The Advocate's Wife

by Norman Russell

  ‘And she gave you the watch?’

  Porteous smiled.

  ‘Well, Box, I made her think she was giving it to me! But in actual fact I virtually made her hand it over. Just a little rhetorical trick. I’ve used it in court on numerous occasions!’

  Sir William Porteous rose and crossed to the window. He looked out across the pine-woods.

  ‘It was good of you to call, Box. I beg you not to worry yourself about Henry Colbourne. Or about Amelia Garbutt, for that matter. She was an unexpected phantom that rose to haunt me! She had inherited a rather dangerous document from an uncle, a man who had actually seen me making away with Colbourne all those years ago—’

  ‘Joseph Garbutt, aged 74. He died in March.’

  ‘Yes, that was the name. He’d lived in some wretched rooms over a shop in Garlick Hill, and had looked out of the window, down into that dim corner behind the Caledonian Coffee House, just near the tower of St James’s, Garlickhythe … I don’t want to talk about it, but I suppose I must. This Joseph Garbutt had seen what happened, but had kept it to himself all those years. He was that type of man, evidently.’

  Sir William Porteous looked personally affronted.

  ‘And then, this woman, Amelia Garbutt, wrote to me. She was a well-educated person, who wrote well, but I could sense her deviousness, and realized at once that she was one of those dangerous women who can cause endless trouble to professional men through scandal and innuendo. She wanted a costly present to buy her silence, something, she said, that she could “turn into money”, if the need arose. I’d just bought Lady Porteous a diamond necklace – I think I remember fibbing to you about that in the hospital. I decided that Miss Garbutt would have that necklace. I had to buy another one for Adelaide. It was an expensive week!’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘I sent her out of the world in the same way as Colbourne. She had given me the document – a wretched, paltry thing it turned out to be! – and it was the work of a moment to do what had to be done. I had Gideon Raikes and Mounteagle to deal with, Box! I couldn’t let this second phantom from the past deflect me from my ordained course. And there you have it.’

  He turned from the window, and treated Box to a kindly, confiding smile.

  ‘Sir, you must have put that necklace around Miss Garbutt’s neck after she was dead. Why on earth did you do that? You could have kept it.’

  Porteous’s voice came loudly in what seemed like a sharp rebuke to Box.

  ‘Keep it? Certainly not. Good heavens! The foolish woman had given me the document without demur. She fulfilled her part of the bargain. After … When it was over, I saw that I had not yet given her the necklace. Justice, Box! Equity! I had to keep to our agreement. So I placed the necklace gently around her neck.’

  Box stood up. He suddenly felt that he was choking in the confinement of this stuffy, over-furnished room.

  ‘I’ll leave you now, Sir William,’ he said. ‘Thank you for being so frank, and confiding. No doubt we shall talk further, sir.’

  ‘I hope so, I hope so. I always liked you, Box. My wife – Lady Porteous, you know – is of aristocratic lineage. But you and me – we’re both Cockneys. A bit cheeky, you know, a bit chirpy – but we get our way in the end!’

  Porteous suddenly clutched Box’s arm.

  ‘Now that Raikes is dead, I must give my whole attention to defeating Colbourne. He comes here, morning, noon and night, lecturing me about the paths of virtue … He doesn’t seem to know I killed him, or if he does, he doesn’t care. So I must vanquish him in debate, extirpate his hideous spectre from this room, this quiet, secret place … Goodbye, Box. Come when you can.’

  Arnold Box made his way downstairs to the medical officer’s room, where Sir Arthur Carew-Field, the Queen’s Physician, was waiting for him.

  ‘Well, Inspector Box, what did you think of Sir William Porteous? Do you think he’s making progress?’

  Inspector Box had moved to the window of the room. He looked out across the lawns and the pine-woods towards Chelford Grange, which he could just see about a mile off.

  ‘Upon my word, sir,’ said Box, ‘I’ve never witnessed anything more pitiful – or more frightening, too, in a way. It’s the saddest thing I’ve come across for years.’

  Sir Arthur Carew-Field made a little wordless sound of consent.

  ‘That gentleman and I,’ Box continued, ‘worked on the same side in the battle of good against evil, if that’s not too pompous a way of putting it. We were allies for years. Now, he seems to be two different people – the old Sir William, the one I knew, and this new one, pleased with his cruel crimes, starting at shadows … I don’t know what it means, Sir Arthur!’

  ‘It means, Inspector, that he will spend the rest of his days here, in Broadfield Insane Asylum. We brought him over here yesterday, when we realized that there was no hope of mental recovery. His interests will gradually narrow down to one single issue, and that issue to one single point. That which is real will become unreal. For him, only fantasy will have any reality.’

  ‘But he seems quite sane—’

  ‘But you know he’s not, Mr Box. Your answer to my initial questions shows that. He seemed quite sane to you, I expect. But if you were to come down here with a warrant for his arrest, then I must tell you now that he will be quite unfit to plead. He seems rational. He is, in fact, quite mad.’

  16

  A House Restored

  Major John Bruce turned on the steps of 4 Queen Adelaide Gate, and surveyed the crowd of newspaper reporters thronging the pavement. He and Lydia had only arrived fifteen minutes earlier, and now he’d had to come out again to get these fellows to go away. What an ill-disciplined rabble! What did they hope to find out by staring at the front of a house? It would take months to shape that lot into a decent platoon. He’d have to get rid of them.

  The reporters, for their part, suddenly fell quiet. There was something about the smart man with the fearless eyes, bristling moustache, and soldierly bearing, that commanded respect. Besides, he was one of the sons-in-law. Maybe he’d tell them something that they could cobble up into some kind of story.

  ‘Now, listen, men,’ John Bruce began. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by hanging around here, making a nuisance of yourselves. Lady Porteous has nothing to say. Lady Porteous, I needn’t remind you, hasn’t done anything wrong, so she’s no story to tell. Her husband has been declared insane—’

  There was an involuntary murmur from the crowd. Note books were hastily thumbed for a clean page, and pencils hovered at the ready. This was more like it!

  ‘Declared insane, I say, and will soon be committed for life to the madhouse.’

  ‘There are rumours going round, sir,’ a slightly truculent voice called from the crowd, ‘that Sir William Porteous has committed grave crimes!’

  ‘Well, if he has, then I don’t know anything about them. Neither, of course, does Lady Porteous. So if you’re looking for sensations, my man, you’d better try elsewhere.’

  Later that day, John Bruce’s blunt words were transmuted into journalistic fantasy, and printed in the evening papers.

  In a dramatic interview earlier today, conducted on the steps of the stricken mansion in Queen Adelaide Gate, Major John Bruce, 21st Lancers, a son-in-law and confidant of Sir William Porteous, informed the Press that Lady Porteous had taken a solemn vow of silence concerning the tragedy of her husband’s descent into lunacy. Of the great advocate’s crimes he knew nothing, but hinted that further sensational revelations might be made from other quarters.

  John Bruce turned his back on the gentlemen of the Press, and strode into the house. Stevens, the footman, pale and red-eyed, had cautiously opened the door on seeing the major through the glass panels. Then he fell back, and hovered uncertainly in the chilly hall. The usual brightness that Bruce associated with 4 Queen Adelaide Gate, seemed to have fled the place.

  ‘What’s going on here, Stevens? The house is like a tomb!’

&
nbsp; ‘Sir, my master is ruined and disgraced! He’ll never come back to us. The heart’s gone out of the house!’

  ‘What? The heart? How can a house have a heart? Don’t talk nonsense, man! It’s dashed cold in here. Why is the hall fire not lit?’

  Before the demoralized man could reply, the door to the domestic quarters was thrown open, and Lydia Bruce came into the hall. She was a comely, determined young woman, dressed in a suit of dark-green tweed. What she lacked in elegance, she made up for in determined common sense.

  ‘Really, John, this is too bad!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mother needs to make an effort! They’re all weeping and wailing below-stairs, but very little work seems to be going on!’

  Young Mrs Bruce threw open the door of the drawing-room, and glanced in. The heavy curtains were still drawn, and the fire unlit. She saw a cup and saucer on a table, with the dried dregs of coffee still in it.

  ‘Stevens! Send the housekeeper to me at once. Where are the parlour maids? Get these fires lit, will you, and throw back the curtains.’

  ‘And while we’re trying to locate everyone, Stephens,’ added Major Bruce, ‘where’s Lady Porteous?’

  ‘Sir, Lady Porteous is in her private sitting-room upstairs. Ever since Sir Arthur Carew-Field brought her the terrible news, she has refused to come downstairs…’

  Major Bruce tried to recall the name of a book he’d once read in which a jilted lady had shut herself up in a room with a wedding cake and some rats. Dickens – no, Thackeray. Well, he’d be damned if his mother-in-law was going to take that road. The first thing to be done was set the house to rights – fire the boilers, and get the machine in motion, so to speak. He and Lydia would do that. He’d leave Lady Porteous to her other son-in-law, Rupert Avoncourt. He’d be there within the hour.

  Adelaide Porteous opened one of the faded leather-bound albums that held the many photographs and souvenirs of her wedding to William Porteous. They had lain, forgotten, in the attics for over twenty years, but now she had brought them down to her sitting-room. She could hear the sounds of hurry and bustle downstairs, and caught the irascible bark of John Bruce’s voice, but her mind was totally captured by the past.

  There they were, on the steps of St Peter’s, Eaton Square, a lifetime ago. How proud they both looked! And near them were the shadows – father, faded but still elegant, and William’s father, a stern-faced vintner with shrewd, bold eyes fixed on the camera.

  She, too, must now become a shadow, a figure remembered for a while by Society, and then quietly forgotten. Sir Arthur Carew-Field had come to her here, in this room, and told her that William was hopelessly mad. She remembered how she had reeled in shock, and how the Queen’s Physician had sat beside her on the couch, and taken her hand in his. That madness, he said, had been Sir William’s constant companion all his life, and had led him to commit murder. And so, destined to share her husband’s disgrace, she would join the other shadows and become a recluse. All that mattered was that the girls, thank God! were safe.

  ‘Lardner,’ said Lord Avoncourt, ‘I’ve come to you straight away, as I have always done whenever I visit here, because I know you’ll tell me clearly how things stand. What is happening here?’

  Lord Avoncourt had arrived at Queen Adelaide Gate half an hour after John and Lydia Bruce. He sat now, bolt upright, on the window seat in Sir William Porteous’s study, immaculately attired in morning dress. Whatever the situation, Lardner thought, he always looked like this: elegant, imperturbable, born to command.

  ‘Sir, Lady Porteous has told me that she can no longer face the world. She contemplates a life of seclusion, and withdrawal from Society.’

  Lord Avoncourt made a valiant effort to stifle a laugh.

  ‘My mother-in-law, Lardner, is a woman of strong character. I don’t associate her with seclusion – hiding away from the light! Maybe these sensational revelations of her husband’s crimes have temporarily warped her judgement. Or maybe … A reclusive life! Can you associate that idea with Lady Porteous, Lardner?’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t. Lady Porteous was destined for greater things than reclusive idleness.’

  ‘Very well, then. Now, nothing can be done about Sir William Porteous. Society would have sympathized with his plight if it had stopped at madness and confinement. But murder, Lardner – well, Justice demanded that his crimes should be made public, and the family must cope as well as it may with the consequences.’

  Lord Avoncourt suddenly smiled, and his face was transformed into that of a young man who concealed an adventurous spirit only with the greatest difficulty.

  ‘Lardner, I intend to take charge of my mother-in-law until she’s fit enough to take charge of herself once more. She and I, you know, are kindred spirits. This desire for reclusiveness is, I’m sure, simply a device for avoiding me, because she knows that I’ll see through her pretensions and excuses. I believe I know why she’s doing it, so in a moment I’ll go upstairs and tell her what I propose to do.’

  Lord Avoncourt was silent for a while. He looked round the room, and Lardner saw that he was surveying the shelves of law books and reports that had been part of the apparatus of Sir William Porteous’s practice.

  ‘Lardner,’ said Lord Avoncourt at length, ‘what about the household here? Will they want to seek employment elsewhere? Or will they stay?’

  ‘They will stay, sir. They’re all devoted to Lady Porteous.’ Lardner smiled rather sadly, as he added, ‘Major Bruce is in the house. He put them all under a kind of military discipline for half an hour. It seemed to work wonders with their morale.’ Lord Avoncourt laughed.

  ‘John! That would be like him, Lardner. He’s not largely endowed with imagination, which is one of his great strengths. But I can see beyond this scandal to the years ahead. You know this project of hers, the urban villages project? She’s begun a great social reform, there, Lardner, a reform that’s going to bring her much honour in future years. I know that the Queen is taking a direct interest. I wonder…’

  Lardner wondered, too. In idle moments he had tried to envisage Lady Porteous’s future. He had imagined her, older, but still beautiful, created a baroness in her own right by the future king – what would he be called? Edward VII? – in recognition of her work for the poor. Occasionally, too, he had imagined that the future Queen Consort, Alexandra, would one day appoint Mary Jane as one of her ladies-in-waiting. Dreams… But one day, perhaps, they would come true.

  ‘What will you do, Lardner?’

  There was a sudden intimacy in the Earl of Avoncourt’s voice that invited the secretary to speak frankly. For a brief moment, differences of rank were to be forgotten.

  ‘If I tell you, sir, that I have the most profound respect for Lady Porteous, I think you will understand what I mean. It would be unwise for me to say more. I hope that she will retain my services as her secretary, and allow me to continue living here at Queen Adelaide Gate.’

  Lord Avoncourt rose from the window seat. He glanced around the book-lined study for the second time.

  ‘This room suits you admirably, Lardner. You should resume your legal studies, and qualify as a solicitor. It’s a time for new beginnings, and a fully qualified legal secretary would be invaluable to Lady Porteous in the coming years.’

  ‘That would be a wonderful prospect, sir. Unfortunately, the cost—’

  ‘Oh, stuff and nonsense, man! Cost would be my affair. Put the thing in train as soon as possible. Now I must go upstairs to Lady Porteous.’

  When Lord Avoncourt stepped out of the study he found a darkly elegant young lady waiting for him. Her face was pale and her eyes red-rimmed, but the nobleman saw and approved of her calm and brave deportment.

  ‘Diana! How are you, my dear girl? I thought you were staying with a friend.’

  ‘I was, Rupert. But Mama needs me here. She’s content to know that I’m about the house.’

  Baby darted her brother-in-law a knowing glance. Her words, when she spoke, seemed ingenuously innocent.

 
; ‘Papa has become indisposed, and we must all bear up, for his sake. Mama is upstairs, pretending to herself that she can recapture the past by looking at photographs. But in fact, she’s waiting for something. Or somebody. I rather think, Rupert, that she’s waiting for you.’

  Adelaide Porteous watched her noble son-in-law watching her, from his point of vantage near the window of her private sitting-room. Rupert, Earl of Avoncourt seemed to be reading her most secret mind as he stood stock still, his bright, mesmeric eyes fixed on her. What had he read in her pale, haunted face? He had always had the knack of divining what she thought and felt. He was very like Baby in that respect. Finally, he spoke. Evidently, he had read all that he needed to know.

  ‘In the normal course of things, I should be in Cannes. It’s exceedingly pleasant there in the villa at the moment, and it’s been a devilish inconvenience to drag myself back across France to be here. But I know you, Mother-in-law. None better. Sir William Porteous has become indisposed—’

  ‘He is mad! Poor, dear William! If only I had striven to understand him more—’

  ‘Sir William Porteous, madam, has become indisposed. I beg you not to interrupt me. He has committed terrible crimes, and must atone for them by permanent incarceration in a lunatic asylum. You knew nothing of those crimes. So why have you chosen to shut yourself up here, with those dusty albums for company?’

  ‘Rupert – there are things that I, too, must make atonement for—’