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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
The Devil's Advocate, authored by Fred M. White, intricately weaves a tale of moral ambiguity and psychological tension, exploring the complexities of human nature through a prism of suspense. Set against the backdrop of a gripping legal battle, the narrative employs a keenly crafted prose style characterized by vivid imagery and an acute attention to character development. White's exploration of ethical dilemmas resonates within the literary canon of early 20th-century crime fiction, reminiscent of the works of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, while simultaneously establishing its own unique voice. Fred M. White, a prolific writer of detective stories and thrillers, was immersed in the vibrant literary culture of his time, which undoubtedly shaped his narrative approach. Born in the late 19th century, White experienced the tumultuous transformation of societal norms and legal structures, which inspired his exploration of crime and justice. His experiences and observations of the complexities surrounding human motives and societal expectations permeated his writing, solidifying his status in the genre. I highly recommend The Devil's Advocate to readers who are intrigued by the intricacies of the human psyche and the moral quandaries that arise within the realms of law and justice. White's masterful storytelling invites readers to grapple with the dilemmas faced by his characters, providing a compelling exploration of the darker aspects of humanity that continues to resonate today.
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The Devil's Advocate
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
Philippa Goldfinch clung lovingly to the arm of David Macrae, and he smiled down into those speaking blue eyes of hers. It was hardly necessary for her to say anything, because he could see, from the expression of her eyes, that her heart was as full of pleasure and delight as his own. For he had won through. It was but a year since he had come to Hitherfield, where he had joined the staff of the 'Mercury,' and, in the very first week, had met Philippa Goldfinch and fallen head over ears in love with her. It seemed a long time since then, and the prospect had appeared remote enough, but yet here he was this perfect May evening in the garden of the Bungalow, which was actually his own, and paid for with his own money.
"Doesn't it seem marvellous, dearest?" he said. "A year ago, and I never knew you. I shall never forget the first night at the Melba concert when you came into the town hail, and I asked Richard Farrell who you were. And even then I believe I had made up my mind. And now—"
Philippa smiled up into his face again, and the grasp of her little hand tightened on his arm.
"Yes, isn't it wonderful?" she echoed. "It's almost as wonderful as that book of yours."
For Macrae had not only written a book, but it had been quite a successful one. It had been published not long before he had been appointed to the 'Hitherfield Mercury,' and now it was in its second edition. It had brought him success in another way—a serial story or two, and now he was engaged upon a third, which would enable him to marry Philippa with an easy mind. A little time before he had purchased the Bungalow, with its furniture complete, from a man who had gone abroad, and now there was no reason why he and Philippa should wait any longer.
His salary was of no great matter, for the 'Hitherfield Mercury' was not a big money-making concern, but his appointment there was a stepping-stone to better things. Meanwhile he had made up his mind to stay in that beautiful, romantic spot for the next few years, and now he and Philippa were standing in the garden of the Bungalow, looking across the heather and gorse-clad common towards the setting sun. The garden itself was rather a wild one, for the late proprietor had very wisely done nothing to improve upon nature. There were flower-beds and borders here and there and a tennis lawn, but the grounds, for the most part, had been left as the late owner had found them when he had built that charming bungalow and furnished it with taste and discretion. There were three or four bedrooms, a small drawing room which Philippa called her own, a little den where Macrae could write in his spare time, and a big lounge-hall sitting room, with a conservatory leading out of it at the back, beyond which was a mass of gorse and heather, ending in a low stone wall that divided the garden from the common.
Beyond that was a heathery expanse, extending for miles, with not another human habitation in sight. It was wild and desolate enough there, and almost impossible to believe that the town of Hitherfield was not more than half a mile away.
They stood in the big sitting room presently, admiring the old furniture and the exquisite mezzotints upon the walls. The late proprietor had neglected nothing in the way of luxury and comfort, and Macrae had deemed himself exceedingly fortunate to be able to get hold of so desirable a residence.
"Another three weeks," he said, "and we shall be here together. It seems almost too good to be true, Phil."
"Yes, and all of it paid for," Philippa smiled. "I should hate to start in debt, David."
"Would you?" Macrae smiled a little dubiously. "I don't know whether I ought to tell you or not—"
Philippa looked up quickly. "I want you to tell me everything, David," she said. "I want to feel that there are no secrets between us."
"Well, then, I must make my confession," David smiled. "It is not quite paid for. At least, I paid Donaldson, but I had to borrow a hundred pounds, of which I was short. Of course, it doesn't matter, for in a month I shall have finished that big serial story, and, as you know, it is a cash transaction, and my agent tells me that he will have no difficulty in getting a good price for the American rights. So you needn't worry, child. We shall be quite free of debt before we return from our honeymoon."
Philippa looked just a little dubious. She knew what to be in debt meant, because that easy-going, scientific old father of hers had never quite managed to live within his income since he had retired from active practice as a doctor, and it was one of the struggles of Philippa's life to keep things going properly.
"Where did the hundred pounds come from?" she asked.
"Oh, I borrowed that from some moneylenders in Hitherfield. I don't suppose you have seen their advertisement, but they call themselves Douglas and Company. They have got branch offices in most towns on the South Coast. I believe they are very decent people. I had to give them what they called a judgment, just as a matter of form, because I objected to the publicity of a bill of sale, but they are not likely to worry me."
Philippa was conscious of a slight sinking of the heart. She had heard her father talk like this, because he, too, had got into a similar trouble some time before, and Philippa had had to realise a small legacy to settle the matter.
"I do hope it will be all right, David," she said. "Of course. I don't know much about these things—"
With that, she bent down and caressed an Irish terrier that was standing at her feet with a stone in his mouth, which he was inviting her to throw across the room so that he might fetch it. This was a game of which Bragger never tired. He was not Phillippa's dog, either, but acted as bodyguard and leader to a blind ex-soldier called Ned Hammer, the protege of a prosperous farmer and bookmaker who lived nearby to Dr. Goldfinch's cottage. Bragger, however, had taken a great fancy to Philippa, and hardly ever permitted her out of his sight, except at such times as his master had need of him.
"Put it down, you silly dog," she said. "I decline to play any games with you in my new house."
Bragger whined, and then dropped the stone with a feeling, evidently, that things were not propitious just then so far as his beloved friend was concerned. Then, a moment later, he pricked up his ears and made for the open door at top speed.
"Isn't he a wonderful dog?" Philippa laughed. "You may be sure that his master wants him."
"I thought I heard Hammer whistle," Macrae said. "He is very fond of wandering about on the common in the evening."
"I believe he knows every inch of it," Philippa said. "You know, he used to be a bit of a poacher before the war, and the loss of his sight. I am not sure that he doesn't indulge in that pastime now. But never mind about Ned Hammer. Are you quite sure that there will be no trouble with these moneylenders?"
"I wouldn't worry that pretty head of yours any more about it," Macrae said. "Why should you? I shall have all I want in a month, and something may crop up in the meantime."
"But you couldn't pay it out of your salary, David."
"You are right there," Macrae laughed. "My salary is barely enough for my board and lodgings. And beside, I am not good at borrowing, except in the ordinary way of business. I did try the bank, and though the manager was sympathetic he told me that his directors did not advance money on that sort of security. Upon my word, Phil, I am almost sorry I told you. I hate to see that look of trouble in those blue eyes of yours."
With an effort Philippa forced a smile to her lips, and then, in the sheer delight of their affection, and the attractions of a new house, which she was going over for the first time, quite forgot anything else. It was dark by the time they had finished, and Philippa was on her way home again, with David talking in his enthusiastic way, walking by her side.
"Well, are you quite satisfied, little girl?" he asked.
"Absolutely," Philippa sighed. "I didn't think I could possibly be so happy. But don't you think you ought to put a caretaker in the house? It is rather a lonely spot, and anybody coming across the common after dark could empty the place by the back way without anybody being the wiser."
"I have provided for that," Macrae said. "I am going to sleep there myself in future."
"What, all alone? When?"
"Well, I thought of beginning tonight. You see I am quite used to fending for myself, I learnt that during my five years' campaigning. There is a spirit stove in the house and one or two old cooking utensils, and with these and a blanket on the sofa in my den I shall get on famously. I have already told the postman to deliver any letters that come to the Bungalow, and when I come downstairs tomorrow and find my letterbox more or less full I shall really feel as if the place belonged to me. Besides, if there is any sort of trouble I shall get Ned Hammer to lend me his dog for the night. I know Bragger will be quite ready to stay with me if I asked him, and that Bragger has enough sense to know that his master won't want him before breakfast. I shall enjoy camping out. And when my day's work is done it will be a positive joy to work in the Bungalow instead of that stuffy little room in a noisy street full of children. That's one of the reasons why I decided to take up my quarters in the Bungalow. With any luck I shall get that story finished at the end of next week, and then, my dear girl, I'll pay that hundred pounds, and I shan't expect to see that serious line on your pretty forehead any more."
With that he bent down and kissed Philippa's smiling lips. They were standing just outside Dr. Goldfinch's gate now, and a moment later Macrae was striding down the road towards the Bungalow, whistling with the air of a man who has no care in the world. It seemed to him that he had nothing else to wish for.
CHAPTER II
Once inside the Bungalow, Macrae enjoyed the sensation of turning on the electric lights and surveying his own property quite alone for the first time. He pulled down the blinds, and drew the curtains, after which he lay back on the lounge in one of the latticed windows and sighed with deep satisfaction as he contemplated all the luxury with which he was surrounded. It seemed to him, indeed, that he was a fortunate man to have achieved all this in so short a space of time. It was only yesterday that he had come out of the Army, or so it seemed, only too glad to take the first thing that was offered him. Before the Great War he had written one or two short stories with indifferent success, but these five years had broadened his mind and given him a power of expression which he realised with wonder and delight. Now, nothing came amiss to his pen. He had managed to write a successful book, and those serial stories of his were being eagerly sought after. By comparison, his work on the 'Hitherfield Mercury' was child's play. He had more or less a free hand, because his employer was a man of considerable means, and one who always spoke his mind freely. Therefore, Macrae was encouraged to attack abuses wherever he found them, and that easy sarcasm of his had bitten pretty deeply into the minds of a good many citizens whose actions had not commended them to the public. Especially severe had Macrae been on a local money-lender known as Joseph Baines, a miserly old man who lived all by himself in a cottage at the back of the town, and one whose cold-blooded extortions had become a by-word in Hitherfield. Macrae had enjoyed that immensely, and his series of articles exposing Baines' methods had been vastly appreciated by readers of the 'Hitherfield Mercury.'
All these things were passing in Macrae's mind as he sat there enjoying his new-found prosperity. He remembered the day when he had first seen Philippa, and how, much against his will, Richard Farrell, a rising young solicitor, had introduced him to the girl with the blue eyes and pleasant smile. He had not been ignorant of the fact that Farrell was an admirer of Philippa's himself, but he did not know, because Philippa had never mentioned it, that there had been something like an understanding between those two before Macrae came along. And there was another thing Macrae, in his happy ignorance, did not know. It had seemed to him that Farrell had taken his disappointment philosophically enough, but deep down in his heart was a bitter enmity of the successful journalist, and a determined vow to come between Macrae and his choice by fair means or foul, if the opportunity ever offered itself. Philippa might have suspected something of this, and, indeed, in uneasy moments she did. But she put the thought out of her mind and said nothing. That sort of thing was all very well in books, but not in the least likely to happen in a quiet spot like Hitherfield. Meanwhile Farrell smiled when they met, he shook hands with Macrae, and congratulated him, but he was waiting his chance all the same.
Macrae came out of his reverie presently, and proceeded to gather the necessary material for a simple supper. As he crossed the hall in the direction of the kitchen he saw that the postman had come along during his absence with Philippa, and that there were three letters in the box. One was an invitation to a tennis party, the second a few lines from his literary agent, and the third a business looking envelope with, the name 'Douglas and Co.' on the flap.
"Now, that's rather a coincidence," Macrae muttered to himself. "I wonder what those chaps want. Funny they should write to me today. Getting uneasy about their money, perhaps. Well, a fortnight will see the end of them, thank goodness."
Without any sort of apprehension Macrae tore open the envelope and read the curt communication inside.
"Dear Sir," (it ran)—"Referring to our recent business transaction and the loan to you of £100, repayable on demand, we are instructed by our head office to apply to you for the repayment of the same by 12 o'clock tomorrow. We have to point out that your objection to giving us a bill of sale necessitated us taking a judgment for the amount, which we duly obtained yesterday in the High Court of Justice. We regret that certain serious calls upon our capital compel us to make this demand, which must be settled, as indicated, failing which we shall immediately proceed to levy an execution on your effects at the Bungalow.—Yours faithfully.—Douglas & Co."
At this unexpected blow Macrae reeled. It was only for a moment, because he had not finished the letter. There was worse to come. Across the bottom of the typewritten communication was a scrawl in an unsteady hand as follows:—
"This will teach you to concern yourself with the business of a man who never did you any harm. You know now that Douglas and Co. is only another name for Joseph Baines."
And then Macrae realised. He had walked glibly into a trap that had been laid for him, never guessing for a moment, or forgetting perhaps how frequently these bloodsuckers masquerade under high-sounding names. He had never seen Baines in the office of Douglas and Co., which concern was apparently managed by an alert little Jew, assisted by an office boy of the same nationality. At any rate, here he was caught like a rat in a trap, with no possibility of an escape. He could see plainly enough now that unless the money was paid by 12 o'clock tomorrow he would be practically ruined. Without the slightest doubt, this bitter enemy of his would exercise the powers conferred upon him by the court, and seize all the furniture in the Bungalow. There was no one in Hitherfield from whom he could borrow the money. He might have asked the proprietor of his paper, but that individual was away somewhere on the Continent, and Macrae had no idea of his address. There was no one in Hitherfield to whom he could apply with the slightest prospect of success, and he was much too proud to ask Dr. Goldfinch, even if he possessed the necessary cash, which the distracted young man very much doubted. Given another day or so, he might have gone to town and laid the trouble before his literary agent, who, possibly, would have advanced the money on the strength of the forthcoming serial, or perhaps arranged an immediate sale of the copyright of the novel. But that was out of the question in the face of the letter from Douglas and Co.
It was in vain that Macrae raged up and down the house, cursing the fate that had robbed him of his happiness at that moment, and trying to think out some scheme by which he could get out of the difficulty. But that rascal Baines had laid his plans far too cunningly. He had been nursing his wrath all this time, and had struck unerringly, like the wolf that he was, at the exact moment. A few hours later, and the story would be all over the town. People would turn their backs on him and sneer; but this was not the worst.
What would Philippa say when she knew? What would she think when she heard of this dread disaster? There was only one thing for it, for Macrae to put his pride in his pocket and go and see this merciless creditor of his. It was getting late now, but possibly Baines had not gone to bed, and, accordingly, a few minutes later Macrae closed the front door behind him and went along the common to the far side of the town, where he knew Baines was residing. It was quite a small place, a little remote from a group of cottages, and flanked by a small strip of weedy soil that passed in these parts as a garden. Macrae knocked at the door again and again, but there was no response. He even tried the handle of the door, and threw a handful of gravel against the bedroom window. But after a quarter of an hour of this Macrae gave up the attempt in despair, and retraced his steps homewards.
It was very late now, and there was not a soul to be seen; indeed, Macrae had not encountered a human being from the time he started till he was approaching the back entrance of the Bungalow again. Just as he was entering the little gate he heard a whine in the bushes, and a dog emerged. He came toward Macrae, growling and snarling, with his bristles up, but directly he was called by name Bragger came fawning to Macrae's feet.
By the light of a vesta which he struck Macrae could see that the dog had been mishandled. There was a cut over his right ear and a deep gash in his side, from which the blood was oozing. In addition, one eye was partially closed.
"Well, what are you doing here at this time of night?" Macrae asked. "You've been poaching, you villain. What's more, you've run up against one of the keepers, and he's given you more than you deserve. Better come inside, old chap, and I will see what I can do for you."
Despite his troubles and the anxiety that was gnawing him like a tooth, Macrae was ready to do his best for the injured animal. But, strangely enough, for once Bragger did not respond. He was still restless and uneasy, and not quite sure, after the treatment he had received, whether he could trust this old friend of his. Then with a sudden pricking of his ears and a yelp half of defiance and half of pain, he vanished, and was seen no more.
"Now, that's very odd," Macrae said to himself. "There is something wrong here. I wonder if anybody has got into the house while I was away. If Bragger was hanging about he would be sure to go for him. I'd better make sure."
He closed the front door behind him, and made a thorough search of the bedrooms. Then he went as carefully over the apartments downstairs, including the kitchen, but no sign of any intruder was to be seen. There was only one place to overhaul now, and that was the conservatory at the back. Here were the ferns and palms, just as the late occupant had left them, an artistic jungle of greenery that might possibly conceal an intruder. The door leading to the garden was unlocked, and the key was missing. Macrae switched on the light, and suddenly started back as he saw something lying on the floor. With quickened breath be realised that here was the body of some man, the intruder, perhaps, who, possibly, had been pulled down and left insensible by the dog Bragger. But as Macrae turned the body over and saw the white, mean face, he staggered back, sick and dizzy. Here was tragedy indeed.
"My God!" he cried. "It's Joseph Baines. My one enemy in the world lying dead in my own house. What does it mean? And what on earth am I going to do next?"
CHAPTER III
In a roomy old world cottage on the west side of Hitherfield, Philippa Goldfinch lived with her father, a retired doctor of small means and a man devoted to science and research of various kinds. He was a perfect child in all worldly matters, in spite of his wonderful store of general knowledge, and he might have been quite comfortable in his simple way but for the fact that he was ever ready to believe everything that he heard, and take human nature, generally at its own valuation. He was always going to make a fortune in some mysterious way, and ever indulging in fond dreams that obsessed him every time a fresh company prospectus came into his hands. It was part of Philippa's business in life to get hold of these and destroy them before they reached her father's hand, or there would have been nothing left to live on. For the rest, a fairly good annuity, paid monthly, by a wealthy brother of the doctor's, was the mainstay of the household.
The garden of the cottage was one of Philippa's chief delights. Here she spent most of her time in the spring and summer, with the doctor usually in close attendance, for his botanical knowledge was minute, and he was constantly experimenting with new plants and rock vegetation of various kinds.
They were there now on the morrow of David's ghastly discovery, after an early breakfast in the glorious sunshine, and admiring the great bed of wall-flowers in front of the cottage. The doctor was busy with some new plants which had reached him only the day before from a brother botanist in Hertfordshire.
