‘Name of Flint.’ Chadwick jabbed a forefinger at the newspaper on top of the General’s pile. ‘The lad came down from Leeds to join the Clarion.’
‘Worst of the “Pennies”, if you ask me.’ Sir Godfrey’s nose wrinkled with disdain. The Clarion’s withering leader about CID’s inefficient handling of the Chorus Girl Murder had blamed the man in charge.
The superintendent, who had profited many times from the Clarion’s racing tips, and found the paper’s more sober-minded rivals dull, kept his mouth shut. ‘You may be aware that Betts, their chief crime correspondent, was run over recently?’
‘Stepped into the gutter once too often, I expect.’
‘I hear the doctors are fighting a losing battle. Flint is wet behind the ears, but is said to be ambitious.’
‘Why would anyone tip him the wink about Pardoe?’
‘Oakes talked to him last night, sir. Shall I call him in?’
Chadwick pushed the button on the house telephone, and refilled his pipe. Within a minute, the pair were joined by a thin, sharp-chinned man twenty years their junior. Inspector Philip Oakes was a rarity, a product of Repton and Caius who had opted to join the police, and apply his intellect to detective work. An expensive education was not a recipe for easy popularity among fellow police officers, and Chadwick shared the widespread scepticism about the youthful graduate, with his wide vocabulary and civilised table manners. Whether Oakes’ success in clambering up the greasy pole was due to brains and hard work, or mainly to luck and knowing the right people, was hotly debated within the Police Federation.
‘Flint claimed not to know who advised him to turn up at Pardoe’s place,’ Oakes said.
Sir Godfrey pursed fleshy lips. ‘You believed him?’
‘I never believe anything a newspaperman tells me, sir,’ Oakes replied. ‘Flint showed me the note that was delivered to his lodgings. I said I’d like to test it for fingerprints, and he made only a token protest.’
‘Presumably he anticipated that the only prints on the note would be his?’ Chadwick said.
‘Quite, sir. And so it proved.’
‘You don’t think he wrote the note himself?’
‘His landlady confirms that the note was delivered to her house yesterday evening, when Flint was talking to her daughter. Of course, he might have arranged it himself.’
‘That would be bizarre,’ the assistant commissioner said.
‘What really is bizarre, Sir Godfrey, is where the notepaper came from. It doesn’t bear an address, but it’s an exact match for Pardoe’s personal stationery. We found a supply in the room where he shot himself.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘We checked with the stationer’s, a high quality firm in Bond Street. They haven’t sold that brand of paper for eighteen months. One of the last customers for it was Lawrence Pardoe. That doesn’t prove that the sheet came from Pardoe’s stock, but if it didn’t, the coincidence is breathtaking.’
‘You think Pardoe sent the note to Flint?’
‘I can’t imagine why he would, sir, but it’s one of three possibilities. Another is that Flint sent the message to himself. Or else a third party did so.’
‘A third party? Someone in whom Pardoe confided?’
‘Or someone who knew he was about to kill himself.’
Chadwick scowled. ‘One of his servants? His secretary?’
‘Alternatively, an outsider.’
‘Who have you got in mind, Oakes?’ Sir Godfrey demanded. ‘Spit it out, man.’
‘I put a name to Jacob Flint,’ Oakes said. ‘He wouldn’t confirm that I’d scored a hit, but since his face turned beetroot red, I drew my own conclusions.’
‘Which were?’
‘In my judgement, he believes the note came from Miss Rachel Savernake.’
Sir Godfrey swivelled in his chair. ‘What do you make of that, Chadwick? Might she be involved?’
‘Impossible to say, sir.’ Another secret of the superintendent’s success was an ability to avoid committing himself to controversial opinions. ‘Frankly, it seems a long shot. And it doesn’t explain how she laid her hands on the notepaper.’
‘What makes Flint think she knew Pardoe murdered Mary-Jane Hayes? Let alone that he was about to commit suicide?’
‘Journalistic speculation,’ Oakes suggested. ‘He’s learned of her connection with the Dolly Benson case. The Covent Garden killing has been all over the press. If he suspects she’s acquired a taste for looking into notorious crimes…’
‘You’re not convinced, Chadwick?’
The bullet head lifted. ‘Ask yourself why she accused that swine Linacre of butchering Dolly Benson, sir. I reckon she was paying off a private score.’
‘And made a lucky guess?’ Oakes asked quietly.
‘What else could it be? Brilliant amateurs belong to the story books. Sleuthing is no game for a lady. Feminine intuition is scarcely a substitute for meticulous detective work. At most, the Linacre case was an exception proving the rule. A pure fluke.’
‘What do you say, Oakes?’
‘For the past forty-eight hours, the newspapers have salivated over Mary-Jane Hayes’ murder, and the fact her head was cut off. Crime evidently fascinates Miss Savernake. It would be astounding if she wasn’t temped to play the detective again. If anyone is shrewd enough to have got onto Pardoe’s trail, I’d put my money on her.’
Chadwick twisted his pipe cleaner into the shape of a triangle. ‘And how do you suppose she pinned the crime on Pardoe?’
‘There you have me, sir,’ Oakes said pleasantly. ‘But assume she let Pardoe know she was on his track. She may have foreseen that he’d kill himself rather than face due process of law, just as Linacre did. Hence the note to Flint.’
‘Why contact him rather than us?’ Sir Godfrey demanded.
‘Perhaps our response last time disappointed her.’
Chadwick grunted. ‘Far-fetched.’
‘True, sir. But with respect, it’s in keeping with Miss Savernake’s modus operandi. She moves in mysterious ways.’
Sir Godfrey nodded. ‘After Linacre killed himself, there was no question of her seeking to embarrass us or hog the limelight. I must say I liked that. Discretion is a fine quality in a woman.’
‘Why did she approach Linacre?’ Chadwick demanded. ‘Candidly, gentlemen, I wouldn’t trust that woman an inch. If she wasn’t well-born and handsome, we’d regard her behaviour as deeply suspicious.’
The assistant commissioner frowned. Chadwick seldom spoke so bluntly, and had never before hinted at class consciousness. Surely the fellow didn’t still have a chip on his shoulder because his father was a drayman from Shoreditch?
‘Even if I’m right,’ Oakes said, ‘there is a second riddle. If Rachel Savernake suspected Pardoe was a murderer, and planned to kill himself – why tell Flint rather than one of the established crime correspondents?’
‘Perhaps,’ Sir Godfrey mused, ‘she reasoned that an ambitious young journalist would be content to break an exclusive story without asking too many questions about where his tip-off came from.’
‘There’s another possibility,’ Oakes said. ‘I keep my eye on what the papers say, and I’ve been looking out for Rachel Savernake’s name. She’s young, attractive, and unmarried, and not afraid to spend her considerable wealth. In a word, she is newsworthy, yet her name is curiously absent from the cheap prints. Recently, however, the Clarion ran a gossipy paragraph about her. Trivial nonsense, but it described her as enigmatic, and mentioned that she enjoyed solving fiendish puzzles. Crosswords, acrostics, chess problems, you name it. Reading between the lines, you might detect a coded hint at the part she played in the Linacre case. I wonder if Flint wrote that piece. Does he suspect there’s more to Miss Savernake than meets the eye?’
Sir Godfrey picked up his paper cutter, and stabbed the blotting pad with it. ‘Something discreditable?’
‘Frankly, sir, I can’t answer that. Why should a young woman with money to burn
interest herself in murder?’
‘At all events, it’s hardly our concern. Pardoe is dead, and the Covent Garden case is solved.’ Sir Godfrey smiled. ‘All’s well that ends well. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Well, Chadwick? You’re grimacing when you ought to be cock-a-hoop.’
‘Forgive me, Sir Godfrey.’ The superintendent rose. ‘Of course, I’m delighted to put a tricky case to bed. Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me…’
‘One small point does remain unresolved,’ Oakes said.
‘Namely?’ Sir Godfrey demanded.
‘A chessman was found next to Pardoe’s inkwell. A black pawn.’
‘What of it?’
‘The curious thing is this, sir. We found no chess set in the house.’
6
‘An exquisite corpse,’ Rachel Savernake took a sip from her glass. Vintage burgundy, the colour of blood.
Her companion hesitated before responding with a well-practised smile. A tall, dark Catalan, whose sharply tailored suit was as elegant as his manners, he had greeted Rachel Savernake as if she were a princess. She was the patron – he deplored the word customer – whose purchases ensured the prosperity of the Galeria Garcia at a time when most rich art-lovers were shell-shocked by the carnage on the markets. The gallery was a dense fug of people and cigar smoke, but Rachel guessed the other guests were keener to relish the fruits of Javier Garcia’s wine cellar than to squander their money on modern art.
‘Ah yes,’ Garcia said. ‘Cadavre exquis. I have an example next door from Barcelona. You might care to…’
‘Cadaver?’ murmured a voice behind them, barely audible in the hubbub. ‘That’s my line of country. At a private view, I’d hoped to escape them for an evening.’
Garcia spun on his heels. ‘My good sir, your sense of humour is as acute as ever. Excuse me, have you met Miss Rachel Savernake? Dear lady, this is Mr Rufus Paul, the…’
‘The forensic pathologist.’ Rachel gave an ingénue’s sweet smile. ‘Of course I am familiar with your name.’
Rufus Paul, portly and red-cheeked, had once been described by Thomas Betts in the Clarion, in an account of a trial where his testimony sent a wife-murderer to the gallows, as looking like a village butcher. If so, he was a butcher of the highest class. His flair for conjuring a capital case for the Crown out of the most microscopic human remains was uncanny, while his evidence as an expert witness had more than once saved defendants with deep pockets from the scaffold.
Rachel gripped his beefy hand, and imagined it wielding a cleaver. She noticed his gaze slide downwards. Most men would enjoy examining her figure, clad in a silk dress designed by Sonia Delaunay, but Paul’s professionally curious demeanour suggested he was checking how much flesh she had on her bones.
‘Honour to meet you, Miss Savernake,’ he said, as Garcia slipped away to court more guests. ‘As a young fellow, I testified before your late father at the Old Bailey. An experience I shall never forget.’
‘As disconcerting as my enthusiasm for cadavers, no doubt. Javier and I were talking about the surrealists, and I mentioned the notion of the exquisite corpse.’
‘Alas,’ Paul said. ‘I’m a humble Hay Wain man. For me, the real world is challenge enough. No corpse I’ve ever seen has been in the least exquisite.’
‘Exquisite corpses?’ An elderly man with a patrician air joined them. ‘Parlour game, y’know. People pass notes around, each adding a word or two at random, waiting to see what strange hybrid phrase results. Once, so the story goes, the upshot was: the exquisite corpse will drink the young wine. Inspired the surrealists to all kinds of visual experiments, drawing bodies in collaboration, made up of seemingly ill-matched parts. Their work isn’t to my personal taste, frankly, but chacun à son goût. Forgive me, I shouldn’t get carried away. Am I right in presuming that I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Rachel Savernake?’
‘You know Sir Eustace Leivers?’ Paul said to Rachel. ‘My dear Miss Savernake, may I introduce the doyen of Harley Street? Between us, he and I care for both the living and the dead. Of course, his work is far more important than mine. Should the King fall ill, be assured the Palace will send for Leivers. Not content with being London’s pre-eminent doctor, he’s a walking encyclopaedia on pretty much any subject you care to name.’
Sir Eustace’s gracious bow indicated that he took flattery as his due. Rachel said it was an enormous pleasure to be in such company, and asked the men for their opinion of a drawing by Duchamp. As Leivers and Paul pontificated, her gaze drifted across the gallery. Only a handful of the guests were women, all expensively dressed, and none under forty. She spotted the austere features of Alfred Linacre, brother of Dolly Benson’s murderer. He was deep in conversation with two other men instantly recognisable by anyone who ever opened a newspaper. One was William Keary, the Irish actor, the other a thickset man called Heslop, the trade union leader widely credited with the abandonment of the General Strike after only nine days. As she watched, Linacre murmured to his companions, and all three men glanced over in her direction. Demure as a nun, she looked away.
The door at the far end of the gallery swung open, and in strolled a tall, confident man, immaculately pin-striped. He accepted a glass from a hovering waiter, even as his eyes shifted around the room. When he caught sight of Rachel, he gave a nod of satisfaction, as a sportsman might do on a grouse shoot, the moment he spotted his quarry.
He advanced towards her. ‘Miss Rachel Savernake, I presume? My name is Vincent Hannaway. I’ve been waiting to meet you for such a very long time.’
*
‘I suppose,’ Inspector Oakes said disarmingly, ‘that I’ll be wasting my time if I repeat the question you dodged last night. How did you come to be present outside the home of Lawrence Pardoe within moments of our own arrival?’
‘You suppose correctly,’ Jacob replied. ‘I told you everything I know.’
This wasn’t true. He was certain that Gallows Court meant something to Rachel Savernake. In their brief conversation, he’d dented Rachel’s cool self-assurance enough for her to bang the telephone down on him.
He and Oakes were sipping strong tea in a windowless office down in the bowels of Scotland Yard. Jacob still couldn’t quite believe his luck. Senior policemen seldom granted young journalists the time of day, far less summoned them to a private, off the record tête-à-tête. Oakes was one of a new breed of police officer, well-educated and sophisticated, very different from the hard-bitten sceptics who regarded newspapermen as the spawn of the devil. Rumour had it that he was destined for the top of the tree, and no doubt he’d prove more effective than that superannuated old soldier Sir Godfrey Mulhearn. Oakes could become an invaluable contact for years to come, Jacob thought. The trick was to develop the right kind of professional relationship from the start. Cordial but not too chummy, discreet yet down-to-earth.
The inspector leaned back in his chair, and put his hands behind his head. ‘So what do you make of this business?’
‘You’re the policeman,’ Jacob said. ‘You tell me.’
His impudence was met with a bleak smile. ‘It’s because I’m a police officer that I’m asking the questions.’
‘On the face of matters, Pardoe saved you a deal of trouble.’ Jacob put down his cup. ‘Might I see his suicide note?’
‘That is asking too much, Mr Flint.’ Oakes seemed amused by Jacob’s cheek. ‘I can assure you that the gist is unremarkable. He indicates that he’d come across Mary-Jane Hayes – he doesn’t say how – and fell for her. When she failed to reciprocate his interest, he… took it amiss. He briefly describes strangling her and cutting off her head, in a way that precisely corresponds with the evidence. There’s no doubt about the authenticity of his confession.’
‘The world is full of spurned lovers, but when a woman rejects one’s overtures, it’s unusual to retaliate by decapitating her.’
Oakes shrugged. ‘Despair does strange things to a man, or so they tel
l me.’
Jacob guessed that Oakes had never been troubled by self-doubt, let alone despair. Newspaper cuttings recorded a serene and pre-ordained progress through life. He was the fifth son of a baronet, and his family owned an extensive estate in the Home Counties. Remarkably, all his older brothers had survived the war, and he would never inherit the baronetcy, but he’d been a popular head boy at school, an oarsman good enough to win a blue, and was now the youngest inspector at the Yard. Small wonder that he exuded confidence as well as authority.
‘Mary-Jane Hayes’ torso was found in an alleyway in Covent Garden early in the morning, by a fellow on his way to work at the market,’ Jacob said. ‘Pardoe must have killed and dismembered her in the vicinity. Did he explain where he did the deed?’
‘There’s an unoccupied but well-furnished house in a mews a short distance from the market. The title deeds are in the name of a company personally owned by Pardoe. We suspect he lured the woman there on a pretext, and that’s where she died.’
‘Not McAlinden Mews by any chance?’ Jacob asked, borrowing the name of a colleague in a shameless subterfuge.
Oakes was far too experienced to fall into such a trap. ‘Sorry, Mr Flint, I’m not disclosing the address. We don’t want the place to become some kind of macabre shrine. Suffice to say that Pardoe cleaned up after himself, but imperfectly. He left traces of blood and tissue. As you know, he put her body in one sack, and her clothes and bag in another, before abandoning both nearby. The head he kept in his possession. Presumably he regarded it as some ghastly form of trophy.’
‘Pardoe baffles me, Inspector. Homicidal mania is one of the few sins nobody has attributed to financiers until now. Had he been issuing fraudulent stocks?’
‘His solicitor, a fellow called Hannaway, assures us that Pardoe’s financial dealings were beyond reproach. As a director of Pardoe’s Bank, Hannaway has a vested interest in damping down speculation, but we’ve found no indications that Pardoe was either dishonest or unsuccessful.’
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