now? So much for strutting and posturing. The only honourable course now, was resignation. He’d been promoted too early, and beyond his
abilities
. And the respectful PC Kenwright – how would he look at him, now? What—

Mackharness reappeared at the porch door.

‘Box!’ he shouted. ‘What are you standing meditating there for, man? There’s work to be done! Get out there into the streets, and find these would-be assassins!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Detective Inspector Box fairly ran across the rain-soaked cobbles and back into King James’s Rents.

In a narrow, stone-flagged passage beneath Edgware Road Police Station, Detective Inspector Box followed the duty turnkey, as he made his way between two lines of cells. At each iron door, the constable stopped, and slid back the lid covering the round observation hole. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and it seemed to Box that a lifetime had passed since the
explosion
in Euston Road. The air in the subterranean cell block felt dank, and the passage held a nauseating stench of stale gas and damp mould.

For the last four hours, a massive, concerted raid of criminal haunts and gang dens had turned the dark underworld of London upside down. The knot of sneering men who had
swaggered
out of Prince Frederick Mews that morning had all been hunted down, and arrested on suspicion of conspiring to cause an explosion.

‘Liam Doyle, sir.’ The turnkey’s voice held no interest. It would be a different name the next day, and the day after that. Box glanced in at his black-toothed tormentor of that morning, who now sat, cowed and cringing, on the edge of a straw pallet. The inspection continued. Kevin Doyle. Paul Egan. James Nolan, alias Jimmy the Docker.

The cells beneath the small police station at Edgware Road were full to bursting. They’d all go down for years, thought Box, and society at large would be well rid of them. But no damp stone cell held Percy Liversedge, or Mr Gideon Raikes, the noted connoisseur of art. Sam Palin …

The constable opened the cell door, allowed Box to pass in, and then slammed it shut. His key turned in the lock. Box stood looking down on the shivering, terrified man who had informed on the gang to George Boyd for two gold sovereigns. Palin sat upright and almost motionless on the edge of his straw pallet. In the flickering light of the bat’s-wing burner flaring on the cell wall, he looked like a medieval artist’s depiction of a soul in torment. He began to speak without prompting, in a kind of squeaking gabble.

‘It’s God’s truth, Mr Box! I didn’t know! I didn’t know about Sir William Porteous. They all pretended it was to be a bank job. That’s what they told me. I’ve always informed fair, Inspector. I was used to trap you—’

‘I know you were, Sam Palin. You always informed fair, and I’ll bear that in mind. But Percy’s gone too far this time. The Queen herself has given the orders, Sam. Everyone concerned with the attempt on Sir William Porteous’s life is to be sent down for twenty years as an example.’

The words were designed to strike fear into Sam Palin, rather than to be believed. The Queen could have given no such order, as both men knew, but Box had chosen his words carefully, and one of them hit the mark.

‘Attempt? He’s not dead then? It’s not murder?’

Sam Palin clutched Box’s sleeve and stared at him with round, half-crazed eyes.

‘Take your hand off me, Palin! That’s better. No, he’s not dead – yet. They’re doing what they can, I expect. I don’t know. But if he dies, then you can take your choice – the gallows, or twenty years’ hard labour. Maybe I can pull a few strings … Who laid the false trail for me to follow? The trail that led from Back Sayer Lane to Prince Frederick Mews?’

Sam Palin tried to clutch Box’s sleeve again, but thought better of it. He fixed Box with a ghastly, ingratiating stare.

‘It was Percy Liversedge who planned it, and Liam Doyle who carried it out. Liam told us all what to do. But I didn’t know that, Mr Box. I was told it was to be a bank job, I swear it! Bring me a Bible, and I’ll swear on it—’

‘I believe you. There’s no need for you to swear anything. But
now, tell me this: who hired Percy Liversedge to do the job, Sam? Who was behind Percy, pulling the strings? Just say the name, no more, and I’ll see what can be done. Think carefully before you answer. Twenty years is a cruel hard time to be breaking rocks in Dartmoor. Who hired Percy?’

Sam Palin huddled nearer the wall and licked his lips. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. Box made a sound of contempt and turned away.

‘I’ll be back late tonight, Sam. You’d better have your answer ready, then. There’s something you should bear in mind:
they’re
all
here.
Here, in the other cells. Liam Doyle, Peter Egan, Jimmy the Docker, and the others… And they all know that you informed on them. That’s why they told you a tale about a bank job, because they knew you’d rat on them. They’re all here, Sam, and they’ve got friends. They’ve got friends everywhere. I’ll see you later tonight. Have your answer ready. Turnkey!’

It was just after nine when Box got back to King James’s Rents. He found the old pile of buildings a blaze of light. There seemed to be an endless coming and going of uniformed and
plain-clothes
police. The activity had extended across the road into Whitehall Place, and Great Scotland Yard, where lights seemed to be glowing in every window. As he entered the vestibule, PC Kenwright came out of the reception room.

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘they’ve brought what’s left of Sir William Porteous’s coach here. It’s in the drill hall. Mr Mack’s just arrived now from The Strand.’

The authorities had never piped gas through to the drill hall. The long, bare room was lit after dusk by reeking oil-lamps, burning dimly. The wreckage of Sir William Porteous’s coach had been brought from Euston Square on two horse-drawn lorries, and manhandled into the room through the wide rear doors of the original coach repair establishment. The whole smashed ruin had been piled up in the centre of the floor. A stooping, morose man with a long drooping moustache stood gazing speculatively at the wreckage. He carried a bulky Gladstone bag, and was heavily muffled against the autumn chill.

‘Good evening, Mr Mack!’ said Box. ‘It’s nice to see you again.
How can I help you? I’m sorry there’s not much light in here. I can’t think why they brought this wreckage all the way here from Euston Road.’

Mr Mack glanced briefly around the room before managing a wintry smile.

‘They brought it here, Mr Box, because I asked them to. It meant that I could walk over here from the Home Office. Who was that huge, bearded policeman who showed me into this place? I’d like his help, if that could be managed.’

‘PC Kenwright. I’ll fetch him straight away, Mr Mack – oh, here he is, now.’

Mr Mack’s eyes rested on the ruins of the coach. A spark of life came to his rheumy eyes. This was far more interesting than a couple of policemen.

‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, PC Kenwright,’ said Mr Mack. ‘You’ll do very well. Now, we’re very nicely placed here, Mr Box, so I’d be obliged if you’d stand well back, and just leave me and Kenwright to get on with it. Kenwright, help me to slide under this floor-frame, and when I’m positioned there, light the little hand-lantern you’ll find in my bag, and pass it to me. Shift that axle out of the way, first.’

Box watched as the elderly Mr Mack manoeuvred himself with Kenwright’s help under the shattered remains of the coach. The Home Secretary must have intervened personally to bring in the Home Office Explosives Inspectorate.

Mr Mack, with his stained black coat and his straggling
moustache
, looked like a rag and bone man. Box had met him on a number of occasions, usually in the vicinity of burning
buildings
, or standing thoughtfully in the middle of smoking wreckage, clutching his Gladstone bag. Box had a profound respect for Mr Mack’s uncanny knowledge of explosives.

‘Kenwright,’ said a muffled voice under the wreckage, ‘look in my bag again, and see if you can find a little wire brush with a green handle.’

This, thought Box, is the real work of investigation, not the frantic urge to rush around London, arresting all and sundry on suspicion. There was a time for action, certainly; but there was also a time for quiet and concentrated thought. Old Mr Mack
would sift and search, weigh the evidence, and eventually come up with some startling answers.

Box stayed in the dim, smoky room for half an hour, watching Mr Mack and PC Kenwright at work. He noticed the delicacy with which the giant constable handled things, and wondered whether the old Home Office expert had sensed that quality hidden beneath the giant frame. From time to time a gnarled hand would emerge from the ruins to receive a small bottle, or a knife, a strangely-shaped wire or a pad of gauze. Eventually Mr Mack’s sad face peeped out at Box for a moment.

‘I’ll be finished here presently, Mr Box. I’d welcome a cup of tea, if such could be found.’

Box left the room and made his way through the low passage to his office. The frantic coming and going seemed to be subsiding. The clock on the wall told him that it was twenty to ten. He suddenly felt desperately tired. He threw himself into his chair at the cluttered table.

An old man in shirt sleeves and a long waistcoat stood near the fire. He had placed a wooden tray on the table. It contained a home-ly collection of saucerless cups, and a couple of pewter spoons. There was a bowl of brown sugar, and an enamel jug of milk.

‘The kettle’s on the go, Mr Box, sir. Mr Mackharness looked in, earlier on.’

‘Mr Mackharness can go to the devil.’

‘Yes, sir. Is that other gentleman coming in for a brew?’

‘Mr Mack? Yes, Charlie, he’s coming. Thanks for holding the fort here, as they say. You’re a man in a thousand. What did Mr Mackharness want?’

‘I don’t know, sir. He just said, “Has Mr Box not come back?” “No”, I said. “I’ve just got back from Clerkenwell”, he said. “Yes”, I said.’

‘We all got a drubbing from the commissioner, Charlie. We were told to get off our backsides. Even Mr Mackharness felt he had to go somewhere. Clerkenwell’s as good as anywhere else, I suppose.’

Charlie poured boiling water into a big teapot, and put it on the table, beside the tray of saucerless cups.

‘I’ll bid you good night, Mr Box.’

‘How many years is it now, Charlie, since you came here as night-helper?’

‘It’s going on thirty years, now, sir. It’s a way of life! I was invalided out of the Engineers, you see. Spinal trouble. They can never cure that, though they’re very clever, these days. Yes, sir. It’s a good place, is King James’s Rents.’

The old man turned at the door. He smiled kindly at the younger man.

‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Box. It was just the same in the army. When things went wrong at the top, everybody started shouting and bawling. Half the time it meant nothing. Good night, sir.’

‘Good night, Charlie.’

Inspector Box felt in his pocket for his cigar-case and lit one of his thin cigars. He smoked thoughtfully while he waited for Mr Mack.

Gideon Raikes … Gideon Raikes and Percy the Pug had led him up the garden path. While he was being so very clever with his hidden cameras, they had obligingly held their poses for him – stepping into a cab, examining an apple on a stall – laughing to themselves all the time, just as those reprobates in the cells at Edgware Road had laughed earlier in the day, when he’d fallen into the trap laid for him, and when the explosion had rent the air over Euston Road…

Sam Palin – was he safe out there in the cells at Edgware Road? What safer lodging could there be than a police cell? But Gideon Raikes’s writ ran to many unexpected places.

Box woke from his reverie as Mr Mack came stooping into the office. He sat down in a chair and treated the inspector to an abstracted and rather fishy stare. Box poured out two cups of hot, steaming tea. Mr Mack’s watery eyes were running, and his prominent nose was very red. It was impossible to read his expression fully, as most of his face was concealed by his
straggling
yellow moustache. He struck a match, lit an old briar pipe, and puffed away thoughtfully for a few minutes. Finally, he began to speak.

‘Colonel Majendie’s up in Scotland, otherwise they’d have sent
him. This would have been right up his street. But there you are, Mr Box; he’s in Scotland, so they dragged me out as usual. There’s a lot of running around going on tonight at the Home Office.’

Mr Mack delicately sipped his tea. Box watched as the fishy eyes suddenly kindled with some kind of vital spark.

‘The explosion, Mr Box, was brought about by a clockwork device fixed under the floor-panel of Sir William Porteous’s coach. It had been fastened in place with screws. I’d venture the suggestion that this could only have been done properly if the fixer had gained access to Sir William’s carriage-house, where he could work in peace. The clockwork device was timed to go off at eleven-thirty in the morning. The floor of the coach had been repaired at some time with an iron plate above the boards, so that the force of the explosion was largely directed downwards. That’s what we call providential. Without that plate, Sir William would have been blown to pieces.’

‘Anything else?’

Mr Mack sighed, and his elderly shoulders stooped. He finished his tea with an air of martyred resignation.

‘Well, I haven’t finished talking yet, have I, Mr Box? Yes, there’s a bit more that should be of help. The substance used to make that bomb was a stuff called lignin-dynamite. Now you can’t get that in this country: it comes from America, where they call it Atlas Powder. The clockwork was American, too. It was the interior of what they call the “Early Bird” alarm-clock, made by the Columbia Clock Company of New York. I’ve only ever seen that arrangement once before, and that was when the Pinkerton’s man was blown to pieces at the Euston Hotel by the Philadelphia Terrors. You remember that case yourself, Mr Box, though you weren’t on it, as I recall.’

Inspector Box looked at the Home Office expert with awe.

‘I don’t know how you do it, Mr Mack. You’re a shining
ornament
, if I may say so. I don’t know where you get it all from.’

A croaking noise from somewhere in the region of the yellow moustache indicated that Mr Mack was chuckling. He was not immune to genuine appreciation.

‘Well, Mr Box, it’s very kind of you to say so. Yes, Atlas Powder is what they call it. It’s not allowed in this country, but
there’s quite a lot brought in.’

Mr Mack rummaged in his waistcoat pocket and brought out a fragment of paraffined paper. He held it out to Box.