The London train stood at the buffers in the station at Bishop’s Longhurst. In a compartment near the engine, Inspector Box sat looking out of the window at Sergeant Bickerstaffe. The elderly sergeant seemed hot and embarrassed.
‘I’ve not been much use to you this last week, Mr Box. Joe and me had searched all that stretch of heath, right up to the canal, but it was you who came down a week Tuesday gone, and found those clothes hidden on the edge of the mere. And now you tell me that Amelia Garbutt had walked across from Bardley to Heath House on the night she was murdered. Nobody round here heard of anything like that.’
Why, thought Box, should this honest old rustic sergeant try to justify himself like this? What would he have made of Box’s own shortcomings – his blundering into Liam Doyle’s appalling trap, for instance? Everyone made mistakes …
‘Detectives have different ways of going about things, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘You don’t have to cope with cases like this every day. That’s why you called in Scotland Yard! But there is something I want you to do for me, Sergeant Bickerstaffe. On the evening that Amelia Garbutt was murdered Lady Hardington held a fancy birthday reception for various notables. There were forty-two guests, lanterns strung in the grounds, an orchestra – not the kind of thing to go unnoticed in rural spots like High Barrow and Sleadon—’
Sergeant Bickerstaffe looked uncomfortable again.
‘I never associated the woman in the canal with the folk at Heath House, Mr Box. But now we know the way of it all – yes, of course, I remember the reception. In fact, I’d posted the constable from Sleadon to be present at the house for the evening. Bert Gordon.’
‘There you are, you see? You’ve done more than you give yourself credit for. So far it’s been all landscape, but now you’re painting in the figures. Bert Gordon, the constable at Sleadon. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. See Bert. Ask him whether he saw a woman in a green silk dress in the grounds of Heath House, or on the surrounding roads. You know what to do. Then weave the web.’
‘Weave the web, sir?’
‘Yes. Get Bert to go back to Sleadon and ask the folk there. Did you see a woman in a green silk dress? Did you see anybody with her? Who was it? Then, you see, the Sleadon folk will start asking the High Barrow folk, and they’ll maybe go further afield. Maybe Bert will have the sense to mention money at some stage, which people round about will turn into talk of a reward. And then, Sergeant, someone may pop up with a story. Someone who saw something, and has kept it to himself in case it comes in handy. Or kept it to herself likewise. Weave the web.’
‘I’ll get on to it right away, Inspector. Anything I hear I’ll telegraph right through to you. You’ve been very decent to Joe and me, sir. I’ve learnt a lot of lessons from your visits.’
‘Stand clear!’ shouted a porter. The train juddered into motion and then began to move gently out of the station. Box glanced back at the elderly uniformed sergeant, who saluted him. He raised his hat in acknowledgement, then pulled up the compartment window.
So Gideon Raikes had come down this way, and had been spotted by Sir William Porteous lurking in a railway carriage. Perhaps, after all, Mr Raikes was not as clever as he thought. It was always some foolish mistake of that kind that tripped up these villains. It was time to approach the problem of Gideon Raikes from a different direction, time to make a foray into the obscure details of his dark past.
*
‘It was a long time ago, Inspector Box. More years ago than I care to remember.’
Box tried to guess the age of the man sitting opposite him at a table in the window of Morton’s Cocoa Rooms. He was probably sixty, but he looked older than that. His sparse white hair was carefully combed across his pink scalp. His face betrayed the half-healed ravages of a reformed alcoholic.
‘I know it was a long time ago, Mr Bentinck,’ said Box, ‘but the man who told me about you said that you’d always had a keen memory. He said you were “a quiet observer of the human condition”.’
The man called Bentinck smiled, and the smile subtly altered Box’s perception of him. At first meeting that morning, he had seen a shabby, defeated sort of person, someone who was desperately trying to preserve the last shreds of respectability. Now, Box saw a man who was neatly and carefully dressed, a man who was emerging into the light after years of enslavement to drink.
‘You’ve been talking to Dr Spencer,’ said Bentinck. ‘That’s the kind of thing he says. He has a literary turn of phrase, as the saying goes. He told me that he’s one of your police surgeons, as well as being physician to Holy Cross Almshouses, who’ve allowed me out for the day, to partake of cocoa and buns with you in Oxford Street. What do you want to know?’
‘I want to hear you talk about your time as a ledger-clerk at Gray’s Inn. And it would help, Mr Bentinck, if you could allow your thoughts to roam in the vicinity of Mr Gideon Raikes—’
Box suddenly found himself being scrutinized by a pair of very clear and intelligent blue eyes over the rim of a thick white cocoa mug.
‘Oh, yes? Roam in the direction of Gideon Raikes? Evidently Dr Spencer is another gossip, retailing my own indiscretions to you! I went to Gray’s Inn, Mr Box, forty-two years ago, in 1850. I was only a young fellow then, and came as fourth clerk on the battels ledgers. I stayed there for the rest of my working life.’
The old clerk put down his mug, and bit appreciatively into a sticky bun.
‘I can’t tell you offhand the exact year Mr Gideon Raikes joined us, but I rather think it was 1862. That was a good year for all the Inns. Mr Raikes kept terms there for the customary three years, and then he was called to the bar.’
‘Had he been an able student while at Gray’s Inn?’
‘Oh, yes, Inspector. Very able indeed. He had an acute mind, and a genuine aptitude for the law. But… These QCs, or “silks”, can’t accept business direct from a layman: they have to be instructed by solicitors. There are very strict standards of conduct and etiquette required in the legal profession—’
‘And Mr Raikes wasn’t, perhaps, as strict as he should have been?’
‘Very elegantly put, Mr Box. You should have gone in for the law – well, you did, of course, but not in the way I meant. Yes, Mr Raikes wasn’t as strict as he should have been. When he left the Inn, he went to Foxley’s, in Carter Lane, and was set to do very well. He was starting to move in society, and there was talk of an understanding of some sort between him and Miss Adelaide Astley, who was supposed to be doing the season at that time, though nothing ever came of that.’
‘Miss Astley?’
‘Yes. She eventually married William Porteous. You look surprised, Inspector, but you must understand that these folk were all of an age, and the men were all starting out in the same profession. Lady Porteous, as she is now, is making a considerable name for herself as a social reformer. The urban villages project, you know. All honour to her! But there, I’m digressing. Let me finish telling you about Gideon Raikes.
‘In 1867, Inspector, Raikes accepted a bribe from a defendant to suppress evidence. A very grave and fatal breach of trust, you see. I don’t know why he did it.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Well, complaints were lodged against him at the Inn, and he was immediately disbarred. His only appeal would have been to the Lord Chancellor, and to the judges in their capacity as visitors to the society. He wisely made no attempt at an appeal, and went abroad. To Hamburg, I think, or maybe it was Antwerp. Wherever it was, he emerged from exile years later as a very successful businessman.’
‘If I were to mention the name “Henry Colbourne”,’ said Box, ‘would that ring any bells with you?’
‘Colbourne? Dear me, Inspector, we are raking up a lot of old history, aren’t we? Yes, I remember Henry Colbourne well enough. We were all much of an age then, you know. In our twenties, and set to put the world to rights. You’ll understand, of course, that there was a great gulf of rank and station separating us. Mr Raikes and Mr Colbourne were gentlemen benchers, whereas I was just a clerk in the offices. But youth calls to youth, as they say, and we would speak pleasantly enough to each other. Mr Henry Colbourne was a young man of righteous habits, very well regarded. He was murdered, you know. Stabbed to the heart in a graveyard, I seem to remember. Dreadful!’
The word seemed more of a conventional piety than an expression of genuine feeling. It prompted Box to ask a question.
‘Did you like him, Mr Bentinck? Henry Colbourne, I mean.’
‘Well, I didn’t exactly like him. I liked Mr Raikes, and was very sorry that he turned out a wrong ’un. He was a wild lad, you know, but we all liked him. Mr Henry Colbourne was too priggish for my liking. Too old for his years. It doesn’t do. I remember—’
The elderly clerk stopped abruptly, and made a show of drinking the cold dregs of his cocoa.
‘What is it that you remember, Mr Bentinck? I can’t tell you what this is all about, but these memories of yours are of pressing interest to me.’
‘I don’t want to be seen as a gossip, Inspector. I used to blab too much when I was in thrall to drink, before Dr Spencer weaned me off it, and back towards something resembling a worthwhile life. But I’ll tell you what it was that suddenly came to mind.
‘At the back of the hall at Gray’s Inn, there’s a little office, not much bigger than a cupboard, where some of the kitchen ledgers are kept. It contains a single small window, which gives on to a blind yard. Well, I was working in there one cold autumn evening in 1867, and I overheard Mr Raikes and Mr Colbourne talking together beneath the window. They’d both left the Inn by then, but they’d returned for a dinner. I can hear their words now. They’d been talking together in the quadrangle, and I suppose Raikes had drawn Colbourne aside.’
‘What did they say?’
‘It was Mr Raikes I heard first. “I earnestly beg you to reconsider, Colbourne”, he said. “Much more hinges on this than you can possibly realize”. And then Mr Colbourne, in that high, prim-and-proper voice of his, replied: “There can be no question of concealment or compromise, Raikes”. They moved off, then. I often wonder what they were talking about. Many things seem to be matters of life and death when you’re in your twenties. You get more philosophical with advancing years. But that was typical of Colbourne. “No concealment”. “No compromise”. Anyway, poor Henry Colbourne was murdered soon after that. Stabbed to the heart, so I’ve heard.’
‘Mr Bentinck,’ said Box, rising from the table, ‘you’re a shining ornament, if I may say so. Your recollections have set me on the right path, and I’ll be starting out along it sooner rather than later. And Henry Colbourne wasn’t stabbed in a graveyard: he was garrotted – strangled from behind, with a silk scarf – on All Souls’ Eve, 1867, on the flags near St James’s Church, Garlickhythe.’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Hungerford,’ said Box. ‘That chair near the fire is very comfortable.’
Box had been back at King James’s Rents for half an hour when the fair-haired widow of James Hungerford had been shown in to the office by PC Kenwright. She wore widow’s weeds, but drew back her veil as she sat down. Mrs Hungerford’s pale face looked sad and drawn. Box suspected that she was of delicate constitution. She sat twisting her gloved fingers nervously.
‘In what way can I help you, ma’am? You said in your note that Sir William Porteous had mentioned me to you—’
‘Yes, Mr Box. You see, before ever that man was tried for my husband’s murder, Sir William Porteous visited me. He needed to ask many questions about James – my husband, you know – and from time to time he would put me at ease by describing some of his cases, and some of the puzzles thrown up by them. He mentioned you on a number of occasions….’
Mrs Hungerford’s voice trailed off into uncertainty and embarrassment. She took a deep breath, and made a fresh start.
‘Inspector, I have read of the monstrous attempt upon Sir William’s life. We are living in terrible times! One feels so helpless, so powerless to do anything … I’ve come today, because I want to share a little secret with someone in authority. It may be of no consequence, but I feel it must be told.’
‘And what is this secret, Mrs Hungerford? Take your time, ma’am, I’m all attention.’
Mrs Hungerford’s eyes seemed to look beyond the room into the past. She sat in silence for a while, collecting her thoughts before she spoke.
‘This whole tragedy – the tragedy of my husband’s murder – began with a watch, and the secret I want to share with you centres upon that watch.’
‘You are talking about your husband’s watch, the one that Albert John Davidson attempted to steal?’
‘Yes, but it was not really my husband’s watch. He found it, Mr Box. Please listen carefully to what I have to say. I’m not very good at describing things. James found that watch. He was only a young boy at the time – fifteen, I believe he was. He often told me the story. He had gone for a walk in Hyde Park. It was in the autumn of 1867. Just as he came to the Serpentine, he saw a gentleman standing on the path. This gentleman took the watch out of his pocket and dropped it into the water.’
‘You mean, it slipped from his hand?’
‘No, no! Please listen to what I’m saying. Every time I tell this tale to someone they say what you’ve just said. Perhaps I can’t find the right words … This man deliberately dropped the watch into the water, and began to walk away. James waded in and fetched the watch out. He fancied that the man turned round when he heard him splashing in the water. James went home and told his father what had happened. His father was always a practical man. “Well, James,” he said, “if the gentleman threw it away, then he didn’t want it. So, finders keepers”. The watch was none the worse for its dip in the Serpentine, and my husband kept it until his death.’
Mrs Hungerford stopped speaking, and looked expectantly at Box. He listened to the hissing of the gas, and to the muffled bang of a door somewhere beyond the office wall. What did this unfortunate lady want him to say? And as a matter of detail, James Hungerford had evidently retrieved the watch, which was not quite the same thing as having found it.
‘An interesting and unusual story, Mrs Hungerford. I’ll make a written record of it—’
‘That’s only the first part of the story, Inspector. Please, please, let me finish. One day, some two weeks before his death, my husband had been to Oxford Street on business, and stopped for luncheon in a restaurant there. He looked across the restaurant and saw a man who he was convinced was the original owner of the watch – the man who had dropped it in the Serpentine.’
‘And what did he do? Your husband, I mean?’
‘He left his seat, and crossed the room to where this man was sitting alone, having a meal. He brought out the watch and showed it to him. The man denied that it had ever been his watch. My husband was rather embarrassed, and returned to his seat.’
‘Did your husband tell you who the man was?’
‘Well, no, Inspector, because of course he didn’t know who he was! He felt sure he was the man by the Serpentine, but he didn’t know his name, or who he was. After all, it was twenty-five years ago that he had seen him, and if the man chose to deny the fact, there was nothing much that James could say. But it was curious, for all that.’
Box was silent for so long after Mrs Hungerford had finished her story that she wondered whether he had been listening to her at all. She made a little nervous sound, and Box woke from his reverie.
‘What? Yes, Mrs Hungerford, very curious, as you say. Did you mention this incident to Sir William Porteous?’
‘Well, no, Mr Box. It had nothing to do with my husband’s murder. But since this terrible attempt on Sir William’s life, following so soon after his successful prosecution of the man who tried to steal my husband’s watch, I’ve wondered … You may think I’m just a foolish woman, Inspector, but this incident by the Serpentine is something unknown to the authorities, and I feel much relieved now that I’ve told you about it.’
‘I’m much obliged to you, Mrs Hungerford,’ said Box. ‘I think you’ve told me something of great value, though I’m not at liberty to tell you more. I remember seeing that watch, briefly, when it was shown to the jury at the trial. I expect you’ll keep it as a memento of your husband.’
Mrs Hungerford smiled rather uncertainly.
‘As a matter of fact, I gave it to Sir William Porteous, Inspector. He had acted against that wicked man for no fee, and had helped me financially at a very difficult time. It was the very least I could do to repay that good, kind man.’
‘Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, ‘I want you to listen while I propound a theory: a theory about Gideon Raikes. Interrupt me if you think I’m going wrong. Add anything you think relevant.’
It was a quiet moment at King James’s Rents. Although they could both hear the muffled sounds of activity through the wall in the hive of inner offices, they knew that they would be left in peace for at least half an hour.
‘Once upon a time, Sergeant Knollys, there was a promising young lawyer called Gideon Raikes. He was trained to the law at Gray’s Inn, and joined the old legal practice of Foxley and Forwood of Carter Lane, just beyond St Paul’s Churchyard. Working in the same practice was another young man called Henry Colbourne. All this was in 1867.
‘All went well, until Raikes blotted his copy book by accepting a bribe from a client. Why did he do that? We don’t know. It seemed, though, that Henry Colbourne could have helped Raikes, but refused. So what did Raikes do? Now this bit’s pure supposition, and is for your ears alone: Raikes is unable to cover up his defalcation – I’m a bit uncertain here – and is ruined. He determines to seek revenge on Colbourne, who seems to have been an insufferable prig.’
‘So what did he do, sir?’
‘On the night of November 1, 1867, Raikes contrived to waylay Colbourne as he was walking up Garlick Hill. He garrotted him with a scarf, and then stole his watch, to make it look like a common theft—’
‘How do you know that this Colbourne was walking up Garlick Hill? That would bring him up from Upper Thames Street. What was he doing down there? Or was he walking down Garlick Hill, from the Cannon Street end? You did say I could interrupt, sir.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. And it’s a very good point, Sergeant. What was he doing in that part of London, anyway? But let me finish my tale for the time being. Next day, or some other time soon after the event, Raikes goes to Hyde Park and drops the watch into the Serpentine.’
‘How on earth do you know that, sir?’
‘Because, Sergeant, James Hungerford’s widow came here, and told me. When Raikes drops the watch in the Serpentine, he’s observed doing so by a boy, James Hungerford. Raikes never forgets the boy’s face. After that he goes abroad.
‘Years later, Gideon Raikes returns to England, a rich and successful insurance promoter. He builds up a dangerous empire of crime and corruption, and the events of 1867 begin to recede.’
Box paused to light one of his thin cigars. He sat for a moment, watching the flames leaping in the office grate.
‘Then, Sergeant, something happened. One day, in Oxford Street, Gideon Raikes was taking lunch in a restaurant. Seated in the same restaurant was James Hungerford, who recognized Raikes as the man who had dropped a perfectly good watch into the Serpentine twenty-five years previously. Hungerford obviously had a good memory for faces. He was wearing the watch in question, and approached Raikes, light-heartedly recalling the curious circumstance of the watch being dropped into the river.’
‘Did Mrs Hungerford tell you that bit, too? About recalling the curious circumstance?’
‘Yes, Sergeant, she did. Gideon Raikes, of course, denies all knowledge of the matter. James Hungerford, embarrassed, retires in confusion. When he leaves the restaurant Raikes follows him, or has him followed – there’s always some of his riffraff lurking near him. He puts Percy the Pug on to the matter, and Percy rakes up Albert John Davidson. That, of course, means the end of poor Hungerford. Davidson is supposed to steal the watch, but kills his victim out of devilry. After that, Raikes abandons the watch. It’s not worth taking any more risks on that account.’
‘Where’s that watch now, sir? Has the widow got it?’
‘No. She presented it to Sir William Porteous. That was a kind gesture, in my estimation. Now, here’s the clever bit, Sergeant. Henry Colbourne didn’t exist in a vacuum. He must have had relatives, and it won’t be difficult to trace them, if we need to. He must also have had friends, or acquaintances, and among these friends and acquaintances was a young lady – she’d have been twenty-seven at the time – a young lady called Amelia Garbutt. She knew about the watch. She knew—’
Box drew on his cigar, and continued to look at the fire. He delicately removed a piece of tobacco from his lower lip. Sergeant Knollys, who had been leafing through a note book lying among the pile of paper on the table, looked up, and smiled.
‘You said this was going to be the clever bit, sir!’
‘Yes. And it will be the clever bit, once I’ve worked it out! Amelia Garbutt was engaged in a spot of discreet blackmail, Sergeant Knollys, and the object of her attentions was Gideon Raikes. In some way or other she was connected to Henry Colbourne, and she was blackmailing Raikes because of something she knew.’
‘Or something she had?’
‘Had? Yes, that’s a thought, Sergeant. Well done! Maybe it was a document, a statement, something that Colbourne may have written and sent off to a relative. I wonder … Do you remember Mrs Stockmayer telling us that Amelia Garbutt had sold up the effects of an uncle who had died? Maybe it was that. Maybe there was something in the uncle’s effects that was just asking to be used for blackmail.’
‘Mrs Stockmayer told us that Garbutt’s uncle had lived in Garlick Hill, sir. It’s an interesting thought, that.’
‘It is, and we’ll have a closer look at that tumbledown old street very soon. But let me finish my theory. When Amelia Garbutt moves to Essex, she writes to Gideon Raikes, and tells him that she knows something to his grave disadvantage, and would he care to do something practical about it? Gideon Raikes was seen by Sir William Porteous at Bishop’s Longhurst railway station. Presumably Garbutt had summoned him down there for a discreet meeting at the diplomatic reception at Heath House.’
‘Was Raikes on the guest list, sir?’
‘No. It may have been extreme discretion on her part, Sergeant. A neutral venue, compromising neither of them. An exchange of items in a lamp-lit garden crowded with people, and accessible from the public road – something like that. She gives him the document, whatever it was, and he pays her with … He has promised to give her a diamond necklace in return for the document. Sir William Porteous thinks he lost that necklace, but I believe that Gideon Raikes arranged for it to be stolen from Queen Adelaide Gate, so that it could be used to incriminate Sir William by leaving it on Amelia Garbutt’s body. Clever; but not clever enough! As Mrs Stockmayer reminded us, Sergeant, people’s valuables are stolen from them, not put on their bodies after their death!’
Box threw the stub of his cigar into the fire, and turned to look at Knollys.
‘I can imagine the scene. “A satisfactory conclusion to our business, Miss Garbutt. Shall we take a walk through the grounds? Such a pleasant night!” Off they go through the garden, away from the coloured lights and the throng of guests, into the dark trees. He is standing behind her. He brings a silk scarf from his pocket, and in moments he has garrotted her. He places the necklace around her neck, drags her out through the garden wicket gate and up to the canal, where he consigns her to the water. Then he makes good his escape, and no one knows anything about the matter until the woman in the green silk dress is seen floating down to Bardley in the moonlight.’
Knollys was silent for a moment. He had been impressed by Box’s graphic description of Amelia Garbutt’s murder. Then he stirred in his seat, and looked at Box.
‘I’ll make a few points if I may, sir. There needs to be a lot of checking. We need to visit that law practice you mentioned – Foxley and Forwood – to see what they know about Raikes’s time there. We need to find out why Raikes accepted a bribe in the first place. What did he need the money for? What had he done wrong?
‘And then, sir, coming back to the present, we need to find that restaurant in Oxford Street, and establish who was dining there that day. Waiters tend to know their regulars and to notice strangers. Show them some of your photographs of Raikes, show them a photograph of James Hungerford – is this all right, sir?’
Knollys suddenly realized that he was lecturing his own superior officer. He blushed, but Box held up his hand as though to stop the blush in its tracks.
‘It’s very much “all right”. Go on. This is what I want to hear.’
‘Your story becomes very strong, sir, when you start to talk about Percy the Pug, Davidson and poor James Hungerford. That all fits in well. But we’ll need much more work done on the links – if any – between Colbourne and Garbutt before we can get a complete picture of the two garrottings. Also, if I’m right about a document of some sort, we need to look more closely at Miss Garbutt’s previous situations and homes. There’s a lot to be done there.’
Inspector Box stood up. He eyed his new sergeant with considerable respect. Here was a man who knew how to apply the brakes to a runaway vehicle. And – yes Knollys didn’t mind his habit of boasting. In fact, he seemed to like it!
Box began to scramble into his topcoat. When he spoke, his voice once more held all the excitement of the chase.
‘We’ll do all that, Sergeant Knollys. We’ll hem Raikes in with water-tight evidence. In the meantime, are you game to pay a call on that scented and celebrated connoisseur? I took the liberty of sending him a little note this morning, telling him that I’d call to ask him a few questions. No obligation on his part, of course, to answer any of them. But it would make a good impression if he would.’
‘Questions about Henry Colbourne, sir?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. Raikes, of course, will think I’ve called about Sir William Porteous. When he finds I’ve come to rake up an old, forgotten murder, he’ll be rattled enough, I hope, to give himself away. I tell you, Sergeant Knollys, we’ve got him, now!’