The Advocate's Wife

by Norman Russell

  ‘Well, Mr Lardner, it’s just that I thought your meeting at Scotland Yard last week ended rather abruptly. I called tonight on the off chance that you’d see me, so that I could tell you how we have acted on your information.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Sergeant Knollys. I’ve been very perturbed, as you can well imagine.’

  ‘Well, Mr Lardner, there’s a department at Scotland Yard that is able to control the debits and credits of private accounts in emergencies. That department is directly responsible to the Home Secretary, and works in conjunction with a specialist accountant called Mr Deloitte. Mr Box mentioned him to you, as I recall. That department has taken control of Sir William Porteous’s private banking accounts. You will find no further irregularities occurring, Mr Lardner.’

  Sergeant Knollys sipped his glass of stout, at the same time noting the expression of pleased relief on the secretary’s face.

  ‘I’m very impressed, Mr Knollys, by what you’ve just told me. If it’s in order, I should like to inform Sir William of the fact next time I see him.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Lardner. Do, by all means. Does Sir William yet know that his accounts had been corrupted?’

  ‘He does not. At least, not through me. The hospital is very stubborn about visitors. Nevertheless, I hope to be permitted to see him very soon.’

  ‘I saw Lady Porteous in the hall just now,’ said Knollys. ‘I thought she looked frightened. Has anything happened today to upset her?’

  ‘Well, naturally, the attempt on her husband’s life has shaken her considerably. Considering the circumstances, I think she is coping very well.’

  Knollys had framed his question to confirm that its answer would be an evasion. Lardner was the kind of man who would be strongly averse to telling a direct lie, but he was evidently a master of the indirect reply. Lardner was protecting Lady Porteous. Something had happened that day – something involving Lady Porteous and Gideon Raikes, and Lardner was privy to it.

  Fixed to the panelled wall behind Lardner’s chair were a set of coloured prints depicting race horses. They seemed an odd decoration for the great advocates’ private sanctum. The secretary saw Knollys’ surprised glance, and smiled.

  ‘Derby winners, Mr Knollys! Sir William has always been a connoisseur of what I believe is called “form”. He places judicious bets on the major races, and usually wins. So there, behind me, you can see some of Sir William’s favourite livestock! They all brought him in a tidy sum. At the top you’ll see the Duke of Westminster’s Ormonde, who won the Derby in ’86. Below him is the Duke of Portland’s Donovan, from ’89, and the third picture is of last year’s winner, Mr Johnstone’s Common. A curious name for a clear winner.’

  Knollys watched Lardner as he finished his glass of stout, and wiped his lips with a handkerchief. The secretary glanced at the fire, and then relapsed into silence, watching the flickering flames in the grate. Evidently he was pursuing a particular train of thought. At last, he spoke.

  ‘Until this recent vile attempt on his life, Mr Knollys, my employer seemed to be like that horse in the picture – a clear winner. His last case, you know, was by way of being a minor triumph. That fellow Albert John Davidson had been hedged around with all kinds of subtle defensive works, but Sir William Porteous battered them all down, and revealed that man for what he was!’

  ‘We were only on the periphery of that case, Mr Lardner. Scotland Yard, I mean. But there was an interesting little sequel that you might care to hear about. Mrs Hungerford, the widow of the man who had been murdered by Albert John Davidson, visited Inspector Box at King James’s Rents, and told him the history of the watch that Davidson tried to steal.’

  Knollys briefly outlined the story of James Hungerford’s boyhood adventure in Hyde Park. Lardner listened with what seemed like avid interest.

  ‘A fascinating tale, Mr Knollys! And this man – this man in Hyde Park – deliberately dropped his watch into the Serpentine?’

  ‘He did. And James Hungerford waded in, fished it out, and kept it for the rest of his life. Mrs Hungerford told my guvnor that she’d given the watch to Sir William Porteous as a keepsake—’

  ‘Ah! Yes! I thought it might be that!’

  Lardner sprang up from his chair and opened the roll-top desk. He took a watch from a pigeon-hole, and put it into Sergeant Knollys’ hands. Knollys stared at the watch for a while without moving, turned it over, and back to the front again.

  ‘It’s a very fine silver watch, Mr Lardner, made to order, I shouldn’t wonder. It has an engraved letter “C” on the cover, surrounded by these eight little blue stones. It’s a very nice piece of work.’

  Sergeant Knollys turned the watch round again, and inserted a fingernail beneath the tab at the side of the rear lid. The watch clicked open to reveal the jewelled but silent works of the unwound mechanism. Knollys held the watch even nearer to his eye, and began to read aloud.

  ‘“Damian Shulbrede, Watchmaker”. Damian Shulbrede….’

  He snapped the watch shut. His inner eye conjured up the sight of a frightened man standing amid shattered display-cases in a shop off Garlick Hill, where he had first met Inspector Box, and almost arrested him as a malefactor.

  ‘I know the shop where this watch was made, Mr Lardner, so it’s just possible that we can find out more about who ordered it. I’m convinced that this watch was connected with two violent crimes, both ending in murder, and separated by a period of twenty-five years. One is the murder of James Hungerford, for which Albert John Davidson will suffer the supreme penalty. The other was the killing of a young man called Henry Colbourne in 1867. I’d like to take this watch away for a while, if I may. I’ll give you a written receipt.’

  Knollys took a note book from his pocket, and scribbled a few lines on a page, which he tore out, and handed to Sir William’s secretary.

  Lardner put the receipt rather absently into his pocket. He sighed, and gazed wistfully at the fire.

  ‘I’m fascinated by your work, Mr Knollys. It must be highly rewarding. I myself would very much have liked to be more intimately connected with the law.’

  ‘Police work can be fascinating, as you say, Mr Lardner, but it’s dangerous work, too. So you had toyed with the idea of joining the police when you were younger?’

  Knollys saw Lardner blush with what was evidently embarrassment.

  ‘My health would have precluded such an idea, Mr Knollys. As it was, I could not complete my training as a solicitor because of haemorrhages in the lung. I remain on the periphery of the law. I was fortunate indeed to secure this position as Sir William’s legal secretary. At one time he employed a social secretary as well, but over the years I have come to deal with all such matters myself.’

  The secretary rose and brought a small tin box from a shelf.

  ‘These are “Richmond Gem” cigarettes, Mr Knollys. I find them beneficial as well as pleasant. Would you care to try one?’

  Knollys accepted a cigarette, which Lardner lit for him with a spill. It was a kind gesture, signalling to the detective that he was regarded not solely as a policeman calling on official business. Lardner sat back in his chair and asked rather diffidently, ‘I can’t help noticing the scar on your cheek. Was that a result of dangerous police work?’

  ‘It was indeed, Mr Lardner. I’m a Londoner, as you’ve probably noticed, though until recently, I was in the Croydon police. They’re not part of the Metropolitan force. Well, I followed a couple of villains up to Birmingham, and with the kind assistance of the Warwickshire Constabulary, I set out one dark night to arrest these two villains, who were coiners in a big way. What we call “smashers”, in our line of business.’

  ‘“Smashers”. Good Lord! And what happened, Mr Knollys?’

  ‘Well, we arrested them, all right, and the upshot was, they got thirty years apiece. But they had a great number of associates, including a pile of beauties called the Philpotts Gang, and they came after me.’

  He fingered the puckered scar rue
fully.

  ‘This was done with a length of iron railing, used as a kind of sword. I got a broken arm, too, and some smashed ribs. When I got back to Croydon, our chief constable decided that I was a marked man in more ways than one – useless to him, you see, as a detective, because the Birmingham gangs might follow me to Croydon to finish the job. So he arranged for me to be moved across the river to the Metropolitan Police.’

  Sergeant Knollys drew on his cigarette and smiled.

  ‘My governor, meaning Detective Inspector Box, is convinced that I’m some kind of aristocrat. I can’t think why. I’ve got the kind of face that scares bulldogs in the street. Nothing very aristocratic there! Anyway, I won’t tell him the truth, and he pretends he doesn’t want to know! All he’s got to do is be civil to the superintendent, instead of riling him as he does, and he’d tell him.’

  Lardner laughed.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I wondered myself whether you were connected with Sir Francis Knollys, the Prince of Wales’s secretary. So it’s not only Inspector Box who thinks you’re an aristocrat! Sir Francis Knollys dines frequently with Sir William and Lady Porteous. Some people find him rather prim, but his fund of stories is bottomless.’

  Knollys glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and rose from his chair. He threw the stub of his cigarette into the fire, and carefully put the jewelled watch into an inner pocket.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Lardner, for receiving me. A call of duty has turned into a pleasant evening’s visit. I must get back home now.’

  Lardner saw his visitor to the door. There was no sign of Lady Porteous. The rain had stopped, and the gas-lights glowed strongly in Queen Adelaide Gate. The many square windows of the white mansion reflected their light. Knollys walked to the end of the secluded road, where there was a cab-rank. He took a cab to Syria Wharf.

  Damian Shulbrede put the jewelled watch down on his cluttered work-bench, and removed the magnifying-glass from his eye.

  ‘Yes, Inspector Box, I made this watch, all of twenty-five years ago! I offered four patterns for silver cases in those days, all engraved by me, and stamped with those dies you can see in the rack there. I mounted different stones according to choice and price. The cases were English silver. The movements of this particular range were Bohemian, by Tomacek of Prague.’

  Box and Knollys had earlier walked down the narrow lane off Garlick Hill, where the tall, silent houses still seemed to stare blankly at each other across the cobbles. A mild sun had penetrated the clouds, and the towering warehouses of Syria Wharf could be seen quite clearly above the rooftops. They had emerged into the tiny square where Damian Shulbrede carried on his watchmaker’s business in the bow-fronted old shop behind the black iron railings. A sign painted on the brick wall of one of the houses in the square had told them that it was called Dresden Place.

  ‘And this watch, I assume, was made to order?’ asked Box.

  ‘Yes. I made it for a neighbour of mine, Mr Adeane Colbourne, who was a claims adjuster for the Old Rock insurance company. It was to be a twenty-first birthday present for his son, Henry. I knew the Colbournes quite well, because, like me, they were Methodists, and we attended the same chapel.’

  So, Box mused, Mr Shulbrede’s assertion establishes that this watch is indeed the one that was taken from the garrotted body of Henry Colbourne. He had thought that to be so for some time; now he knew for certain. And this was the watch that James Hungerford had retrieved from the Serpentine, and had paid for twenty-five years later with his life.

  ‘So, Mr Shulbrede, you actually knew Mr Henry Colbourne. What kind of young man was he?’

  The old watchmaker put his magnifying glass down on his bench. Box saw how his eyes assumed a faraway look as they turned their gaze twenty-five years into the past.

  ‘Well, Henry Colbourne was a very devout young man. Very upright, you know. He was too young, you see, to have learnt the value of compromise in the events of everyday life. Some people found him alarming – a mite too censorious. But, there: he never lived to be more accommodating to human failings. As you will know, he was murdered in the street, not far from here. Poor lad!’

  Sergeant Knollys asked a question.

  ‘Mr Shulbrede,’ he said, ‘you said just now that Henry Colbourne was murdered in the street not far from here. What, in fact, was he doing in this area that night?’

  ‘Well, of course, he lived here, Mr Knollys. In Petty Allmain, I mean. It’s a quiet, little-known tangle of streets and courts, squashed in, as it were, between Garlickhythe and Bread Street, and inhabited by very respectable folk, mostly Methodists – the better sort of artisan, you know, and various kinds of public servant. It was colonized centuries ago by German refugees, which is why its called “Petty Allmain” – Little Germany – though there aren’t any Germans here now, to my knowledge.’

  ‘And Mr Henry Colbourne lived here?’ Knollys persisted.

  ‘He did, Sergeant. He lived with his parents, Mr and Mrs Adeane Colbourne, in Moravia Court, just two streets away from here. He was walking home from his work in Carter Lane, St Paul’s Churchyard, when he was attacked. He was an only child, you know. They’re all dead, now. The Colbournes, I mean.’

  ‘Somebody may have followed him from St Paul’s.’

  ‘Quite possibly, Mr Knollys, though I believe the official explanation was robbery by thugs of some kind. And now, after so many years, I’m holding his watch again! Once I knew that his watch had been stolen, I went to the police station in Thames Street, and told them that I was the man who’d made it. I described it to them, and I believe they took down a note. Then they scoured the pawn-shops and receivers, but no trace of it was ever found.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Shulbrede,’ said Box. ‘You’ve thrown a good deal of light into some dark corners, if I may put it like that. Incidentally, you’ll be pleased to hear that your assailants, Joseph Jenkins and Billy Whetstone, come up for trial in a fortnight’s time. You’ll not see either of them again, Mr Shulbrede. Ever!’

  Box retrieved the jewelled watch, carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief, and put it in his pocket. What a strange and fateful career it had had! Made for Henry Colbourne, it had been stolen from him as a blind, a successful attempt to hide a personal murder from the light of day. And then, by another quirk of fate, James Hungerford had retrieved the watch from the Serpentine, and twenty-five years later had shown it to a man in a restaurant …

  Cause and effect! Once Hungerford had revealed his identity to that man in the restaurant, his fate had been sealed: because the original owner of the watch had been Henry Colbourne, and the man in the restaurant was his murderer.

  14

  The Third Junior

  ‘I read your letter with great interest, Inspector Box. It recalled many memories of earlier years here in Carter Lane.’

  Mr Edgar Forwood, the principal of Foxley & Forwood, glanced at the letter that he held in a gnarled hand. A man nearer eighty than seventy, he had spent his life in the law, and most of the last half-century in a suite of offices on the first floor of a crooked old building in the shadow of London’s cathedral.

  ‘There are no Foxleys now, Mr Box, and only one Forwood – myself! Mr Graham Foxley died some years ago, leaving me as the sole survivor of the old partnership. But you’ve not come to hear our history. Ask me your questions, Mr Box, and I’ll try to give you some judicious answers.’

  The old lawyer’s voice held a kind of wry amusement, perhaps at the world in general. Its light tone seemed to come from some distance away.

  ‘I want you to cast your mind back, sir,’ Box began, ‘to the year 1867. In that year you had two young men here as juniors, Mr Henry Colbourne and Mr Gideon Raikes. I’d be very grateful, Mr Forwood, if you could tell me something about those two young men. What were they like? Did they fit in here?’

  The old gentleman sighed. He had very bright dark eyes, which looked speculatively at Box.

  ‘One never knows quite what you Sc
otland Yard fellows are up to! I wonder why you’ve suddenly decided to dig up that particular bit of the past? Fit in? They were promising young men, Mr Box, as far as the law goes. But they brought tensions with them, and that was a bad thing.’ He paused for a moment, and said, half to himself, ‘There’s always a bad apple in every barrel.’

  ‘A bad apple, sir? Do you mean Gideon Raikes?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t mean Gideon Raikes. I’m thinking of Henry Colbourne. Mr Graham Foxley regarded Henry Colbourne with special favour, because of his high moral tone. I had my reservations, I must admit. It’s true that we had high standards in those days, Mr Box. No drink on the premises, no gambling, or profanity in private life. But too much virtue can be a danger, and young Colbourne’s virtue was a danger both to himself and others. He was courting disaster, and he found it.’

  Box had heard this chilling tale before, from Mr Bentinck of Gray’s Inn. Old Mr Forwood called Henry Colbourne the bad apple in the barrel. It was Gideon Raikes himself who had characterized Colbourne’s virtue as a vice….

  ‘Of the two juniors, sir, Colbourne and Raikes, who would you say was the more promising?’

  Mr Forwood looked quizzically at the inspector.

  ‘Is there any special reason, Mr Box, why you keep saying “the two juniors”? Is there some clever forensic purpose in making no mention of the third junior?’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a third junior, sir!’

  ‘Well, there was. Mr Colbourne and Mr Raikes came to us from Gray’s Inn; Mr Porteous came from Lincoln’s Inn. There were three of them.’

  Inspector Box lapsed into a sort of trance. Sir William Porteous seemed to be protected by other people’s ignorance of his history. He remembered how unreasonably angry he had been at not knowing that Lady Hardington in Essex was Porteous’s sister. And yet, why should anyone know that? And now Porteous was revealed as the third of a triumvirate of juniors in this old legal practice. Why had no one known? The answer was, that no one had felt the need to ask. Sir William Porteous talked a great deal – it was a rather endearing quality of his – but he did not reminisce. He lived only in the present.