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!’
‘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—’
‘Perhaps. But in that case, you must make atonement through action, not reclusiveness. Come, madam, you are forcing me to talk like a Dutch uncle. Enough of this! I know more about you than you think. I know more about Mary Jane’s origins than you think. So, for that matter, does she. Did you think we were a couple of children? Did you think for one moment that I cared about my wife’s antecedents? I chose her, and that was sufficient.’
‘You knew about Gideon Raikes?’
‘I did. I tell you again, Mother-in-law, I know more than you think, and what I don’t know for certain, I can guess. But you and I are tough. We’re both aristocrats, and we are both skilled, therefore, in the arts of survival – egad! If I’d known that I would have to spout all this rhetoric to bring you to your senses, I’d have stayed in Cannes!’
Adelaide Porteous suddenly smiled. She rose from where she had been sitting, and took her son-in-law’s hand. Did he really know what she had done on that desperate visit to Grosvenor Square? Only Lardner knew, and he would never reveal her secret. But there: Rupert had always been able to read her like a book. He would never tell her what he knew, and she would be left to wonder.
‘Mother-in-law,’ Lord Avoncourt continued, ‘John Bruce is everywhere about the house this morning, and so is your daughter Lydia. At one o’clock precisely, luncheon will be served. I will leave you to dress, then John, Lydia and I will join you. They’re staying at Brown’s, you know. I’m at the Savoy. At the end of this week I am taking you back with me to Cannes. By Christmas, this scandal – if scandal it is – will have blown over. The public, you see, craves novelty. In the new year, you must come back here, to 4 Queen Adelaide Gate, and build your life afresh.’
‘Is that possible, Rupert? After a lifetime as an advocate’s wife?’
‘Baby comes out next year, doesn’t she? I met her, just now, loitering mournfully in the hall like a waif. Well, the waif must do the Season, and she can’t do that with an absentee mother. So, yes. It is possible. Think about Diana. Think about your work for the urban poor. In other words, think about the future! There is a splendid man downstairs who will be a rock of support for you in the years to come.’
‘Lardner,’ said Lady Porteous, softly.
‘Yes. He has a future, too, and it will be spent here, in your service.’
‘Rupert—’
‘Oh, dash it all, Mother-in-law! Let’s stop all this jawing! Get yourself ready for luncheon. The future’s waiting for you.’
Sergeant Isaac Bickerstaffe stood in the walled village churchyard of Danesford, and looked down at the new granite gravestone that a firm of masons from Chelmsford had set in place that very morning. It was a fine stone, he thought, with deeply-cut lettering that would do well against the salt sea winds that blew across the marshlands from the estuaries. The sexton had removed the simple wooden cross that had proclaimed this to be the grave of a Drowned Woman, Known to God. The old sergeant stooped down, and read the inscription on the new stone.
In fond memory of Amelia Garbutt,
Born 8 August, 1852, Died 6 September, 1892
This stone was erected at the expense of
Mrs Alphonse Stockmayer.
‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant.’
Very kind of that London lady, it seemed to him. And after all that fuss and bother, it was Lady Hardington’s brother, the great advocate, who’d done it! She’d brought some flowers for Amelia Garbutt when she’d heard the truth, and so had Mrs Courtney of Bardley Lodge. He stood for a few minutes, thinking over the various wickednesses of the world, then lumbered away towards Field Lane, and his ancient, weather-boarded, cottage.
Sergeant Knollys lifted his eyes from the newspaper for a moment, and said, ‘Mr Gideon Raikes, sir, had bequeathed his house in Grosvenor Square, together with its contents, to the nation. It’s to be called the Gideon Raikes Museum.’
Inspector Box paused in his task of coaxing the dying fire back to life. It was growing very chilly in King James’s Rents, and outside, a thin, powdery rain was coating the cobbles with a sweat of slippery moisture. He attacked the fire again with the poker.
‘The Gideon Raikes Museum? Nothing surprises me, Sergeant. I was saying to George Boyd, only yesterday, that I haven’t exactly covered myself with glory over this business. I haven’t won the victor’s crown, so to speak. He just laughed, and mumbled something about Elba. Or Ste-Helena. I don’t know what he meant. And now you say that Gideon Raikes, my special villain, is to be immortalized with his own museum. Well, somebody got him. We’ll never know who it was. It wasn’t Razor Jim. I think it was something to do with a private vendetta.’
‘Gideon Raikes had some kind of secret hold over Lady Porteous—’
‘You’re not suggesting she shot him, are you?’
Sergeant Knollys laughed.
‘No, sir, of course not. But maybe she had a friend who obliged her.’
Box sat down at the table. Sergeant Knollys was entitled to his little joke.
‘Mounteagle comes up for trial in February,’ said Box. ‘Sir Iain Forbes had mastered the brief. Mounteagle will go down for life, I expect. Poor Sir William Porteous! Even now, Sergeant Knollys, I can hardly believe it. I was angry at first, but not now. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘but I’m beginning to see the tragic element in a different light. William Porteous was an ambitious man, who murdered another young man who stood in his way. Then, half a lifetime later, he caused the death of another man who didn’t even know him, prosecuted his own accomplice, and sent him to the gallows. Finally, he murdered a foolish woman who threatened to inconvenience him. Yes, sir, it was a tragedy all right – for Henry Colbourne, James Hungerford, Albert John Davidson, and Amelia Garbutt.’
There came a sudden rumbling from the floor above. The rackety gas-burner shook in the ceiling. They could both trace the heavy limp as it made towards the door. The trick was to get out into the passage before Old Growler reached the landing. Inspector Box reached the vestibule just as his superior officer appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Box,’ said Superintendent Mackharness, ‘up here, if you please. I won’t keep you more than ten minutes.’
Some fresh villainy was evidently crying for redress. It would always be like that. Among the teeming millions of London’s population, the malignant and the malevolent were toiling ceaselessly against the law-abiding and their protectors. Inspector Box hurried up the stairs towards the superintendent’s mildewed office on the upper floor of Number 2 King James’s Rents.