Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘I want you to write a confession to murder,’ Rachel said. ‘Don’t worry about the phrasing. I shall dictate every word.’

  The last vestiges of colour drained from the plump cheeks. ‘Confess to murder? Have you lost your mind?’

  Trueman leaned forward in his chair, a movement pregnant with menace. Rachel pointed her gun at Pardoe’s chest.

  ‘Please.’ Pardoe made a gurgling noise. ‘Your father would not wish…’

  ‘The Judge is dead.’ She smiled. ‘But I inherited a taste for melodrama.’

  ‘I… I have been the most loyal—’

  ‘Once you blot your signature, we shall leave the room, and you will lock the door. Leave the key in the lock. In the bottom drawer of your desk – you will find the fastening broken – is a pistol loaded with one bullet. Place it to your temple, or inside your mouth. You are free to choose. It will be a quick end, far preferable to the alternative.’

  He twitched like a guinea pig confronted by a vivisectionist. ‘You cannot order me to kill myself!’

  ‘It’s for the best,’ she said. ‘You are already under sentence of death. How long did your friend in Harley Street give you? Six months at the outside?’

  Astonishment made him blink. ‘You can’t know that! I told nobody, and Sir Eustace would never…’

  ‘Remember Sir Eustace’s prognosis. This is your chance to escape the drawn-out agony he foresaw. Don’t waste that single shot.’

  ‘But… why?’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Juliet Brentano?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Pardoe screwed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You’ll go to your grave not under­standing.’ She gestured to Trueman, who pointed his knife at the older man’s throat.

  ‘Don’t dwell on what you have to do,’ she said. ‘A swift end is a mercy. Sixty seconds, that’s all you have from the moment we are outside the room. No longer.’

  Pardoe looked into her eyes. What he saw there made him flinch.

  After a long pause, he said hoarsely, ‘Very well.’

  ‘Fill your pen with ink.’

  Slowly, Pardoe did as he was told.

  ‘Write this.’ She spoke slowly, burying each word in his brain like a soft-nosed bullet. ‘I strangled Mary-Jane Hayes with her own scarf, and then dismembered her with a hacksaw. I acted alone…’

  2

  Jacob Flint walked home. Exercise helped him to order his thoughts. The long-awaited conversation with Rachel Savernake had left him grappling with fresh questions, when he’d yearned for answers.

  Disappointment weighed him down, heavy as a boulder on his back. He prided himself on his ability as an interviewer, and he often pored over copies of Notable British Trials, studying techniques of cross-examination. This afternoon, he’d rehearsed in front of the mirror in his bedroom. Yet preparation counted for nothing once he came face to face with the woman. He felt hot and stupid at the memory of her cool, concentrated gaze reducing his questions to babble.

  What had he learned? About the murder of Mary-Jane Hayes, nothing. A copper he knew was part of the hunt for the man depraved enough to strangle a woman, and then decapitate her, and conceal the head. His tame constable, Stan Thurlow, had let slip that Scotland Yard expected Rachel Savernake to take an interest in the Covent Garden murder. If she’d formed a theory about the latest murder, she’d given him no clues. The scoop he dreamed of remained as distant as the moon.

  As he turned into Amwell Street, he told himself that he’d not wasted his time. At the cost of fleeting embarrass­ment, he’d discovered that Rachel Savernake’s thoroughness knew no bounds. The note he’d sent her, which he’d worded with as much care as if writing a leader for The Times, had provoked her into checking into him. For heaven’s sake, she’d even found out that Elaine Dowd wanted to marry him.

  Why take such pains, when she could simply refuse to say a word? As he passed the cavernous post office building at Mount Pleasant, the answer struck him, clear as a torch beam slicing through darkness.

  It was a sign of a guilty conscience. Rachel Savernake had something to hide.

  *

  His landlady refused to refer to her home by its street number. Mrs Dowd had christened it Edgar House, in mem­ory of her husband. A bomb dropped by one of the Zeppelins during the Silent Raid had killed Edgar Dowd. A prosperous accountant, he’d left his widow and young daughter comfortably provided for, but Mrs Dowd’s capital had diminished with the passage of time, a process speeded by her fondness for French couture and London gin. She took in lodgers to make ends meet.

  Oliver McAlinden, a former tenant, and a colleague of Jacob’s at the Clarion, had recommended Edgar House as convenient for Fleet Street and surprisingly cheap. Mrs Dowd offered a generous discount to young men she regarded as a ‘good let’. The price Jacob paid was putting up with her incessant chatter and unsubtle matchmaking.

  Despite the low rent, he was her only paying guest, and she’d taken to inviting him to join her and Elaine for supper. Jacob gathered that she’d spent years encouraging her daughter to fraternise with the pimpled son of a wealthy local draper, with scant success. She’d fared no better with Oily McAlinden, whose tastes didn’t seem to include the opposite sex. Elaine had refused to introduce her mother to her most recent beau. Jacob suspected the fellow was married, and she’d needed to be devious. All she’d let slip was that she’d ended the relationship shortly before Jacob’s arrival in London; he guessed she’d tired of waiting for the fellow to leave his wife. Perhaps she’d decided her mother was right, and that it was time to settle down. But the horizons of a young journalist wanting to make his way in the world lay far beyond a pipe-and-slippers existence in Amwell Street.

  He meant to dash up to his eyrie on the second floor, but was thwarted by the opening of the kitchen door. The smell of frying sausages wafted out, swiftly followed by Mrs Dowd. Once, perhaps, she’d been voluptuous; now she was merely large and billowing, her chiffon dress displaying décolletage as impressive as it was unexpected in a landlady cooking an evening meal.

  ‘There you are, Jacob! What a dreadful night! Will you join us for a bite to eat? Keep out the cold?’

  Jacob wavered. The aroma was tempting. ‘That’s kind of you, Mrs Dowd.’

  She wagged a fleshy finger. ‘How many times must I tell you? My name is Patience, even if it’s never been my nature.’

  Jacob’s stomach was rumbling, and he surrendered. Be­sides, Elaine was always good company. She might even find a way of taking his mind off Rachel Savernake.

  *

  ‘So how did you get on with your lady friend?’ Elaine asked, warming her hands in front of the fire.

  ‘She refused to talk to me.’

  ‘Go on! Nice-looking chap like you, what can she be thinking of?’

  They were alone in the parlour, a tiny room brightened by hyacinths Elaine had brought from the florist’s where she worked. Mrs Dowd, with elephantine tact, had withdrawn to her spick and span kitchen. She’d left her late husband – stern, with an abundant moustache – to keep an eye on them from the mantelpiece, where his framed photograph occupied pride of place, flanked by small ornaments supply­ing colourful reminders of long-ago holidays in Deal and Westcliff. Jacob sipped at his tea, wishing he’d not spoken so freely to Elaine about his work. An easy mistake to make. Since coming to London, he’d thrown himself into his new job, body and soul. He wrote long if infrequent letters to his widowed mother in Armley, but had little time to spare for seeking out new friends as he strove to make himself indispensable to the Clarion.

  Elaine was flame-haired, freckled, and flirtatious. The pleasantries the two of them exchanged had ripened into friendship, and one day she’d announced that a customer at the shop, knowing her love of a show, had presented her with two unwanted tickets for the Inanity. She and Jacob had sung along with Sinbad and his Sisters, held their breath at the high-wire antics of the Flying Fin
negans, and gasped at the illusions performed by Nefertiti, the Nubian Queen of Magic and Mystery. Nefertiti was beautiful, but even as he was enraptured by her sinuous movements on the stage, Jacob felt Elaine’s firm body pressing against his in an unambiguous manner that he found equally exciting.

  Subsequently, he’d taken her to the Regent Theatre to see Edgar Wallace’s The Squeaker (when she’d insisted on waiting at the stage door to add Bernard Lee’s autograph to those she’d collected from Sinbad and Nefertiti) and twice to the pictures. Her interest in him and his work was so flattering that the other night, after Mrs Dowd had gone to bed, he’d confided his hope that a scoop about Rachel Savernake would make his name as an investigative journalist. She’d returned his kisses with an ardour that gave him the giddy sensation she’d mistaken him for her hero, Ivor Novello. Her married admirer had obviously taught her a thing or two. Elaine’s healthy English looks might lack the sleek sophistication of Nefertiti’s wonderfully sculpted features, but her curves were full of promise. She loved his north-country accent, and said it made her heart skip a beat.

  He doubted she’d insist on having a ring on her finger before giving herself to him, but he was terrified of getting her pregnant, and finding himself honour-bound to propose marriage. Her mother kept hinting that, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, a woman was ready to become a wife and mother. Jacob’s frisson of anxiety matured into alarm following an arch remark, accompanied by an appallingly ostentatious wink, about having a journalist in the family. The prospect of domestic bliss in Edgar House struck Jacob as more like a form of life imprisonment. Better that they remain Just Good Friends.

  ‘Hard to believe, I agree.’

  Laughing, Elaine joined him on the settee. An inch of no-man’s-land separated them. ‘Spoken for, is she?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Call yourself a news hound? I bet she loves pretending to be a woman of mystery.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s pretending.’

  ‘Sounds like a witch who’s cast a spell on you. Come on. If I’ve got a rival, I want to hear all about her!’

  He spread his arms in an admission of defeat. ‘I don’t know much. Nobody does.’

  ‘Don’t try being evasive with me, Jacob Flint. I’m not stupid. Spill the beans!’

  Jacob suppressed a sigh. It was true: Elaine was far from stupid. Nor did she give up easily. He’d blundered by piquing her interest in Rachel Savernake.

  ‘I first heard her name mentioned by a constable I know. A few drinks one night loosened Stan Thurlow’s tongue, while we were discussing the Chorus Girl Murder.’

  Elaine frowned. She often said she’d stopped reading the newspapers, because they were too depressing. The Wall Street crash, the threatened slump, the world was going mad, and ordinary folk couldn’t do a blind thing about any of it.

  ‘Was that the poor girl who…?’

  ‘Dolly Benson, yes. She was suffocated and… violated. When I said I’d heard that the killer had committed suicide, he told me the story. A woman called Rachel Savernake had turned up out of the blue at Scotland Yard, and announced she knew the killer’s name. They’d already arrested Dolly’s former fiancé, and charged him with murder. Rachel Savernake is the daughter of a prominent judge, otherwise she’d never have got past the door. An amateur sleuth who happens to be a young woman. Why would self-respecting policemen take her seriously?’

  Elaine stroked his arm. ‘Never underestimate a woman.’

  ‘Rachel Savernake begged them to trace Claude Linacre’s movements on the night of the murder. Linacre was a rich dilettante, younger brother of a cabinet minister, and fancied himself as an artist. He admired the work of Walter Sickert, and shared his interest in the macabre, but not his talent. He’d joined the board of the theatre where Dolly worked, and knew her personally. Dolly gave her boyfriend the heave-ho, and boasted to friends she’d taken up with a millionaire. Rachel said that Linacre was Dolly’s lover. Her theory was that he’d turned violent because Dolly was expecting a baby.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘Yes, Dolly was pregnant, though the police never made that information public. Even so, Rachel’s claims seemed like wild speculation. She claimed to have a passion for detective work, but the powers-that-be at the Yard suspected her of bearing a grudge against Linacre. Perhaps he’d rebuffed her, and she wanted revenge. Perhaps she was simply a nosey parker with too much time on her hands. They thanked her politely for her interest, and sent her away. Twenty-four hours later, Linacre took strychnine. Enough to kill a horse, let alone a man.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Elaine shivered. ‘Did he leave a confession?’

  ‘No, but the police found incriminating evidence at his home in Chelsea. Half a dozen locks cut from the dead woman’s hair were tucked into his cigarette case. In his studio was a half-finished painting of Dolly in the nude, over which he’d scrawled obscenities.’

  ‘So your friend Rachel was right?’

  ‘She’s not my friend. The police also discovered a telegram she’d sent to Linacre. The message referred to a conversation they’d had on the telephone, and said she planned to call at his home.’

  Elaine’s eyes opened very wide. ‘It sounds as if he killed himself because he thought the game was up.’

  ‘Who knows? Rachel wasn’t called to give evidence at the inquest. The medical evidence suggested insanity, and the verdict was suicide. Linacre’s brother managed to hush up the whole business. The man charged with murdering Dolly Benson was released from custody, and the investigation quietly wound up. After pumping Thurlow, I asked Tom Betts about the case, and—’

  ‘Tom Betts is the chap who was run over the other day?’

  ‘Yes, poor devil. Our chief crime reporter. What I told him didn’t come as a surprise. He’d heard whispers about Rachel Savernake accusing Linacre of the murder, but nobody would talk to him on the record. Linacre’s brother is the Prime Minister’s right-hand man. He wields a good deal of power.’

  ‘So other journalists won’t risk printing the story?’

  ‘Even if they hear the same whispers, yes. But Rachel intrigued Tom. Why did she want to play detective, and what led her to suspect Linacre? She collects modern art, which may be how she heard rumours about him. He was notoriously boastful. Probably he gave himself away.’

  ‘Ah.’ Elaine smirked. ‘So Rachel Savernake isn’t really such a brilliant sleuth?’

  ‘If criminals never made mistakes, the prisons would be empty. The fact is that Rachel was right, and the Yard was wrong. Imagine what an exclusive that would make for the Clarion. But she ignored Tom’s requests for an interview. We didn’t even have a photograph of her. So he encouraged me to write a paragraph for our gossip column, dropping her name. He was desperate to draw her out, but it was a very long shot, and nothing came of it. He was still digging away when he was run over. With another woman savagely murdered in central London, I wondered if Rachel Savernake would involve herself. So did the Yard, according to my pal Thurlow.’

  She shot him a glance. ‘Surely the cases aren’t connected?’

  ‘How could they be? But if crime fascinates her… well, with Tom in such a bad way, I wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘Only to be sent away with a flea in your ear? Serves you right for bothering the poor woman on the Sabbath.’ Elaine giggled. ‘Is she beautiful?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Jacob said cautiously, ‘that depends on one’s taste.’

  ‘A man’s way of admitting that he’s smitten.’ Elaine gave a histrionic sigh. ‘Go on, then. I know you can’t resist a pretty face. Remember how you swooned over Queen Nefertiti?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t swoon!’

  ‘Get away with you. Anyhow, I want to hear all about this siren. What is she like?’

  ‘If women were allowed to sit as judges, she’d reduce any wretch in the dock to a jelly.’

  ‘But is she pretty?’

  Jacob dodged the question like a footballer swervin
g past a fullback’s tackle. ‘At least she hasn’t inherited the Savernake nose. When the Judge was on the bench, Punch printed a cartoon of him, making a joke about beaks.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Savernake of the Scaffold, people called him. He was notoriously harsh. His wife died before the war, and his mind began to give way. His behaviour in court became erratic, his sentencing ever more brutal. In the end, there was a scandal. He slashed his own throat during an adjournment at the Old Bailey.’

  ‘Good grief!’

  Elaine shuddered, and Jacob slid his arm around her, his sleeve just grazing her breast. ‘He didn’t die, but they made him retire from the judiciary. So he went back to Savernake Hall. The family home, on an island called Gaunt.’

  Her breath was warm on his cheek. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Out in the Irish Sea, off the west coast of Cumberland. Remote spot, by all accounts. At low tide, you can reach the mainland by a rough causeway. Otherwise you need to go by boat, but the current’s treacherous. Rachel grew up there, with a demented father and a handful of retainers for company.’

  Elaine shuddered again. ‘Sounds worse than being stuck inside Pentonville.’

  ‘Since her father died last year, she’s made a new life for herself. Her house overlooks one of London’s finest squares. The last owner was a company promoter. Within the past eighteen months, he fitted it out with every modern conve­nience, from a gymnasium and a darkroom in the base­ment to a swimming pool on the top floor.’

  ‘Why on earth did he sell it?’

  Jacob laughed. ‘The money he spent on it wasn’t his. He was found guilty of fraud, and sentenced to ten years in prison. Two of them with hard labour. Rachel bought the place from the trustee in bankruptcy, and named it Gaunt House.’

  Elaine pressed her warm leg against his. He inhaled her lavender scent. ‘Why on earth would she want to be reminded of being cut off from civilisation on a horrid, lonely island in the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘For all I know, it’s idyllic.’