‘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 Scotland 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.
He must listen to what old Mr Forwood was telling him.
‘Gambling, of course, was rife in those days. I think it was worse then than now. They all gambled – it was the thing to do, apparently. Raikes and Porteous both frequented gaming-clubs. They went to a place in Paulet Street run by a man called Carex. He was a well-known corrupter of youth, and you’ll have him on record at Scotland Yard, I expect. He took his own life in the end, so they say. Foolish boys! That’s what ruined Gideon Raikes, He accepted a bribe from a witness to pay his gambling debts.’
The old gentleman’s reminiscences continued. Box’s attention wandered again. He remembered something that Raikes had said to him during his visit to Grosvenor Square. ‘It is quite simple, Mr Box. You are probably aware of the follies of my early years. I accepted a bribe from a witness. There were two of us in quite desperate situations over gambling debts….’
Two of us … So the other one had been Porteous. Had Colbourne found him out as well? Raikes had turned to corruption as a solution: how had Porteous coped with his particular dilemma? Mr Forwood was speaking again.
‘Oh, Mr Raikes was very assiduous, and all that. He was a clever young man, and would have made an admirable lawyer. But Mr Porteous was dedicated! You could see that, young as he was. He felt that the criminal bar was a vocation – a mission, if you like. He said to me once: “We’re an army, an untiring protection of the people of this country against the felon and the destroyers in society. Our fight is unending, a crusade. I can think of no more noble calling”. He meant it, too! I’ve never forgotten those words, and you can see what a great advocate he has become. They tell me that he will recover from this dastardly attempt upon his life. I don’t know whether that’s true?’
‘It’s true enough, sir. Sir William Porteous is very much on the mend, as they say. But I’d like to take your mind back to the past again, sir, if I may.’
It was time, Box realized, to direct the old gentleman’s memory into another channel by the use of a statement rather than a question.
‘Mr Henry Colbourne was murdered on the first of November, 1867, on the pavement near the church of St James’s, Garlickhythe. He was garrotted – strangled from behind with a scarf.’
‘Yes, indeed, Inspector. Poor Colbourne! He was only twenty-seven. Or twenty-six. That evening, he stayed late with me here in the office, writing letters. We had a great deal to do that month, I recall. That was his stool, over there, by the cabinet-clock. He used to suck the end of the quill, you know, and then stab the point in the inkwell. Dear me! How clearly I see it all! I often used to think of that night, you see, because it was the very night that he was killed. I’ve never really forgotten it, though time is a great healer.’
‘So you and he sat here that evening, writing letters?’
‘Yes, Inspector. Letters to do with our clients, you know. I was sitting where you see me sitting now. Colbourne and I had both finished writing by ten o’clock. We gathered all the sealed and stamped letters together, and walked up to the General Post Office in St Martin’s-le-Grand.’
The old lawyer ruefully massaged his thigh.
‘I can’t walk now. Not without help, at any rate. But I was a good walker in those days. So Colbourne and I made our way through St Paul’s Churchyard with the letters, talking about our clients, and what we were going to do the next day. And that very night, Mr Box, he was murdered!’
‘How did Mr Porteous react? To the murder, I mean?’
‘He was very shocked and upset. He was physically sick when the constables called to tell us the news. It was the very next day that he made those remarks about the practice of law being a moral crusade. He worked so very hard from that time on. He very soon outgrew us, Mr Box. We are still immensely proud of having bred him in these chambers!’
The door creaked open and a young clerk ventured into the shady room. ‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘Mr Egerton-Warburton has arrived from Cheshire.’ The old gentleman stirred in his chair and pulled some papers across the table.
‘Can I dismiss you now, Mr Box? It’s wills and deeds now for the rest of the morning.’
‘My dear Lardner,’ said Sir William Porteous, ‘one day, no doubt, I’ll be able to thank you properly for all that you’ve done during this crisis – done for Lady Porteous, I mean. She’s been telling me how much she has come to rely upon you.’
Lardner had at last been permitted to visit his employer in a tiny private room allotted to him in University College Hospital. It had been obvious immediately to the secretary that Sir William had made a remarkable recovery from his physical injuries. He had left his hospital bed, and now walked warily with a stick. There were calipers on his right leg.
Lardner blushed with pleasure at his employer’s words. A swift glance at Sir William’s smiling face told him that Lady Porteous had revealed nothing to her husband of the sinister visit of Gideon Raikes to Queen Adelaide Gate.
‘Lady Porteous is too good, sir. And is it really true that you’ll be leaving the hospital?’
‘Yes, indeed, Lardner. The medical authorities have decided that I can be safely moved from here to a nursing home.’ His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘About time, too! Matron’s a dear soul at heart, but a regular tartar into the bargain! Old Trevor’s downstairs, arguing the merits of various suitable establishments with Sir Arthur Carew-Field. It was really most generous of Her Majesty to interest the court physician in my case. Most gracious and kindly.’
‘Carew-Field?’
‘Yes, Lardner. A very affable, smooth kind of man. He has to be like that, I suppose. Dr Trevor favours Malvern as the most appropriate place for my convalescence – he sent me there five years ago, as you’ll remember, after that bout of pleurisy. Sir Arthur Carew-Field, however, urges the advantages of Chelford Grange, which, apparently, is a sanatorium “nestling among the pine woods near Pinner, in Middlesex” – his words, not mine, I hasten to add! I leave the choice entirely to them. Anywhere will do, as long as I can get away from Matron!’
Sir William’s manner was encouragingly ebullient, but Lardner wondered how fully he had survived the attempt on his life. His round, patrician face was pale and drawn, and his eyes betrayed some kind of lingering anxiety – or was it fear? Nevertheless, it was immensely encouraging to hear Sir William talk as he did. In a year, perhaps, he would be fit once again for the fray.
‘Well, sir,’ said Lardner, ‘it’s always been my privilege to be of service to you: Soon, I hope, I can play my part in completing your mission – the ultimate destruction of Gideon Raikes.’
Porteous was startled at the vehemence of Lardner’s tone, but he thoroughly applauded the sentiment. The secretary’s words seemed to lend him extra strength.
‘Well done, Lardner! So Raikes has been tinkering with my accounts, has he? Well, we’ll have to pay him out for that! Yes, I believe that Providence has spared me to fulfil the task of destroying Gideon Raikes, though it’s going to be a year before I can stride into court again. Providence has always blessed my crusade against crime and vice, and has spared me to continue the fight. A year’s recuperation in the country, Lardner, and then I shall rush back into the thick of the fray!’
‘It’s quite impossible,’ said Lardner, angrily, ‘to plumb the depths of Gideon Raikes’s evil mind. How could a man even contemplate such a murderous attack on an unarmed and unsuspecting victim?’
Sir William’s gaze shifted from Lardner to a dimension beyond the hospital room.
‘Contemplate such an attack? Oh, I’d find that quite an easy thing to do, Lardner. I’ve mentioned this matter to you before. Can you not imagine a man who sees a broad highway stretching before him – a royal road to destiny, with the fierce light of Heaven beating down upon it? And then, an obstacle appears to block the path. Ugly, dark, an affront to the light. Insupportable! That obstacle must be removed, Lardner, destroyed, and the royal road left open, as Fate ordained! Be it man or woman, creed or institution, if it blocks the way, then it must be swept aside—’
Sir William stood transfixed for a while, and then his eyes suddenly focused once again on Lardner. The flow of words ceased. He looked so comically crestfallen that the secretary smiled in spite of himself. But smile or not, he could nor banish a feeling of disquiet. Sir William’s recovery was by no means complete yet. The great advocate glanced sheepishly at Lardner, and attempted a wry smile.
‘There, I’m talking nonsense! But that’s how you must understand Gideon Raikes. Enough of him! Lady Porteous, now – do you think that something is amiss with her? I suspect that she’s trying to hide something, some tension or trouble. What do you think?’
Lardner’s mind flew back to the evening he had spent with Sergeant Knollys. It had been a pleasant break in his daily routine, but it had been dangerous, too. Although Knollys had seen Lady Porteous only briefly that evening, he had immediately sensed that something was wrong behind her controlled exterior. Lardner now gave his employer the same answer as he had given to Knollys.
‘Lady Porteous has been devastated by the attempt on your life, Sir William. She displays admirable control, as one would expect from a lady of her quality, but I venture to say that she will never be quite the same again. She has been profoundly shocked, and the signs show through.’
‘You may be right, Lardner. Well, we shall see. I must concentrate on getting better. Goodbye for the moment. One day, I will contrive a way to thank you more adequately for your kindness and devotion to my wife and me!’
Dr Trevor approved of Chelford Grange. It was a pleasant, airy place, suitably opulent without being vulgar. It lay in its own considerable grounds, seemingly enclosed on all sides to the horizon in a fragrant forest of pine. A special train had been hired from the London and North Western Railway Company, and Sir William, supported by doctors, nurses, and a bevy of servants, had departed from Euston amid much fuss and flurry.
Carew-Field, thought Trevor, had been right in his choice. Once the convalescent had been settled in, the party could return very conveniently to London. For the moment, though, he and Carew-Field had matters medical to discuss. They had been left discreetly alone in the registrar’s office while Sir William was installed in his suite on the first floor.
‘It’ll do no harm, Sir Arthur,’ said Dr Trevor, as soon as the office door was closed, ‘to let Porteous continue to think that it was the Queen who interested you in his case. He doesn’t know that you’re a specialist in mental states.’
Trevor noted that the eminent court physician had chosen to come down to Chelford Grange in country tweeds. It was, he thought wryly, the kind of thing that Sir Arthur Carew-Field would do to proclaim his renown to the world. For himself, he was content to wear sober but smart black on all professional occasions.
‘And you had intended to call upon my services, Trevor?’
‘Yes. I’d been considering Porteous’s case for over a year. At first, I thought his curious lapses were due to irascibility resulting from the burden of his work—’
‘No, Trevor, it was not that. I encouraged him to talk to me while he was at Gower Street, and very soon he was saying the same things to me as he had said to you. I simply had to mention the idea of opposition to his wishes, or recall the name of one of his past opponents at the Bar, to trigger off well-defined incidents of catatonic spasm.’
Dr Trevor relaxed. Really, it was such a change to converse with a man who spoke the same language as himself. There was no need now for soothing platitudes or the reassurance of half-truths. Perhaps Carew-Field felt the same way.
‘I had wondered whether those sudden diatribes of Porteous’s were incidents of catatonia,’ said Trevor. ‘But I think Porteous was more on his guard before the attempted assassination. Certainly the verbal violence of those incidents – mysterious obstacles lying in his path, to be crushed and annihilated, and so forth – that verbal violence, I say, was totally out of character.’
‘Perhaps you can see now, Trevor, why I was so quick to suggest Chelford Grange. Your suggestion of Malvern was an excellent one, but I had good and sufficient reasons for choosing this place for Sir William’s convalescence.’
Sir Arthur had been looking out of the window while he spoke. He still gazed thoughtfully across the leaf-strewn lawns, and the acres of pine woods surrounding the sanatorium, until his eyes rested on the pink brick turrets and towers of a building lying about a mile away from Chelford Grange.
Dr Trevor followed his colleague’s glance. His face assumed a sudden alertness.
‘Broadfield? Do you think it’s as bad as that?’
‘I do. There are two of him, Trevor! For years he has shut out the capacity for violence, presumably following an incident of extreme trauma. Now, that capacity has begun to assume a personality of its own, a dark and dangerous companion walking in step with the great advocate and family man. Yes; there are two of him, now.’
Trevor said nothing for a while. It was his turn to gaze out of the window at the pink brick mansion a mile away through the trees. Broadfield…
‘It was much the same kind of thing that had begun to unsettle my view of Sir William over the last twelve months,’ he said. ‘He was in very good physical health, so that my visits were rare. But on several occasions I happened to mention a name – on one occasion, it was that of Mr Gideon Raikes, the collector – and he reacted in a way that showed all the classical symptoms of schizophrenic stupor. It is very sinister. And very sad.’
‘Have you spoken to Lady Porteous about this matter?’ asked Sir Arthur.
‘No. I think one must be very sure of oneself over things like that. I shall tell her only if our suspicions develop into certainties.’
Trevor pursed his lips, and sighed.
‘Delusions … When I think of that, Sir Arthur, I find myself rearranging some of my attitudes to Sir William Porteous. His crusade for Justice – I can see it now, perhaps, as an obsessive mania. Do you think these delusions of his are a temporary aberration?’
‘No, Trevor. Sadly, I don’t. I’ve tested him, you see. A series of carefully devised stimuli produced the inevitable catatonic responses. He can no longer conceal these delusions. The wall between fantasy and reality is beginning to crumble.’
‘Could it not be a result of the vile attempt upon his life?’
‘Oh, no. I’ve seen this particular kind of lunacy before. It’s something of far longer standing than the explosion. There’s something very deep there which is slowly withdrawing him from the real world. We must just wait and see. In the meanwhile’ – he nodded towards the window – ‘there’s a convenient place of safety to hand if, as I fear, the worst happens.’
*
Arnold Box turned out of Oxford Street into Box’s Cigar Divan and Hair Cutting Rooms, and went upstairs to the skylit den with its tiny fireplace, where Toby Box sat in his old armchair. He had been dozing, and opened his eyes in surprise as his son came into the little room.
‘Why, Arnold! So here you are again! What is it this time? More reminiscences?’
‘How are you, Pa? Is the leg any better?’
Toby Box looked down at his legs. As always, he wore knee-breeches, and now, the thick bandages binding the left leg could be seen beneath the fabric. He shook his head.
‘It’s no better, Arnold. It’s no good me saying otherwise. Dr Hooper came the other evening, and sat with me for an hour after he’d done the dressings. He talked to me, sitting in that chair where you are now. When he’d finished, I agreed to see Mr Howard Paul. That’s the way things are.’
Inspector Box was quiet for a moment, gazing at the glowing coals of the fire. He had always known that the leg would have to come off, but somehow hearing his suspicion verified was a shock.
‘Mr Howard Paul will do the operation at the Royal Free Hospital, in Gray’s Inn Road. Some time after Christmas, Dr Hooper thinks. So what was it you wanted to ask me, Arnold?’
Inspector Box’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. Retired and wounded he may be, but Toby Box was still a policeman at heart.
‘It’s just this, Pa. One day, not very long ago, a man got up in a restaurant here in Oxford Street, and showed another man a watch that he had. This other man denied knowing this watch, and the first man sat down again. The first man was James Hungerford, a flour-merchant, later done to death by Albert John Davidson. Who was the second man?’
Old Mr Box stretched out his arm and opened the narrow door beside the fireplace.
‘Sadie! Come up, will you? Detective Inspector Box is here!’
In a few moments Sadie appeared, clutching a tea towel. She smiled at Inspector Box and stood waiting for instructions. Box repeated the gist of the story about the two men and the watch.
‘Oh, yes, Mr Box, we heard about that. It was in Addy’s Dining-Rooms, just two shops down from us. Ever so embarrassed the man was! Ted Lewis told our Sam about it. Ted’s one of the waiters at Addy’s.’
‘What happened exactly, Sadie?’
‘Well, this respectable man got up from his table and went across to the other gentleman. “I think you must remember this watch, sir”, he said, “as you threw it away in the Serpentine, half a lifetime ago!” Ted stopped to hear what the other gentleman said. It was such a funny thing to be happening! Other diners had stopped eating to listen to the conversation. “Sir”, said the other man, “I think you must be mistaken. It’s a very fine watch, no doubt, but I have never owned it. Good day to you”.’
‘And what did the first man do, Sadie? Did Ted Lewis tell you?’
‘Yes, Mr Box. The first man blushed red, and returned to his seat. Everybody went back to eating their dinners. I think they were all sorry for the man with the watch, who’d obviously made a mistake. The other gentleman left soon afterwards.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ said Box, ‘that Ted knew who the men were?’
‘Well, he didn’t know the first man, the man with the watch, but the other man was very well known. It was the gentleman who was blown up in his carriage – Sir William Porteous.’
Mellow afternoon sun lit up one side of Moravia Court, presenting Inspector Box with a riot of glowing red brick. The general impression of Petty Allmain was of inward-turning seclusion, a huddle of neat eighteenth-century streets, conspiring together to conserve each other’s secrets.
Box stood on the sunny pavement, and looked into a many-paned shop window. A host of things looked back at him – paper-wrapped blocks of household soap arranged in a pyramid on a stand, brown glazed earthernware teapots, boxes of Price’s Patent Candles, and night-lights in little glass jars. He suddenly recalled moments in his childhood, when he would stare wistfully into pie-shop windows at the unaffordable, and therefore unattainable.
Box opened the door of 8 Moravia Court, and entered Mrs Jessie Warlock’s chandler’s shop. How normal, how ordinary, it felt in this little London backwater! The shop groaned beneath the weight of its stock. There were ranks of mops, iron mop buckets, clothes-horses, shelves of brightly-labelled packets and boxes, and a floor covered in sacks of seed, and scrubbing-sand, and coils of clothes-line. The air held the mingled scents of lamp oil, paraffin, and soap. The atmosphere was somehow more real and reassuring than the sophistication of Grosvenor Square and Queen Adelaide Gate.
‘And what may you be wanting?’
A woman’s voice, deep and peremptory, came to Box from behind a sort of counter at the rear of the shop. Like every other part of the premises, it was piled high with goods for sale, and it was only by looking past the piled-up boxes of flypapers and firelighters that Box was able to see the still, stout woman sitting on a high-backed chair, engaged in counting a heap of copper coins piled up on the counter.
This woman’s stock in trade, Box mused, seemed to have been arranged around her like a palisade, in order to keep enquirers at a safe distance. Behind her, a beaded curtain showed that there were other rooms beyond the shop.
‘You are Mrs Jessie Warlock? I am Detective Inspector Box, of Scotland Yard.’
‘I see. And are you going to show me your warrant, to prove it?’
Box silently handed over his card. Jessie Warlock held a pair of still folded glasses some way in front of her eyes, and read it carefully. Then she handed it back again, put the glasses down on the counter, and sighed.
‘You’d better sit down, Inspector Box. Yes, I’m Jessie Warlock. You’ll have come to ask questions about poor Amelia Garbutt, I expect. It’s been in all the papers, so I know what happened to her.’
‘What I’d like to know, Mrs Warlock—’
The shopkeeper held up a hand as though to fend off Box’s words.
‘I think it would be best, Inspector Box,’ she said, ‘if you were to sit there quietly for a while, and listen to what I have to say. You look a chirpy kind of young man, much given, I expect, to asking questions. Well, there’s a lot to be said for listening, as well.’
Mrs Warlock joined her hands together, and leaned her elbows on the counter. Box noted the number of gold rings that she wore. She had a round, pale face, and the suspicion of a second chin in prospect. She wore a voluminous bombazine dress.
‘Amelia Garbutt and I, Inspector, were brought up in Speed Street, Spitalfields. Our families were neighbours, and we went to the same church school. Both families were very poor. Our fathers got work in Spitalfields Market when they could. Other times, they’d do labouring, or haul barrows – are you beginning to see the picture?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He knew the picture well enough: ever-present poverty warring with increasingly desperate respectability.
‘Well, Amelia was a very clever girl, and her teachers at the church school worked hard with her, so that she won a bursary to St Margaret’s School for Girls, in Bloomsbury. Amelia never looked back from that moment. She learnt mathematics, and French, and music, and when she left that school, at sixteen, she immediately began to work in high-class service with people of quality. She became a lady’s-maid, and eventually a lady companion in her own right. You’ll know all that, I expect.’
‘Yes, Mrs Warlock. I’m just wondering where your story is leading.’
‘It’s leading to a particular piece of information, Mr Box, which is this: people like Amelia live surrounded by elegance and comfort, but they have no homes of their own. When I was young, before ever I married my late husband, I carried my property around with me in the form of the gold rings that you see on my fingers. When money was short, then I’d pawn a ring – oh, you know all this kind of thing, or at least, you ought to know it. I married Mr Warlock, who owned this shop. When he died, the shop, and the house in which it is, passed to me. But I still keep the rings where you see them now. Habit, you see.’
‘But Miss Amelia Garbutt had no home of her own?’
‘No. So I let her regard this place as a home. She had a room upstairs, overlooking the street. None of her ladies knew about this place. It was her secret. And this is where you’ll find whatever secrets she may have kept from others.’
Inspector Box drew Amelia Garbutt’s tapestry purse from his pocket, opened it, and placed the small bright key on the counter.
‘That, Mrs Warlock, is the key of a deed box.’
‘So it is! Well, Amelia had such a box, and it is still here, in her room upstairs.’
Jessie Warlock slid off her stool, and parted the bead curtain behind her.
‘You’d better come up,’ she said.
The inspector fitted the key into a japanned tin box that he had found at the bottom of a chest of drawers, and turned it. He lifted the lid. Inside, he found a savings bank book, which told him that Amelia Garbutt had amassed the sum of £38 over a period of six years. There was a certificate from a burial club, a sealed envelope, and a death certificate for Joseph Garbutt, aged 74, dated 14 March, 1892.
‘Would you know who Joseph Garbutt was, Mrs Warlock?’
‘He was her uncle. Her father’s brother. He was always a bit of a scapegrace, Mr Box. A mean-minded man, too fearful to break the law, but quite happy to abet others in doing so, if it put a few shillings his way. He’s dead now, so I can say that without fear of doing harm. He lived in a couple of rooms high over a shop in Garlick Hill. That family – the Garbutts – they just managed to hold their heads up, you know. They always lived on the edge of respectability. That’s why I was so proud of Amelia. She’d broken away from temptation.’
Inspector Box looked out of the single window in the upstairs room where Amelia Garbutt had stored her few secrets. The room was a small attic, and contained an iron bedstead with a mattress, a chest of drawers, and an empty wardrobe.
‘Moravia Court … Did you ever know a young man called Henry Colbourne, Mrs Warlock? I recall that he, too, lived in Moravia Court. Mr Shulbrede, the watchmaker, told me.’
‘Yes, I remember him well enough. He was murdered by robbers not far from here, in Garlickhythe. But it was twenty-five years ago that I knew him, and I had my hands full here in those days with the shop, and my new husband to see to. The Colbournes were nice, quiet people. I remember poor Henry well enough, but I didn’t really know him.’
Box turned his attention once again to the deed box. He opened the sealed envelope. It contained a letter, written on high quality paper. Jessie Warlock watched Box silently as he read it to himself
Dear Miss Garbutt (it ran),
I am quite content to do what you ask, and present you with a valuable reward for the information mentioned in your letter. I note that you will be resident at no great distance from my sister’s house. She is giving a reception on the night of Tuesday, 6 September, so if you could come across with the document written by your late uncle, we can effect a discreet exchange. That, I trust, will be the end of the matter.
Faithfully yours,
William Porteous
A valuable reward … Box glanced at the stolid Jessie Warlock, who sat on a chair near the bed, still watching him. The light through the square window reflected off the many rings that she wore. Amelia Garbutt may have risen to being a lady’s-maid, but she had not forgotten the days when a young woman carried her wealth around on her person as something tangible. So when an opportunity for a little ladylike blackmail came her way, she had thought of a diamond necklace.
Jessie Warlock’s sonorous voice broke the silence.
‘Have you found what you were looking for?’
‘I wasn’t looking for this piece of paper in particular,’ Box replied ‘but I’m not in the least surprised to have found it here.’
Amelia Garbutt, lady’s-maid, had not, after all, broken away from temptation, as Jessie Warlock had asserted. The Garbutts had once lived perilously near the criminal fringes of society, and, when greed came to tempt her, Miss Garbutt had succumbed. And so she had died.