The Advocate's Wife (16 page)

‘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 matter. 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?'

‘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?'

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.'