The Advocate's Wife Read online

  ‘Where are you going, man? For God’s sake, I haven’t finished talking yet! Sit down, will you? I knew you’d start your impish tricks…. There’s a police surgeon at Bishop’s Longhurst. His name’s Dr Oake. Well, he’s up in London this week on business, and he’s very kindly agreed to come and talk to us today. He arranged that, apparently, with Superintendent Parker. You’re off duty this afternoon, I think? Yes, I thought so. See him, will you? He couldn’t be particular as to the time of his visit, so if you’re not here when he comes, I’ll send him after you. Find out what you need to know from this Dr Oake, and then make your arrangements accordingly. That’s all, I think, Box. Good morning.’

  Superintendent Mackharness turned to the contents of his neat desk. He had already picked up a steel pen and dipped it into an inkwell when Box asked a question.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘have you considered my list of choices for sergeant? It’s three months now since I had a regular sergeant with me.’

  A pair of dark, steely eyes regarded him warily.

  ‘I have considered your list, Box. You made some very sensible choices, I must admit. In the normal way of things, of course, you’d have the principal say in choosing your sergeant. However, I have received a special request from the Chief Constable of Surrey to accept a replacement nominated by him. I have agreed to his request, and have therefore had to set your list aside. The new man will be with us any day, now.’

  ‘Am I to be told this man’s name, sir?’

  ‘What? Well, of course you are. Why will you not let me finish speaking? His name is Knollys. Sergeant Jack Knollys, at present with the Croydon Constabulary. He’s thirty years old. I see no reason why you and he should not work well together.’

  There was a belligerence in Box’s voice that he strove unsuccessfully to control.

  ‘May I ask, sir, why the Chief Constable of Surrey has wished this man upon us?’

  Mackharness blushed crimson with anger. He banged his knuckles sharply on the desk in a tattoo of vexation.

  ‘No, you may not! And I take exception to that phrase, “wished upon us”. There are sufficient and cogent reasons. Don’t look at me with that brow of thunder, man! You seem to think that I do nothing up here but concoct schemes to make your life difficult. What about me? Do you think I enjoy persecuting you? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do with my time? You’re a good man, Box, but you’re too impertinent. Too truculent. You get above yourself, and it won’t do! The commissioner himself has commended the man! What do you say to that?’

  Box knew that it was time to calm down. Nothing positive would be gained from showing his resentment too blatantly.

  ‘Well, sir, I have to admit that Sir Edward Bradford’s the best commissioner we’ve had for years. Whatever his reasons for agreeing to accept this Knollys in the Metropolitan force, they’ll be sufficient, as you say, and above board. So I suppose I’ll just have to do as I’m told!’

  ‘Yes, quite so. It’s far the best course of action, Box. We’ve all got our crosses to bear, and it’s no good repining. So no more impudence, do you hear? See this Dr Oake, then go down to Essex tomorrow, or Wednesday. Clear up their little mystery for them, and then get back here!’

  2

  The Great Advocate

  ‘My Lord, gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case!’

  Sir William Porteous QC sat down. He was conscious that all eyes in the crowded courtroom remained fixed on him, as though the mesmerism of his oratory still held them under its spell. He attempted to produce a modest, self-deprecating smile, but he was not a modest man by nature. The resultant grimace, he knew, had been described long ago by his fellow benchers as ‘the Porteous leer’.

  It had been, he supposed, a minor triumph to add to his tally of successes. The secret was to defer to the judge. Never try to score points off him, but let him think that you bowed at all times to his superior wisdom. Defer to the judge, yes – but let the jurymen think that you were the thirteenth member of their band!

  Young Forster, the opposing counsel, began his closing speech for the defence, but Porteous knew that it would be his dramatic words that would be ringing still in the ears of those twelve good men and true. He half listened to Forster’s speech, but made no effort to concentrate on what the young barrister was saying.

  The Old Bailey was an exhilarating place in which to ply the lawyer’s craft! Its courts were invariably crammed with curious visitors, expecting a particularly thrilling kind of entertainment. Each court was a theatre in its own right. Its permanent repertory company consisted of the throng of bewigged and gowned lawyers, forever posing as enemies, divided by the need to prosecute and defend, but in reality old friends and allies, engaged in hugely enjoyable battles of words and wits.

  There was an audience, too. Not the motley crew of figures in the public gallery, but the twelve good men and true who constituted the jury. One played to them, not to the gallery. Some of the jurors, clad in their sober best black, blended in with the court’s scenery of old oak panelling and cracked plaster ceilings, with the great Sword of Justice hanging above the bench, and the florid Royal coat of arms perched on the pediment above the judgment seat.

  Others brought a more secular feel to the place. These were the fellows who came there determined not to be overawed by the ranks of black and white figures in the well of the court. They were free spirits, who would dare to sport a coloured neckerchief, or pretend to glance at a newspaper during the less-interesting passages of the proceedings.

  Sir William Porteous knew his audience, and what they demanded from the players. He had contrived to catch the eye of every one of the jurors when he had delivered his concluding speech, and had crafted a telling sentence for each of them. ‘This was a miscreant who valued a man’s life at half a guinea, the price of a watch and chain’, he had told one juror, a thin-faced man, who looked as though he’d put a price in pounds, shillings and pence upon everyone and everything. ‘Poor Hungerford offered no resistance, and for that, he was done to death, for violence and slaughter understand only violence and slaughter.’ That had very much impressed the juror for whom he had designed it – a man who looked as though he might have been a Quaker.

  Each of the twelve men had received his piece of oratory gratefully, and had appropriated it to his own store of impressions. ‘Where is the spirit of righteousness and justice?’ he had asked of one tightly buttoned man in black, who might at one time have entertained an ambition to be a clergyman. When finally he had reached the far end of the jury box, where a free spirit who looked like a butcher’s assistant sat with clenched fists and a look of murderous indignation on his red face, he asked the man a question. ‘Will James Hungerford’s blood cry out for redress in vain?’ The man shook his head vigorously, and glared at the prisoner in the dock with undisguised hatred.

  Oh, yes, there was a prisoner, too, though he was never allowed to play too great a part in the proceedings. Odd, how commonplace these murderers looked when they sat between their warders in the spike-topped dock! You wouldn’t give them a second glance, under normal circumstances.

  Poor young Forster was doing his best. He’d learned already not to overdo it, not to look for virtue where none was to be found. He was talking about Albert John Davidson’s sad childhood in the slums, his mother’s death from gin, and all the rest of it. None of it would be of any avail: that ashen-faced, simian brute in the dock knew he was doomed.

  The trial moved to its inevitable conclusion. There was a masterly summing-up and charge to the jury from the Common Serjeant. The jury retired for no longer than twenty minutes. They returned to deliver the inevitable verdict of ‘Guilty’.

  The prisoner was brought to stand at the bar of the dock to listen to his sentence. His face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on the Common Serjeant.

  ‘Albert John Davidson, you have been found guilty of the murder of James Hungerford, a man universally liked and respected, and the father of five children. Throughout
this trial you have stubbornly refused to admit that you did this awful deed, and even now your motive for doing so is obscure.

  ‘Nevertheless, the prosecution has proved conclusively that you committed the crime, and a jury of your peers has found you guilty. Have you anything now to say before sentence of death is passed upon you?’

  At first Albert John Davidson simply made some inarticulate noises. Then he found his voice. It was a chilling sound, unnaturally shrill for such a big man, and seeming to come from somewhere far off.

  ‘Yes, My Lord. I confess the deed, but I will say no more. To this I was born, and to this have I come.’

  There was a murmur from the public gallery, which was quickly suppressed by the usher. Porteous looked up sharply, and drew in his breath with a little hiss. He glanced towards the door. Yes; there was Detective Inspector Box. Bless him, he’d kept his promise to come, and it was obvious from his manner that he, too, had understood the hidden meaning of the prisoner’s words.

  The Common Serjeant made no comment. He glanced briefly to his right, and the chaplain appeared on the bench.

  Sir William Porteous shaded his eyes with his left hand and sank a little further down in his seat. He did not relish this part of the proceedings, and contrived not to look as the judge placed the black cap on his wig.

  ‘You will be taken from here, to the place from whence you came

  Albert John Davidson…. What a stupid, mindless brute! Sent to steal a watch, he had destroyed an innocent life. Now, his own life was forfeit. And those words from the dock…. Inspector Box knew what they meant.

  ‘and from thence to the place of execution…’

  Many people must have wondered why he had volunteered to conduct the prosecution in this case. It was a relatively minor affair for a man of his eminence. Well, it was from a sense of duty, and a passion for justice.

  ‘… and there, you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’

  How he wished that he could stop his ears! Now it was all over. The condemned man had disappeared with his warders below the dock. It was time for all the rising and bowing, and the usual clatter and chatter as the court emptied.

  Sir William Porteous spoke briefly to his junior, and then crossed the court to where Forster, the young defence counsel, was somewhat forlornly ordering his papers.

  ‘My dear Forster, congratulations! You put up a splendid fight. Splendid!’

  The powerful, mellifluous voice filled the court. It usually filled any space in which it was vented. The young counsel’s face registered unconcealed delight.

  ‘Why, thank you, Sir William. How very kind of you!’

  ‘No, dear man, no; not kind. Just the truth. You’re going far: you’re one of the coming race. Old fogies like me will soon be taken from the scene. You’ll see.’

  Sir William, thought Forster, looked set to occupy the centre stage for a good while yet! He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with a heavy patrician face, pink and clean-shaven. Most people noticed the bright blue eyes and the large smooth chin, and the well-groomed greying hair peeping from beneath the powdered wig before being mesmerized by the famous Voice.

  Sir William kept hold of the young barrister’s arm as they moved towards the door, and continued to retain him when he threw a cordial greeting to a lithe man in a curly-brimmed hat who was standing among a knot of spectators in the gangway.

  ‘My dear Inspector Box! You managed to be here, as you promised. As you have seen, justice has been done. This is my learned friend Mr Forster, who led for the defence, as you no doubt noticed. Forster, would you mind if I had a private word with Mr Box for a moment? Don’t go away, on any account!’

  Porteous drew Inspector Box aside into an empty corner of the court. ‘Did you hear him?’ he whispered.

  ‘I did, sir. “To this I was born, and to this have I come”. And as he said it, a certain villain I know got up and left the public gallery. They’re the words that Percy Liversedge’s thugs use to signal that they’ll never squeal. Which is very interesting, sir, because Percy’s employer is—’

  ‘Hush, Box! Names! Be careful with names, especially in a place like this. But there. Once again, you and I have been pitted against the same monstrosity. I wondered about Albert John Davidson, but I didn’t actually know that he was one of Gideon Raikes’s creatures until that moment.’

  ‘Names, Sir William! Names!’ said Box, smiling. ‘This was not one of my own cases – it was a mite too open-and-shut for the Yard – but I never doubted Davidson’s guilt for a moment, and it’s been your skill here today, Sir William, that’s seen justice done for the shooting of James Hungerford.’

  The great advocate raised a pink, be-ringed hand in deprecation: it was a favourite gesture of his.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Box, my learned junior, Mr Fetlock, did most of it. I ran away from time to time to hide in my sister’s house while Fetlock did the unheroic bits. But today’s summing-up for the Crown was reserved for me, and seeing you in court was the icing on the cake.’

  The barrister and the detective bade each other farewell. Porteous and Forster watched Box as he bustled out of the court, surrounded by a little throng of reporters. Sir William’s eyes followed him with a sort of tolerant and affectionate amusement.

  ‘He’ll take those fellows with him to the Clarence Vaults in Victoria Street, and spin them a popular yarn. This wasn’t one of his cases, but they’ll want to hear his impressions. They’ll think he’s told them all. In fact, he’ll simply tell them what they want to hear. But come now, Forster, a spot of lunch with me at my club – I’ll not take no for an answer!’

  The debris of a substantial meal lay on the table, together with an assortment of glasses. Sir William sat well back in his chair, and surveyed his guest with an air of becoming gravity.

  ‘Now then, Forster,’ he said, ‘what kind of tale did that wretched fellow tell you? He confessed at the end, of course, because he’d no option to do otherwise. But surely he tried to persuade you that he wasn’t acting alone? They usually do, you know.’

  Young Forster was still savouring the heady delight of a defeat turned into victory by this unexpected invitation to lunch with the great advocate at the Carlton Club. The hospitality had been overwhelming, and he felt disinclined to leave his comfortable chair at the dining-table. He would be happy enough to answer any of Sir William Porteous’s questions.

  ‘Well, Sir William, he did tell me a story of sorts, but I think it was just a desperate lie. It was so outrageous I refused to put it up in evidence. Another glass? Well, thank you, yes, but just this one, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What story did he tell you? This was in the cells, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. He must have known the case was hopeless, but he had to protest his innocence, of course. You’ll appreciate, Sir William, that there was little I could do for my client. He was a man of appalling antecedents, and there was scarcely anything that he could tell me in mitigation. But he was stubborn in insisting that he had been hired for ten guineas to shoot Mr Hungerford, and that he was to steal the dead man’s watch. It was nonsense. Davidson was no stranger to picking pockets, and he could have done that without risking his neck.’

  ‘He could have done that, Forster. Should have done that. I’m inclined to believe that the shooting was an act of venom against a respectable man – the act of a degenerate brute with a grudge against the whole world. He may have been hired – I grant him that – but I think he was hired to rob, not to kill. Killing was his own idea.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Sir William. And then, you see, he said that the man who ultimately hired him was Mr Gideon Raikes, the insurance promoter and distinguished connoisseur. He was mad with fright by then, of course, and cried out these pathetic accusations without reason or purpose.’

  ‘Gideon Raikes? Did Davidson actually say that?’

  ‘He did. Mr Gideon Raikes is a man of considerable public standing, and a desperate slander
of that nature repeated in open court would have made Davidson’s plight even worse. So I made certain there was no mention of that slander in my defence.’

  Sir William stared at young Forster with something approaching disbelief. Could a young man fully trained in the law be so naïve? Gideon Raikes was a living disease, raging unchecked against the vulnerable body of society at large, and his power was malign and relentless. To Raikes, murder was a mere commonplace.

  ‘My dear young man,’ said Sir William, ‘here’s a word of advice. Cultivate the police. Get to know them. Talk to them. They may be a rough lot, but they know things. To do well in our profession, you’ve got to rub shoulders not only with the rogues and robbers, but with their sworn opponents, the police. The police will tell you some surprising facts about Mr Gideon Raikes, if you let them.’

  Sir William sipped his claret thoughtfully, then delicately dabbed his lips with his napkin.

  ‘And in that context, Forster, Inspector Box is a man worth cultivating. He knows all about your distinguished connoisseur, who, at this very moment, is being lauded to the skies by the Duke of Connaught at the National Gallery. But come, that’s no longer any business of ours: Davidson did the murder, and Davidson will hang.’

  Sir William’s eyes shifted their gaze from the young advocate and fixed themselves for a few moments on the tablecloth. Forster saw a frown pucker Sir William’s brow.

  Finally the great barrister seemed to notice his companion again. He gave him an encouraging smile.

  ‘There, now, I’ve told you something you didn’t know. But don’t let it upset you. You did splendidly today. A worthy opponent in the making. So do as I say, and cultivate the police. It’ll pay you dividends.’

  When Sir William finally left the Carlton Club, he summoned a cab, and told the driver to take him to 14, Bideford Lane, Montague Place. The cabbie turned the horse’s head, and made off at a brisk trot towards Marylebone.