Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘He didn’t seem in the best of health when he came here.’

  Trueman exhaled. ‘His body was fished out of the Thames. What was left of it, that is. Before his death, he’d undergone crude surgery. They must have tried to force him to talk.’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘Prolonging his agony was futile. He’d grown careless, but he couldn’t have told them anything they don’t already know.’

  ‘At least he was wise enough not to ask you questions.’

  She folded lean, sinewy arms. ‘His death alters nothing.’

  *

  ‘What’s wrong, Flint? You look like you’ve just read your own obituary.’

  Walter Gomersall’s habit was to wander round the office first thing in the morning, prior to his meeting with senior journalists to discuss which stories to concentrate upon for the day. His tone was jocular, but his expression suspicious.

  Jacob put down his copy of the Clarion.

  ‘Not my obituary,’ he said thickly.

  ‘Whose, then?’

  Jacob pointed to a paragraph at the bottom of page two. Body Dragged from Thames. The story warranted neither the front page prominence of Pardoe’s suicide nor extensive reporting. Corpses were dredged out of the river almost as often as Wellington boots. This story would barely have merited a line had it not been for the identity of the corpse.

  ‘Leviticus Shoemaker’s.’

  He almost choked on the name. The previous day they had been together, and now the old man’s remains were being poked over in some mortuary. The thought sickened him.

  ‘You knew Shoemaker?’

  ‘I talked to him yesterday.’

  Gomersall blinked. ‘And a few hours later he finished up in the Thames? Good God, Flint, you’re developing an uncanny nose for a story. First Pardoe, now this.’

  Bile rose in Jacob’s throat. He breathed deeply, desperate not to disgrace himself in front of his editor. ‘It’s the same story.’

  Gomersall scowled. ‘Riddles are all very well for our readers, but I can’t abide them. Be in my office in five minutes, with your thoughts straightened out, so you can explain yourself. In words of one syllable, mind. I’m a simple man.’

  Jacob nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and broke into a run on his way to the cloakroom. By the time he presented himself in the editor’s lair, he had regained a semblance of composure, despite the aching void inside him.

  Spread out on Gomersall’s desk was the latest Clarion. Beside it were two steaming mugs of tea. The editor motioned Jacob to take one. ‘Nowt better for helping a man get a grip of himself after a shock. Now then, lad, what is all this? Begin at the beginning.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Jacob drank some tea. ‘The lead came from Mr Plenderleith. He mentioned rumours that Shoemaker had been asking questions about Lawrence Pardoe.’

  ‘So you decided to question Shoemaker? Despite his repu­tation for being close-mouthed?’ Jacob nodded. ‘Ah, the optimism of youth.’

  ‘When I met him, he was injured. His face was a mess, and he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He told me two ruffians had set upon him at the Tube station.’

  ‘He’s Jewish,’ Gomersall said. ‘These things are happening more and more, especially in the East End. Once the economy falters, folk cast round for someone to blame, someone different from them. I don’t like it, but it’s the way of the world.’

  ‘He said they warned him off. That is, to drop his investigations.’

  ‘Pardoe is dead. There is nothing more to investigate.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Jacob’s spirits were recovering. ‘Shoemaker took them seriously. He told me he was about to leave the country.’

  Gomersall shrugged. ‘Getting on in years, wasn’t he? He must have made his pile. Probably he was ready to retire, and put his feet up in warmer climes.’

  ‘He was frightened, and even insisted I shouldn’t leave by the main door to the building. I shinned down the fire ladder, nearly breaking my neck on the way. By the time I reached the ground, I was cursing him for an excess of imagination.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ Gomersall said. ‘Notice any hooligans lurking nearby?’

  ‘No, sir. It was dark, and I was more than ready to get home. I thought Shoemaker was exaggerating when he suggested he and I were in danger. Now I’m…’

  ‘He said you were at risk? What reason did he give?’

  ‘It must be the Pardoe case. Nothing else makes sense. Someone doesn’t want the truth about that business to come to light.’

  ‘We know the truth. Pardoe indulged a barbaric murderous fantasy after learning he hadn’t long to live. You’re not saying he didn’t kill Mary-Jane Hayes?’

  ‘I simply don’t know.’

  Removing a pencil from behind his ear, Gomersall drew a circle around the paragraph reporting the fire. ‘This is Oliver McAlinden’s story. Maybe he has more background that the subs cut out. Shoemaker may have been drunk, and fallen into the river by accident.’

  ‘Too much of a coincidence.’

  The editor harrumphed. ‘Come back to me when you have a properly sourced story to run, and not before. And one more thing.’

  Jacob gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, Mr Gomersall?’

  ‘Wipe that sulky look off your face.’

  *

  Oliver McAlinden, three years Jacob’s senior, was as sleek as a Whitehall mandarin. The resemblance was inherited; his father was a permanent secretary in the Home Office. In the presence of his superiors, McAlinden’s manner was as oily as his hair and complexion, but he had a habit of mocking colleagues behind their backs, and his mimicry of Gomersall’s northern vowels was amusing in small doses.

  Early in their acquaintance, he’d told Jacob he was moving out of his lodgings at Edgar House, and recommended Mrs Dowd as a landlady whose charges were modest and cooking excellent. This act of kindness made Jacob think they would become good friends, but one evening after work, Oily McAlinden had invited him along to an ill-lit casino and club in Wardour Street, where men held hands and occasionally kissed each other, even if they didn’t have the excuse of winning at roulette. One grey-haired man in a velvet smoking jacket had even blown Jacob a kiss, much to McAlinden’s amusement.

  ‘Your luck’s in, my boy. I happen to know that fellow is worth upwards of a million, even in these troubled times.’

  ‘I think I’d better say goodnight.’

  ‘Quite right. You go and amuse yourself with him,’ McAlinden said, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Mum’s the word, eh?’

  ‘No.’ Jacob felt like a bewildered child. ‘I’m going straight back to Edgar House.’

  ‘Nothing like this in darkest Dewsbury, eh?’ McAlinden demanded in a passable Yorkshire accent. ‘I bet there is, you know. It’s just a question of knowing where to look.’

  After that night, Jacob became wary of McAlinden. Live and let live was his creed. He didn’t care what other people got up to in their own lives, but he was dubious about his colleague’s motives. McAlinden’s prose was pedestrian, but he fizzed with ambition. Unfair it might be, but Jacob had a sneaking fear that McAlinden was capable of seeking to lure him into an indiscretion, with a view to exploiting it for his own benefit.

  ‘Sorry,’ McAlinden said with patent insincerity when Jacob bumped into him coming out of Tom Betts’ office, and asked what else he knew about Shoemaker’s death. ‘Can’t tell you any more than I put in my paragraph. A Jewish private detective, eh, what next? Nothing more than a glorified debt collector, I expect. The only surprise is that he lived to such a ripe old age. I wager a box of cigars to a burnt match that he was done in by someone with a grudge. Ever meet a truly popular Jew? No, it’s a contradiction in terms. So why are you interested in this Shylock Holmes?’

  Sickened, Jacob didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Long story,’ he mumbled.

  McAlinden yawned. ‘Save it for some other time, there’s a good chap. I have to cover a meeting where Mosley is due to s
peak. Funny cove, but not to be written off. I have a saving bet on his becoming our next Prime Minister if some misfortune befalls Alfred Linacre.’

  *

  As soon as McAlinden disappeared from sight, Jacob sneaked into Betts’ office. Nobody had attempted to impose order upon the mess of papers and litter during Betts’ absence, and Jacob hoped for clues to Tom’s investigation into Rachel Savernake. He pored over a handful of buff document files, looking for mention of her, or of Gallows Court. His quest yielded several old pieces of orange peel and the disgusting remains of a banana skin.

  He found only one reference to Rachel. Her name, and the telephone number of Gaunt House, were scribbled on the carbon copy of Tom’s story about the killing of the escaped prisoner, Harold Coleman. After ten minutes, he abandoned his search, and returned to his own desk. Still no word from Rachel. After his encounter with McAlinden, Jacob’s temper was fraying, and he started to draft another telegram.

  After discarding several versions, he settled for brevity. I talked to Shoemaker shortly before he was murdered. Cryptic enough to be impossible to ignore? Surely the woman must wonder if her tame investigator had given her game away? Whatever her game was.

  As soon as he’d sent the telegram, he attempted to secure an appointment with Vincent Hannaway, but was told by a clerk as condescending as Oily McAlinden that Mr Hannaway was out of the office, attending upon clients, and would not be back until later in the afternoon, in time to sign his post. His diary was full for the next few days, but if Mr Flint cared to submit an enquiry in writing, and perhaps a letter of introduction…

  Jacob rang off, and tried his luck with Scotland Yard. Inspector Oakes’ minions also did their utmost to fob him off, until Jacob said that he was calling about a murder. Finally he was put through to the man himself.

  ‘When I asked you to keep in touch,’ Oakes said, a sliver of wry humour robbing his words of their sting, ‘I didn’t contemplate a daily briefing.’

  ‘You know Levi Shoemaker is dead?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I believe he was murdered.’

  A long pause followed. ‘I shall need a break for lunch. Meet me at the Earl of Chatham at one o’clock.’

  *

  Shoemaker’s note was burning a hole in his pocket. Jacob’s moral dilemma about whether or not to take a peek had been resolved, more quickly and more dreadfully than either of them could have imagined. If I give this to you, will you swear not to open it, unless and until something happens to me? That condition had been fulfilled within hours.

  On second thoughts, Shoemaker had imagined it. It could only have been because he expected to die in the near future that he’d entrusted confidential information to a young reporter he’d only just met.

  Almost certainly, Shoemaker had been killed by the two men who had attacked him shortly before Jacob’s arrival. They’d kept an eye on him when he left Aldgate East, and after seeing him accompanied by a journalist to his office, they’d silenced him. Jacob guessed they were acting on instructions. Who had ordered them to kill Shoemaker?

  Shoemaker had worked for Rachel Savernake. Had he outlived his usefulness to her, and become a threat because he knew too much? Over the years Shoemaker must have found himself in many a tight corner, yet terror had shone in his eyes as he ushered Jacob to the fire ladder. He knew what she was capable of.

  Rachel Savernake is the most dangerous woman in England.

  Jacob shivered. Was he the next target? Surely nobody would risk trying to kill him. Betts’ accident wasn’t being treated as suspicious, but if something happened to a second Clarion reporter interested in Rachel Savernake, Gomersall would not let it rest. Nor, he thought, would Inspector Oakes.

  The office was thick with cigarette smoke, and Jacob needed air in his lungs. He hurried downstairs, and out of the building. Furtive as a sneak thief, he slipped into a narrow alleyway. Nobody was watching him, as far as he knew, but he was not in the mood to take chances. When he was satisfied that not even a casual passer-by could see him, he took out the envelope and ripped it open.

  The old man’s hasty scrawl was hard to read, and he seemed to have written his message in a crude form of code.

  CGCGCG91192PIRVYBC

  Jacob could make nothing of it. He stuffed the sheet back into his pocket, and made his way back to the office. If only Levi Shoemaker had written a last message both lucid and newsworthy.

  *

  ‘Sounds like Shoemaker told you next to nothing,’ Oakes said, munching the last of his bread and cheese.

  The Earl of Chatham was crowded with sober-suited civil servants, and loud, hefty young men who, Jacob presumed, were numbered among Scotland Yard’s finest. On the principle of hiding a leaf in a forest, it seemed reasonable to have a confidential conversation in a place so noisy that nobody could overhear anything. For all Jacob knew, the government officials at the nearest table were spies trading state secrets. But Oakes was taking no chances. He’d chosen a nook sheltered by a snob-screen of frosted glass. It might have been designed to protect well-to-do customers from the scrutiny of the lower orders, but it was perfect for people wanting to have a discreet conversation about murder.

  ‘Not as much as I’d hoped, no.’

  Jacob felt a pinprick of disappointment. He’d expected to startle Oakes with his claim that Levi Shoemaker had been killed by thugs, but the inspector seemed unimpressed.

  Oakes wiped his mouth, and lit a cigarette. He offered one to Jacob, who shook his head. ‘I spoke to my colleague, Inspector Batty, who is in charge of the investigation into the death. He’s ahead of you. His working hypothesis is that Shoemaker was thrown in the Thames, perhaps by someone he’d worked for or investigated. It seems that… parts of his body had been amputated before he died.’

  Jacob’s gorge rose. ‘Wicked.’

  ‘Very.’ Oakes’ expression was as dark as the wood panelling all around them.

  ‘I thought he was making a fuss when he insisted I leave by the fire ladder,’ Jacob said, trying to suppress his vivid imagination. The last thing he wanted was to picture the agony of the detective’s dying moments. ‘In fact, he knew we were in mortal danger. Levi Shoemaker saved my life.’

  ‘Don’t be too quick to make him out to be a hero,’ Oakes said. ‘The culprit or culprits were probably after money, or information. I doubt they had any interest in you.’

  ‘I wish I could be so sure.’

  ‘Shoemaker was an enquiry agent. That’s a dirty game, however cleanly you try to play. He’ll have made enemies.’

  Jacob took a swig of bitter. On the way here, he’d wrestled with the question of how much to divulge. Oakes was approachable, but he and Jacob served different masters. Oakes would keep information back without compunction if it suited his purposes; equally, Jacob had no intention of blurting out everything he knew or suspected. As regards Shoemaker’s curious scribbled message, he needed to make sense of it before deciding whether to share it with the police.

  ‘I never met him,’ Oakes said, ‘but he was renowned for being tight-lipped. That’s why the rich and famous flocked to his door, when they needed help we were unable to give. Still, it’s a pity you couldn’t prise anything out of him that might identify his attackers, or anyone who hired them.’

  ‘He didn’t say a word.’ The scribbled note did not count, Jacob told himself. ‘I came away no wiser.’

  ‘Ah, well. So what do you plan to do next?’

  ‘I intend to call on Vincent Hannaway, solicitor to the late Lawrence Pardoe.’

  Oakes’ eyebrows lifted. ‘And what do you hope to glean from him?’

  ‘I’m planning to write an article about Pardoe. Our readers have been denied a trial that would have kept them enter­tained, but I won’t let the story drop. Anything you can tell me about Hannaway?’

  ‘His firm is old-established, eminently respectable. Founded by his grandfather, I believe. His father is getting on, and has taken a back seat. They handle busine
ss and trust work, hence the connection with Pardoe. We never come across them in our line of business. They don’t conduct criminal cases, so there aren’t any thieves and vagabonds among their clients.’

  ‘Not counting bankers, and the better class of murderer?’

  Oakes laughed. ‘Surely you don’t expect Hannaway to talk freely? Why would a solicitor give the time of day to the young whippersnapper who trumpeted news of his client’s suicide on the front page of the Clarion?’

  ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

  ‘I admire your optimism, Mr Flint. Do you intend to call on Hannaway today?’

  ‘Yes, his chambers are only moments from Fleet Street.’

  ‘Gallows Court, that’s right.’ Oakes allowed himself the glimmer of a smile. ‘Once upon a time, it was a place of execution. Watch out if Hannaway gives you plenty of rope. Chances are, he’ll try to hang you.’

  15

  ‘Jacob Flint is losing patience.’ Rachel held her hand out for the telegram. As she read it, a faint smile crept across her face. ‘Now he wants me to know he chatted with Shoemaker before he died. Presumably he expects me to panic.’

  ‘He’ll wait a long time for that,’ Mrs Trueman said. ‘I sometimes wonder if you were born without a nerve in your body. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Flint’s like a boisterous terrier, constantly demanding attention,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s time to throw him another bone.’

  She was writing in her study when Trueman rapped on the door, and marched in without waiting for a reply. She blotted the sheet of notepaper, and slid it into an envelope.

  ‘You spoke to our friend from the Inanity?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we met in a public house in Battersea.’

  ‘Any sign that he’s having second thoughts?’

  Trueman shrugged his brawny shoulders. ‘Nothing is certain in this life, we both know that. However, he swears he’s determined to see it through to the bitter end. Not long ago, he was on the verge of swallowing poison. Now he has a purpose.’