The Advocate's Wife (5 page)

Percy turned round and looked directly at his employer.

‘We’re living in dangerous times, guvnor, and there’s a lot of political trouble about, especially from the anarchists and the Russians and the likes of them. Explosions in post boxes,
explosions
in stations – well, I needn’t tell you what a lot of trouble there is of that kind. I shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t hear of more outrages of that nature in the coming weeks.’

The piggy eyes glanced at Gideon Raikes briefly, and then returned to their contemplation of Charles I. Gideon Raikes began to chuckle. Of course, Percy was right! It had been only recently that they had arranged to receive supplies of explosives from people Percy knew about, people who carried on their business in obscure streets in Elephant and Castle and Newington – and further afield, which was more to the point.

And then, Inspector Box of Scotland Yard had followed them so assiduously around London, that it had been positively
difficult
to shake him off … Always supposing, of course, that one wanted to. Yes; Percy was right!

Gideon Raikes rose from his chair. He slid aside a panel in the wainscot to reveal a small safe built into the wall. He opened it with a key, and took from it a fat wad of Bank of England notes. Still holding the notes, he closed and locked the safe, and slid the panel back into place.

‘I’m afraid my mind was preoccupied just a little while you were talking, Percy, so I didn’t really hear what you were saying. Something about anarchists, wasn’t it? But I’m in a generous mood today, Percy, and I’ve been really cheered by your little visit. I want you to speculate a bit – to branch out in various directions. Here is five hundred pounds, Percy. Invest it how you like, and with whom you like. I won’t ask you how you invest it, and I certainly don’t want any of it back!’

He handed the notes to Percy and resumed his seat behind the ornate desk. Percy Liversedge glanced inscrutably at his employer, then placed the money carefully in the inside pocket of his coat.

‘To judge from that commotion in the hall, Diana,’ said Lady Porteous, ‘your father has arrived home at last.’

She had heard the carriage halt in the slip road, and had
imagined
her husband hurrying up the steps of his white mansion, wondering what kind of reception awaited him. What a fuss and flurry the man made! There was the great, booming voice, and the inevitable opening and slamming of doors. Here he was, now.

Adelaide Porteous closed the long dark lashes of her eyes while her husband pecked her cheek. He had all but thrown himself into the elegant drawing-room in his anxiety to show that he had finally returned to the bosom of his family.

‘Adelaide, my dear! As always, I am late. I promised you that I’d be here for tea, but I see that you’ve already had it. Surely it’s only half past three?’

‘It’s twenty past four, Sir William. The Assam tea was
delicious
. So were the sandwiches, and the rich fruit cake. And before you ask the inevitable question, yes, the girls have long gone, together with their husbands. Rupert sends you his regards. John Bruce didn’t say anything. Baby, as you may have noticed, has returned from Paris. She arrived just an hour ago.’

A young lady in grey, clearly her mother’s daughter, rose from a settee, and kissed Sir William on the cheek. She treated him to an engaging smile, and quickly sat down again.

‘Diana! You’re home from Paris! Well, of course you are. My
dear child, you look delightful, as always. I
must
go. Sorry I missed tea. Stevens can bring me something in the study. It’s one of the penalties attaching to my office that I must neglect my family! Goodbye, my dears. Lardner will be waiting. We’ll all come together again at dinner.’

The great advocate had gone before his wife could frame any kind of reply. What a ragbag of windy, incoherent sentences he’d offered as an excuse! Anything would serve, as long as he could get back to his books and papers.

Lady Porteous settled herself into the corner of a couch and looked appraisingly at her youngest daughter, Diana, still referred to as Baby. Diana was ‘finishing’ in Paris, at the
pensionnat
of Mme Beauharnais; sending her there had proved to be a very wise investment in her future. Darkly elegant herself, Adelaide saw the same quality in her youngest child, and was delighted to see that the girl knew how to enhance her allure by dress and deportment. The clothes that she had brought with her to England had been tailored by the Parisian fashion house of Charles Worth, and there was a certain
élan
about them that made even Mary Jane seem a trifle provincial.

Baby’s father was content, apparently, to strew the occasional compliment in his young daughter’s path, leaving him free to bolt into his study. Nothing was going to change there. But Baby was seventeen – eighteen at the end of next March. It was time to plan for her future.

‘As your father remarked, Diana,’ said Lady Porteous, ‘you look delightful. You did us credit as a pupil at St Mary’s, Ascot, and now you are absorbing all that Paris has to offer a young lady of quality. You’re the sole child left in the nest, and I look to you to make a brilliant marriage, to match those of your sisters. You’ll be coming out next year, so it’s time that you made up your mind what you intend to do.’

The young lady threw her mother a shrewd glance. Although they used words to communicate at the topmost level, deeper down they employed an unspoken language, arising from
intuitive
sympathies. Diana replied to something that her mother had not actually stated in so many words.

‘So you think, Mama, that love, or romance, or whatever you
like to call it, is something best left to the lady novelists?’

‘Well, what do you think?’

Lady Porteous waved her hand vaguely in the direction of some old portraits in oils that hung to left and right of the
fireplace
.

‘You know those pictures, Diana: they’re my forebears, decent old squires from the eighteenth and seventeenth centuries. That’s what I brought your father when I married him. Breeding and background. He brought the money – or rather, his father provided it. If you care to venture into that study of his you’ll see the only painting he has: it’s a little crude daub of his father. I don’t know who painted it, and neither does he. But then, your father doesn’t believe in history. He believes only in now.’

Diana said nothing. She examined one of two or three slender bracelets that she was wearing. There was the suspicion of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

‘You, my dear,’ Lady Porteous continued, ‘possess the three Bs: breeding, brains and beauty. Use them! You speak of romance, and so forth. Perhaps there are such things, but
affection
is easily summoned up for a man without debasing it with foolish sentimentality.’

There was a period of quiet, during which the dark woman and the dark young girl communed further on their mysterious deep level. Then the girl smiled very sweetly, and said, ‘Shall I tell you about the new fashions in Paris this season, Mama?’

‘Do, by all means, my love. Perhaps we can persuade your papa to give us some money. We neither of us have anything fitting to wear.’

For half an hour they talked about fashion, and then one of the footmen came in to remove the remains of their afternoon tea. When he had gone, Diana rose to her feet, and made towards the door.

‘Mama,’ she said, with a winning smile, ‘when you talk like that, all hard and cynical, it’s because you’re vexed with Papa. You pretend that you want me to enter into a
mariage
de
conve
nance
,
which is what
you
did – or
say
you did, but if you keep on saying these things, Mama, you’ll actually end up believing them!’

‘Lardner,’ said Sir William to his secretary, ‘I fear I’m unpopular today on the other side of the passage. If you’re agreeable, we’ll stay here for a couple of hours, until the heat’s died down. Have you seen Diana, yet? She’s just in from Paris.’

Lardner smiled. He had indeed encountered Diana, just as she was coming down the stairs for tea. How elegant and confident she had grown! She had engagingly entwined her arm through his, and said, ‘Do come in to tea with us, Mr Lardner. Papa won’t mind, I’m sure.’ He had gently disengaged himself, and replied, ‘A charming invitation, Diana, but somehow I don’t think that Lady Porteous would approve.’ She had laughed then, and left him peering over his pince-nez at her as she closed the drawing room door.

‘Yes, Sir William, I’ve seen her. It’s difficult to realize that she’s the same person as the little thing who used to crawl along the hall passage.’

Lardner had been Porteous’s secretary for twenty-five years, coming to him just after the birth of Mary Jane. He had watched the children grow up, and had allowed himself to be teased unmercifully by them. In return, the girls had benefited from his cheerful, amused tolerance.

Ten years earlier, Sir William and Lady Porteous had asked Lardner, who, as Porteous knew, had no surviving kin, to take up residence with the family in Queen Adelaide Gate. Lady Porteous had explained to each of the girls, as they grew old enough to understand such nice distinctions, that Lardner was to be addressed as ‘Mr’. ‘Mr Lardner,’ she had told them, ‘is your papa’s secretary. He is not a servant.’

‘Yes, indeed, Lardner, time flies – and flies rather more quickly than one would like! When Baby was crawling down the passage, Lydia, too, was only a little girl. Mary Jane was eight or nine. A houseful of little girls! Ah, well. To work. The Hungerford case is behind us. Now, we must concentrate our efforts on the Mounteagle Substitution Scandal – a cunning and subtle scheme, Lardner, devised by the greatest scoundrel of our time – he had better remain nameless for the moment – and
executed by James Mounteagle, a member of that most deadly of all species, a brilliant accountant with a criminal mind.’

‘And you will send him down for life, sir.’

‘Ah, but will I? You know how the substitution works. Enterprises of impeccable pedigree are infiltrated and destroyed, and their assets moved to secret locations. It has been
continuing
, despite Mounteagle’s arrest and detention, which means that others have been trained in the special techniques of deceit, and set to work. It’s a great, amorphous plan, Lardner, and Mounteagle’s only a part of it…. But come! To work!’ The two men turned their attention to a collection of folders arrayed on a great mahogany table, and worked in silence for some time. Then Lardner spoke.

‘Sir?’

Sir William had donned small wire spectacles to read the documents spread out before him. He peered over them at his secretary.

‘Yes, Lardner, what is it?’

‘Well, Sir William, it’s just that I can see ramifications arising from this brief that could be dangerous. To you personally, I mean. Have you considered such a contingency? Mounteagle…. Well, you said yourself that he’s only part of it.’

Sir William put the folder that he was reading aside, and gave the secretary his full attention.

‘When this case comes up for trial at the end of the month, Sir William, it will be a
cause
célèbre.
It will, I venture to say, be the crowning achievement of your many years at the Bar. I may say, too, that you have tied up Mounteagle so thoroughly and
ingeniously
in this submission that, despite your suggestion to the contrary, he will assuredly go down for life.’

Sir William smiled, and relaxed deeper into his great padded chair as the secretary continued.

‘Now, sir, when you secure the downfall of Mounteagle, there will be other fruit on the tree ripe for plucking. In the normal way of things the police will sweep many of the lesser lights into their bag. But one of these people – the man behind Mounteagle, I mean – is no petty minion. I am referring to Gideon Raikes.’

‘Excellent!’ cried Sir William. ‘I thought that’s where your
thoughts were leading! Very well. We’ll name names. Mr Gideon Raikes, as you know, is a respected financier, the amateur of Art, the chairman of This, and the patron of That. He is also a villain of the first water, a damned scoundrel. If I destroy Mounteagle, there will be an almighty crash, and very soon afterwards, Lardner, your precious Gideon Raikes will come tumbling down. And England will be well rid of him!’

The secretary leaned forward in his chair.

‘I must ask your pardon, sir, but you seem not to have
understood
me. I spoke of danger to you personally. Mr Fetlock rushed round here while you were absent, to tell me the verdict in Regina versus Davidson. Raikes will see the conviction of Albert John Davidson as a personal threat to himself, and to his safety. Society is still mesmerized by him, but a further blow of great magnitude, such as the conviction of Mounteagle, will open Society’s eyes, and send Raikes reeling.’

‘Excellent!’ cried Porteous again. ‘Really, Lardner, you renew my optimism. Raikes is more than a great criminal; he bears a personal animus against me, for reasons best forgotten, but real enough—’

‘Well, there you are, Sir William! This man is your implacable foe, and his safety is threatened. What if something were to happen to you
before
Mounteagle comes to trial?’

Sir William was silent for a few moments. Then he stood up, struck a favourite courtroom pose, and delivered himself of a short speech. The professional habits of a lifetime made him reply to Lardner in this way. But for all that his words were sincere enough.

‘My dear Lardner,’ he said, ‘I must thank you – and thank you most sincerely – for your solicitude. It does you credit, and I shall not forget it. But a Queen’s Counsel must operate without favour, and without fear. I am quite aware that Raikes may go to desperate lengths, but that will never deter me from my public duty. I will be careful, yes; I may ask the police to provide some discreet surveillance. But in the end I must take my chances with the rest of them. I must; otherwise Justice will be dethroned, and the likes of Mounteagle and Raikes will reign in her stead. And that must never be!’

Sir William sat down again, opened a folder of papers, and began to read. Soon, though, his attention wandered. What a splendid help and support Lardner had proved to be over the years! Poor fellow, he had begun his training as a solicitor, but chest illness had prevented him from taking the requisite
examinations
. Despite that, though, he had many friends in lesser legal circles, who kept him well informed of the current state of criminality.

Could there be danger? Would that desperate scoundrel Raikes dare to interfere with the administration of justice? It would, after all, be as well to talk to the police. Not yet, perhaps, but soon.

Adelaide Porteous wondered why she should have felt impelled, after Baby had left the room, to rise from her sofa and stand in contemplation of the portrait of her father, which hung in a deep alcove to the right of the fireplace. Her mind had been preoccupied with her family’s future, not her own past life.

The fine, full-length oil-painting was one of the few items salvaged from the ruin of her family’s fortunes, and brought out of storage when she and William had moved from their modest house in a street off Russell Square to the spacious splendours of Queen Adelaide Gate. Her father had been thirty years old when the portrait was painted, which was why he looked so haughty and upright, posed in front of the great oak tree near the gates of Astley Court. He wore court dress, with knee breeches and white stockings.

It was almost certainly her own fancy that made her see the weakness and indecisiveness in the artist’s depiction of her father’s face. It was as though the skilled painter had subtly hinted at his subject’s essential evasiveness in those pale-blue eyes. Or perhaps he had caught the sadness of recent bereavement?

This likeness of Sir Roderick Astley, Baronet, had been painted in 1843. In the dark background the artist had depicted a proud image of Astley Court, and it had always fascinated her to think that she had been lying in a cradle in that house while her father posed in the grounds, a shotgun cradled in his arm, and a brace of freshly-shot pheasants lying at his feet. She had been born in
the January of 1843. The painting was dated the August of that year. Her father stood beneath the great oak tree. She lay in the cradle. Her mother lay in the churchyard, dead in childbirth.