The Advocate's Wife

by Norman Russell

  Inspector Box closed the dark shutter of the magic lantern and turned down the wick of the oil lamp. He blew sharply across the burner, a little streak of smoke ascended, and the show was done.

  One of the men asked a question.

  ‘How did you obtain those photographs, Mr Box? Wouldn’t Raikes or Liversedge have seen the camera?’

  ‘It’s a very good question, Constable. I took those pictures myself, and had them turned into glass slides later. Photography’s by way of being a hobby of mine. I used two special detective cameras, one hidden in a cravat, and the other made up to look like a brown paper parcel! That’s it for today, then, gentlemen. Thank you for coming in from your divisions. Disperse to your duties, officers, and keep a watching brief!’

  Inspector Box stood for a while at the open door, watching the group of detectives disperse. Two distant clocks in the vicinity of Whitehall were striking nine. It was an especially bright September morning, and the gloomy yard was receiving more than its usual share of sunlight. On days like this, if you looked up at the soot-stained blank wall above the open colonnade, you could see the ghosts of painted letters: ‘Parr’s Carriage Repair Establishment’, they read. The autumn sun always brought them back to life beneath the generations of black paint and tar that had tried to extinguish them. Superintendent Mackharness always called that lopsided cobbled space, wedged between tall black buildings, ‘the exercise yard’. Well, everyone to his taste.

  Box turned away from the door. A burly, uniformed police constable, an impressive figure with a flowing spade beard, had opened the inner shutters of the room, sending beams of sunlight across the boarded floor. He was now engaged in packing away the magic lantern and slides into their tin container.

  ‘Mr Box, sir,’ said the constable, ‘I hear that you’re going down to the Old Bailey later this morning? I’m only asking, because Mr Shale said he might drop in later. He’d be sorry to miss you.’

  ‘Mr Shale knows already, thank you, PC Kenwright. I sent him a note last night. I promised Sir William Porteous that I’d be there at the Bailey for the end of the trial. The trial of Albert John Davidson, I mean.’

  ‘Albert John Davidson? That wasn’t one of our cases, was it, sir? I don’t recollect the name. Not a case for the Yard, at any rate.’

  ‘Albert John Davidson, Constable, is a murderous ruffian, one of the thugs employed by Percy Liversedge, and he’d been promised ten pounds in sovereigns for attacking and robbing a gentleman called James Hungerford, principal of Hungerford’s Patent Flour Mills, at his premises in Gainsford Place, down near St Saviour’s Dock. He confronted poor Mr Hungerford as he walked from his office into the yard. The idea was, that he should bludgeon him, and then steal his watch.’

  ‘And did he, sir?’

  ‘No. Instead of doing that, he produced a pistol, and shot Mr Hungerford at point-blank range, killing him instantly. He was seen calmly removing the dead man’s watch and chain before making off at a good pace towards Artillery Street. And there, Constable, Providence, or fate, decreed that he should trip on the cobblestones, slippery after a fall of rain, and shatter his ankle. There he lay, helpless, until he was taken into custody. His ankle’s mended now, but I don’t hold out much hope for his neck.’

  Constable Kenwright secured a leather strap around the tin container. He looked slightly puzzled.

  ‘It sounds an open-and-shut kind of a case, if I may say so, Mr Box. I wonder why such a high-class barrister as Sir William Porteous bothered himself with a case like that? Any court counsel would have done.’

  ‘Very astute of you, Constable. But you see, this Davidson had been surrounded by a cocoon of ingenious lies and faked alibis. That’s why the “open-and-shut case” has dragged on for three weeks. It took someone of Sir William Porteous’s stature to get to the truth of it all in the end.’

  The big constable motioned towards a narrow, low passage that led to the front of the building.

  ‘Sergeant Boyd’s in the front office, sir,’ he said. ‘He came in abut ten minutes ago. He’s been down in Newington, so he told me. It’d be nice if he could come here to the Yard. On a permanent basis, I mean. He was telling me yesterday that he’s been twenty-five years in the Force, and twenty of those as a detective.’

  ‘Yes, that’s very true, Constable. But Sergeant Boyd’s a staunch divisional man. He’s always been with “B” Division, and no amount of cajoling from me can persuade him to come here full time. I’ve known him all my working life, ever since I started at the Yard as a callow youth in 1880. He was already a sergeant then, still in “B”, of course, but always involved with us on various London jobs. He used to curb my inclination to make a noise and answer back, which, I might say, came natural in those days!’

  The big constable permitted himself a smile, and picked up the magic-lantern case. He turned towards the passage.

  ‘Mind your head, sir,’ he said, as he stooped beneath the low archway.

  Box winced. It’s all very well, he thought, to warn people about minding their heads, when you’re a giant of a man like Kenwright. Six foot four, at least. For himself, he was quite content to be of medium height. There was no need to stoop. Not if you were of average stature. Nobody could say that he was small!

  George Boyd was standing in front of the office fire, his overcoat hoisted over his arms, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets. A loud yellow muffler added a touch of brightness to the front of his dark serge suit. A cigar with a perilously long arch of ash hung from his lips.

  ‘So there you are at last, sir! Finished your lecture? What did that lot think of your slides? Did any of them spot our Percy?’

  Detective Sergeant Boyd’s loud, cheery voice had its usual effect of lightening the atmosphere of Box’s office. The cigar remained firmly glued to his lips, but the ash cascaded down his coat, and on to the long office table.

  ‘You untidy devil! Look at the mess you’ve made with that ash! Why don’t you spice yourself up a bit? Yes. Various bright sparks spotted Raikes, and Percy, his henchman. After a bit of cajoling, that is! So, all in all, Sergeant, my labours were not in vain.’

  ‘Spruce.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s “spruce yourself up”, not “spice”.’

  George Boyd laughed. His laugh was, and always had been, an explosion of mirth. Box looked at him. At fifty, he still had the same aura of contented optimism that he had shown when Box had first met him. George had told him once that after he was promoted to the rank of Detective Sergeant in 1874, he had decided that no further advancement was needed. He had been contented with his lot in life since that time.

  ‘Sir,’ said Boyd, ‘there are definite signs of further movement down Newington way. Whatever was being put in train, as recorded on those slides of yours, seems to be coming to a head. Murder Malthus has been seen twice in the last two days, both times in conversation with Percy Liversedge. Thunder Aitken apparently has gone to ground, but that doesn’t surprise me: Aitken’s always been cautious.’

  More cigar ash tumbled down George Boyd’s front, coming to rest on his yellow muffler.

  ‘Now, here’s the interesting bit, sir. Some persons unknown have started loading crates into vans in a yard behind Callaghan’s Warehouse in Back Sayer Lane. They were watched through field-glasses.’

  ‘Excellent! You’re a shining ornament, George! Anything else?’

  ‘The Doyle brothers, and Jimmy the Docker have been talking to Murder Malthus on Deacon’s Flags. Just this morning, I mean. When they moved off, we followed them on foot. They made some kind of reconnoitre in Prince Frederick Mews, which is an alley at the rear of the premises of the Royal Roumanian Credit Bank in Prince Frederick Street. One of the Doyle brothers produced a key to enter an empty shop—’

  ‘Say no more, George! Our clever friends are planning a bank job! Clever, yes; but not clever enough! They’ve let us see too much.’

  ‘So it would seem, sir.’

  ‘We’l
l put a ring round that area, Sergeant Boyd, that will put paid to Percy’s explosive ambitions. Well, well! A bank job! I rather suspected it might be something like that.’

  ‘Well, sir, we’ll see. It certainly looks like it. I’d better be getting back, I suppose.’ George Boyd cast his eyes up at the ceiling, which was stained black with years of soot from the heavy two-burner gas mantle. ‘Next time I come,’ he said, ‘I’ll bring a bucket of whitewash, and a brush!’ Box followed his glance, and laughed.

  ‘They’ll not spend any money here now, George. If you think this room’s bad, you should see Mr Mackharness’s gloomy abode upstairs!’

  ‘Your guvnor came stumping down here to see me, half an hour ago, while you were showing the slides. Old Growler himself. “Good morning, Sergeant”, he said. “How are you? We don’t see enough of you at King James’s Rents”. Wasn’t that nice of him?’

  ‘Astonishing,’ said Box. ‘He’s trying to poach you from “B” Division! He certainly wouldn’t say that to me. Not half he wouldn’t! He’d shed no tears, George, if I went out through that door and never came back!’

  George Boyd shook his head in mock despair. He threw the remains of his cigar in the fire, and began to button his coat.

  ‘You’re too hard on him, Mr Box. Now, you’re not to take offence, because none’s meant, but here’s a little bit of advice: try to meet Old Growler half way. You’re stuck with him, you see, and he’s stuck with you. And beware of jumping to conclusions too quickly. You’ll come a cropper one day, through doing that.’

  Inspector Box looked at himself in the big, fly-blown mirror. His own image showed him a slim, smart man in a tightly buttoned fawn greatcoat. The recently grown moustache, he thought, was a decided improvement. It gave him a dashing, military kind of look, with a discreet suggestion that he might be older than his thirty-five years. Medium height? Decidedly. Not everyone could be a giant, like Kenwright. George, he saw, was watching him with an amused smile on his lips. Box turned away from the mirror.

  ‘I’ll bear in mind what you say, George. I’ll handle Mackharness with kid gloves. I’ll give deference where deference is due. I’ll … what are you looking for? Are you searching through that coat of yours, or wrestling with it?’

  ‘I’m looking for something I forgot to give back to you last week. Ah! Here it is. Your key to the glory-hole. A very useful place, that. Just think, Arnold: if I was an inspector, I’d have a key of my own! Still, one can’t have everything in this life. I’ll be off, now. Back to keep an eye on Percy and his friends. You know where to find me if you want me. Oh, and don’t forget what I keep telling you about Napoleon.’

  Sergeant Boyd pushed open the glazed swing doors of the office, crossed the vestibule, and hurried down the steps into the street. Box followed him out on to the dusty pavement.

  ‘George,’ he said, ‘you’ve been telling me things about Napoleon for more years than I care to remember – things that are usually not to my advantage. So what is it this time?’

  Boyd’s infectious laugh rang out from the bleak, cobbled street.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s just this: Napoleon was a great man, too. And he was only five foot nothing!’

  Long after George Boyd had disappeared in the direction of Whitehall, Arnold Box stood on the steps of 2 King James’s Rents, and looked down the dim road, filled for the moment with a blue haze of smoke, blown down from a hundred chimney stacks. Just in sight, twenty yards or so to his left, he could see the old entrance to ‘A’ Division in the little narrow street called Great Scotland Yard. Until two years earlier, members of the public had come to that door when they’d wanted to ‘see a police man’. It was in actual fact the back entrance to 4, Whitehall Place, the old office of the Metropolitan Police Commissioners.

  But two years earlier, all that had changed. The Metropolitan Police had removed themselves, lock, stock and barrel, from this festering collection of cramped old houses, and taken up residence in the gleaming new fairy palace on the Embankment. Some, though, had been left behind, including himself and a dozen other officers, shepherded by Superintendent Mackharness, the limping old growler in the mildewed office upstairs.

  One day, perhaps, they would all be spirited away to the fairy palace. Until that happy day dawned, they were marooned in 2 King James’s Rents, one of the later annexes acquired by the Criminal Investigation Department in one of its frenzies of expansion out of Whitehall Place. The battered building, with its labyrinth of connecting rooms, was reputed to be as old as Whitehall. It got its name from the fact that it had provided lodging for the Scottish courtiers who had arrived in London with James I. That canny monarch had charged them rent for the privilege. The rear portion of the Rents, where the ‘exercise yard’ was situated, had been acquired in 1845.

  Box went back up the steps, and pushed open the swing doors. Daylight never penetrated with any conviction into the front office, and the gas mantle burned and spluttered for most of the day and night. He sat down at the long, cluttered table with his back to the fire, and lit a slim cigar.

  The teeming millions…. There were many embodiments of evil out there. Gideon Raikes was one of them. A lawyer gone wrong, trained up to the law at Gray’s Inn, and called to the Bar. There had been some scandal involving bribes, back in the 1860s, and he’d been disbarred. Raikes had gone to Paris and disappeared. Then he’d re-emerged as a legitimate insurance promoter. But Gideon Raikes was in with Percy Liversedge, and Percy was in the process of planning a bank robbery—

  There was a noise of a scraping chair from the floor above, and presently a ponderous, limping footfall began to make itself heard through the ceiling. There was a faint trembling from the iron gas-bracket. Old Growler was coming out on to the landing. Box threw the stub of his cigar into the fire, and hurried out into the vestibule.

  ‘Box? Come up here, if you please. I’ll not detain you more than five minutes.’

  Superintendent Mackharness’s office was even darker than Box’s, because at some stage in the remote past it had been fitted up with heavy green velvet curtains and pelmets, which effectively excluded whatever faint beams of sunlight might have ventured to penetrate the tall, grimy windows. The room smelt strongly of mildew and stale gas.

  Box looked at the heavy, thickset man sitting behind a carved oak desk, and recalled George Boyd’s words: ‘You’re stuck with him, you see, and he’s stuck with you’. Well over sixty, with a yellowish face lightened by well-tended mutton chop whiskers, Superintendent Mackharness regarded Box with bright, intelligent black eyes, in which there was a kind of defensive wariness. His thin hair was well brushed and combed. Although he wore a civilian frock coat, with an old-fashioned black cravat tucked into a turn-down collar, he gave the impression that he would be more at ease in uniform.

  ‘Yes, well, sit down there, Box. I’ve not been able to see you earlier. You were detained, I believe, in the drill hall, and I was out visiting Lord Maurice Vale Rose. I think I told you that His Lordship had invited me to take breakfast with him in Clarence Gate this morning?’

  Mackharness’s voice was both powerful and well enunciated. Box was very familiar with his turns of phrase, and knew that his question had not been framed to require an answer.

  ‘Was it a good breakfast, sir? At Lord Maurice Vale Rose’s, I mean.’

  ‘What? Yes. As a matter of fact, it was. Very good. I shouldn’t have thought that my observation required a comment. Now I’ve a report here for you to read. It’s from a Superintendent Parker, from Maldon, in Essex. I don’t know him, but he very sensibly thinks that we need to send someone down to his part of the world. Glance through it now, if you please, Box, and then I’ll tell you what I want you to do.’

  Box watched Mackharness’s right hand hover over a neat stack of papers, noting the thick, spatulate fingers, and the big round thumbs. The superintendent, having aroused his curiosity, would make him wait for half a minute until he chose his own moment to give him the report. Box let his eye r
oam upwards to a dim, smoke-stained portrait of Sir Robert Peel hanging above Mackharness’s crowded mantelpiece. It looked as though it had been evicted from grander surroundings, as it was rather too big for the wall.

  Mackharness finally handed him a dark green folder, levered himself up from his desk, and retired to a dim corner of the room. Presently there came a fusillade of high sneezes, and then the superintendent limped back to his desk. He blew his bulbous nose vigorously into a large snuff-stained handkerchief.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded, when Box had read the final page of the brief document.

  ‘A very interesting report, sir. An unidentified lady of quality, found floating in a canal in the Essex countryside. Garrotted, they say, not strangled…. Wearing a green silk dress – they mention the dress seven times. And then they say that this unfortunate lady was wearing an expensive diamond necklace. The whole thing sounds decidedly odd, to me. Garrotted…. Why that? I wonder—’

  ‘Yes, well, Box, take that report away with you, and digest it. As you say, there’s something very peculiar about the business. I know you’re going to the Old Bailey later this morning, and you’ll need time to make whatever arrangements you decide upon. So you’d better go down to Essex tomorrow, or Wednesday. Bardley, the place is called. Nearest railway station, Bishop’s Longhurst. The police station is in a place called Danesford. Field Lane Police Station. Sergeant Bickerstaffe is the officer in charge. Sergeant Isaac Bickerstaffe. I don’t know the place. Sounds as though it’s a bit of a backwoods. Back of beyond, you know.’

  Box gathered the papers together in their green folder, and stood up. Before he had reached the door, the loud, testy voice had burst out to detain him.