Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Excellent. I feel quite altruistic.’ Rachel picked up the envelope. ‘Would you take this to Jacob Flint? I’m inviting him along this evening.’

  ‘You’re confident he’ll accept?’

  ‘He’s desperate to find out what I’m up to. Why would he decline?’

  ‘People blow with the wind.’

  ‘Not us.’ Rachel handed Trueman the envelope. ‘The choice is Flint’s. Turn me down, and he misses the story of a lifetime.’

  *

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  Having memorised Shoemaker’s cryptic message, Jacob found it impossible to get the string of letters and numbers out of his head. As he walked along the Strand, the characters jigged around in his brain, tantalising and provocative as cancan dancers. His love of mystery meant he was attracted to codes and ciphers. He’d read spellbinding tales about the cryptanalysts who had worked in Room 40 at the Admiralty during the Great War. Yet he could never have held down such a job. A teacher’s long-ago jibe that he had a butterfly mind had come uncomfortably close to the truth. He was the last person to pore over a set of meaningless squiggles day after day, week after week. Left to him, the Zimmerman Telegram would never have been cracked, and the United States might never have declared war on Germany.

  On his arrival at Clarion House, Peggy on the front desk condescended to hand him an envelope. ‘Bloke came in not five minutes ago,’ she said. ‘Said to give you this, the instant you walked through the door.’

  Jacob tore it open. The message said simply, Finsbury Town Hall at seven tonight. The note was unsigned, but the handwriting bore a strong resemblance to the summons to South Audley Street on the night of Pardoe’s death.

  ‘This bloke, what did he look like?’

  ‘Big chap, ugly-looking blighter,’ she sneered. ‘Friend of yours, is he?’

  *

  The next task on his list was to pay a surprise visit to Gallows Court, and Lawrence Pardoe’s solicitor. There was just enough time to squeeze in a visit before racing back to Edgar House, and apologising to Elaine for cancelling their date, in favour of an assignation at Finsbury Town Hall with – he presumed – Rachel Savernake.

  Gallows Court was tucked away in an unfrequented corner at the back of Lincoln’s Inn, a tiny rectangular cul-de-sac squeezed between New Square Passage and Carey Street. A quartet of tall brick buildings loomed over a cobbled courtyard reached by a dank alleyway no wider than an arm’s stretch. A scaffold had once stood here, although the last public execution, of a woman convicted of stealing from a shop, dated back two hundred years. Standing on the spot where she had been strangled to death in the name of justice, Jacob supposed that Gallows Court had become an unpopular venue for entertainment, far too cramped for spectators to gain a good view of the death throes. Even on a summer’s day, when fingers of sunlight might probe between the chimneys, the oppressive atmosphere would induce claustrophobia in the hardiest soul. In the gathering dusk, with gas lamps casting a murky yellow glow over the cobblestones, Gallows Court struck him as worse than sinister. Its eeriness was frightening.

  He walked round the courtyard, and saw that three of the buildings were occupied by barristers’ chambers. A discreet brass plate on the railings outside the fourth bore the name Hannaway & Hannaway. Jacob ran up the short flight of steps to the entrance, and pushed the bell. His plan was to catch the lawyer at the end of the working day, with no clients left in the waiting room to provide an excuse for refusing to see him. The flaw in his scheme, he realised, was that the well of solicitors’ excuses never runs dry.

  The heavy oak door creaked open, and a painfully thin man of about sixty, clad in a dusty suit and wearing pince-nez, peered out at him. He resembled a cadaver who had stepped out of a coffin, and who was inclined, having seen Jacob, to return there in disgust.

  ‘The office is closed for business. If you desire an appoint­ment, come back again at nine o’clock tomorrow.’

  Jacob put his foot in the door to ensure that the cadaver didn’t slam it shut. ‘Mr Hannaway?’

  ‘Certainly not. I am his chief clerk.’ An edge of contempt emphasised the absurdity of the firm’s proprietor opening his own front door to unexpected callers. ‘Moreover, I should add that Mr Hannaway does not see clients other than those who come with a letter of introduction.’

  ‘I’m not a prospective client.’ Jacob saw no point in beating about the bush. With a member of the legal profession, that was a game he could never win. ‘I wish to speak to Mr Hannaway about the late Lawrence Pardoe.’

  The cadaver glared. ‘Out of the question. Mr Hannaway would never discuss a client with third parties.’

  ‘I’m not a prying member of the public.’ Jacob flourished his card. ‘I’d be obliged if you would take this to Mr Hannaway without further prevarication.’

  In the corridor behind the cadaver, a door opened, and a brisk voice demanded, ‘What is it, Broadis?’

  ‘Mr Hannaway?’ Jacob called out. ‘I’m only asking for a moment of your time.’

  The cadaver glanced over his skinny shoulder. His master waved him aside, and walked briskly forward to snatch the card from Jacob’s hand. Vincent Hannaway was far from the elderly, dessicated creature of Jacob’s imagination. With wavy black hair, and an unexpectedly sensuous mouth, he might almost have been described as handsome. His lips pursed as he read the name on the card.

  ‘The Clarion, eh?’

  ‘I wrote a report—’

  ‘Yes. I do not make a habit of reading your newspaper, but your story was drawn to my attention following Mr Pardoe’s death. Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m working on a related article. Lawrence Pardoe was a successful man, with no history of violence. The case is not only horrific but also psychologically compelling. My readers would love to know the background to… what occurred.’

  ‘If they desire entertainment, let them go to the circus.’

  ‘They desire knowledge and understanding.’ Jacob enjoyed pretending to be pompous. ‘Stories about real life.’

  ‘My client’s affairs are confidential.’

  ‘Your client is dead, Mr Hannaway.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my professional obligations endure. I am the executor of his estate.’

  ‘You and Lawrence Pardoe shared business interests as well.’

  Hannaway considered him. ‘Do you know how much I charge for an hour of my time, Mr Flint?’

  ‘More than many of our readers earn in a month, I expect. Luckily, I’m not calling on you for paid advice. May I come in?’

  Broadis took a step forward, as if itching to slam the door in Jacob’s face, but Hannaway halted him with a movement of the hand. ‘Five minutes, not a second longer. I have an appointment at the theatre this evening, and I do not intend to be late. Follow me.’

  Jacob trotted after him down the corridor, passing open doors which gave on to the waiting room and a cubbyhole with desks for Broadis and a secretary, before reaching Hannaway’s private office. Bookshelves filled with fat volumes of law reports took up most of the wall space, together with professional certificates and a framed cartoon of bewigged lawyers milking the cow of Litigation. A gold clock ticked on the top of an oak cabinet which, Jacob presumed, held client files. Hannaway settled himself behind a vast desk, and motioned Jacob into a deep-cushioned chair. Presumably a solicitor who charged by the hour had every incentive to encourage his clients to linger in comfort.

  ‘Very well, Mr Flint. You arrived at my client’s house moments after the police were called. What took you there?’

  ‘You’ll have to allow me more than five minutes if you start asking questions,’ Jacob said. ‘Like you, I am bound by obligations of confidentiality. Now, I gather from the police that Lawrence Pardoe left the bulk of his estate to a deserving cause. Such generosity seems hardly the act of a monstrous sadist.’

  Hannaway studied Jacob, as if memorising every freckle on his face. ‘I can only tell you this. In my dealings with Lawrence Pardoe over
many years, I found him trustworthy and honourable.’

  ‘You never dreamed he might be capable of…’

  ‘Forgive me, but I’m neither a mind-reader nor a psychiatrist, merely a humble solicitor.’ Jacob had seldom seen anyone less humble, but he let it pass. ‘I cannot tell you what any of my clients might be capable of. It is not my job.’

  ‘You were much more than Pardoe’s solicitor, Mr Hannaway. More than his business colleague. You were his friend.’

  Hannaway’s expression did not flicker. ‘A solicitor works with many people, Mr Flint. I presume you desire to quote me in your newspaper? Very well, I am prepared to say this: I am shocked by the news concerning Lawrence Pardoe. It came as a bolt from the blue.’

  ‘Do you suspect that the so-called suicide note was forged?’

  ‘Beyond what I have already said, I can volunteer no comment.’

  ‘Pardoe and Mary-Jane Hayes knew each other prior to the murder.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘I believe so. Didn’t he speak of her to you?’

  The solicitor raised his hand. ‘Enough, Mr Flint.’

  ‘I need to ask you about Pardoe’s will.’

  Hannaway considered the clock on the cabinet. ‘I am sorry, Mr Flint, your time is almost up.’

  ‘Can you at least confirm the names of the good causes that will benefit from Lawrence Pardoe’s largesse?’

  The solicitor waved towards the door, a lord of the manor dismissing a serf. ‘Broadis will see you out.’

  Jacob made as if to leave before turning to ask the one question that mattered. ‘Why did he leave so much money to a chess club, when he didn’t even play the game?’

  He exulted silently as Hannaway’s expression flickered, and disdain gave way – only for an instant, but Jacob’s eyes were sharp – to an expression of cold fury.

  *

  ‘How can I help being jealous?’ Elaine demanded, as Jacob reached for his overcoat. ‘You’re obviously very smitten by this Rachel Savernake. How can a simple girl who works in a flower shop in Exmouth Market compete against a smouldering beauty with untold riches?’

  ‘Rachel Savernake is just a story to me.’ It was almost true, he told himself. ‘As for smouldering, she’s more like a Snow Queen. I’ve pestered her for an interview for ages, and finally she’s agreed, so I need to seize the moment before she changes her mind.’

  ‘I suppose I understand.’ Her frown suggested otherwise. ‘It’s just such a shame that we’re missing the play. I was so looking forward to it.’

  He’d promised to take her to Frank Vosper’s Murder on the Second Floor. For compensation, he’d brought her a box of Belgian chocolates, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

  ‘I’m sorry, Elaine. We’ll go another time. Even though I’m as jealous of Frank Vosper as you are of Miss Savernake.’

  She giggled. ‘He’s a real heartthrob. And so clever. When did your Rachel Savernake ever write a play? Let alone act in it and direct it.’

  ‘I’d really better go. I daren’t miss her.’

  A heavy sigh. ‘I won’t still be up, you know, if you’re back late.’

  He pecked her on the cheek. She smelled of the liver and onions that her mother had rustled up on learning that their date had been cancelled.

  ‘I’m sorry about letting you down,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘You’d better.’ She forced a smile. ‘Be good.’

  He was unlikely to have a chance to be bad, he reflected, as he turned into the street. It took only him five minutes to reach Finsbury Town Hall, an unexpectedly imposing red brick edifice with art nouveau trimmings. Rain began to fall as he reached his destination, and he sheltered under the glass and wrought-iron canopy outside the main entrance. On the way, he’d tried to fit together the fragments of information he’d collected since his first encounter with Rachel Savernake, but he could not form anything resembling a full picture. Rachel worked to her own script. Unlike Frank Vosper, she chose to lurk in the shadows. He could only hope she was ready to take him into her confidence.

  As he checked the time to make sure he wasn’t late, a memory hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. In the Essex Head, Stanley Thurlow had produced a gold pocket watch to make sure he wasn’t late back for work. Jacob had never seen the watch before, but remembered a previous occasion when Thurlow had consulted a battered old service watch, which he said once belonged to his late father. If the service watch broke, perhaps he’d buy a replacement. But how could a young detective constable with a small child, and a wife who did not work, a man who often complained of being short of money, afford something so expensive?

  A host of possible explanations sprang to mind. Perhaps it was a Thurlow family heirloom, or simply not genuine. Or, just possibly, someone with deeper pockets than Jacob was supplementing Thurlow’s income. Had they also paid for his forthcoming holiday in Brighton?

  Jacob shuddered at the thought. But was he a hypocrite? After all, he was happy enough to slip Stan a few bob in return for information. But the payments were modest, and hardly compromised the forces of law and order. That sort of thing made the world go round. Oiling the wheels was one thing, though. Bribery was quite another.

  Suddenly he was aware of a car drawing up beside him. A silver Rolls-Royce Phantom, the car that had collected Rachel Savernake from Gaunt House on the night of Pardoe’s suicide. He peered through the windows.

  Rachel was not inside.

  Juliet Brentano’s Journal

  2 February 1919

  Perhaps my room is not a prison cell but a safe haven. Henrietta, much distressed, tells me that the odd-job man has caught influenza.

  It’s Rachel’s fault. She insisted that Cliff should drive her to collect her blue gown from the seamstress, whose cottage is on the mainland. Cliff protested, but she threatened to tell her father to dismiss him if he refused. Mother was right. I think she must be insane. Half a dozen people have died in the village since the new year. The seamstress’ husband is among them, and one of her sons is laid up in bed and not expected to survive. Rachel was risking her own life, as well as Cliff’s.

  Cliff is very sick, Henrietta says, coughing so hard that she fears his stomach will tear. I dread the thought that she might catch the flu. If only the Judge had succumbed, instead of Cliff. He is old, and his mind is failing, but sometimes I fear he will live forever.

  16

  ‘Rachel! What a joy to see you again! Welcome to the Inanity!’

  William Keary detached himself from a huddle of admirers with the ease of long practice as Rachel walked into the bar. A sweep of his hand took in the gold-leaf and glass extravagance of their surroundings. Once a poor cousin to the Palladium, the Coliseum, and the Hippodrome, the Inanity had become their formidable rival. The lavishly baroque private lounge was on the top floor, accessed by an electric lift; the hoi-polloi were confined to the cavernous public bars downstairs. Waiters scurried hither and thith­er, pressing cocktail glasses and canapés upon everyone in sight.

  Keary bent to kiss Rachel’s hand. ‘My dear, you look even more ravishing than when we met at the Ragusa.’

  It was true. Rather than contenting herself with a smart supper frock, Rachel had chosen to wear a full-length black gown that showed off her figure. ‘You’re too generous, William. I warned you that I’m not a sociable woman. I feel most at home with one or two of those closest to me.’

  ‘Your guest hasn’t arrived?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Rachel said.

  Keary offered her one of his Tunisian cigarettes, which she declined. Turning, he beckoned to a waiter bearing a silver salver crowded with cocktails.

  ‘Here’s to an evening to remember.’ Rachel lifted her glass. ‘You are still intending to perform tonight?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but not till later. That’s the joy of owning your own theatre – you can always make sure that you top the bill! Before each show, I love to circulate among our Very Important Guests.’ His white teeth
sparkled. ‘Especially on a night like this, when we are honoured by your pres­ence. Rest assured, you have the best seats in the house. I’ve fobbed off the head of the civil service, an eminent novelist, and a rear admiral with inferior views of the stage.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t deserve such generosity.’

  ‘Nonsense, dear Rachel. It’s a privilege to extend hospitality to a great man’s daughter.’ He gazed into her eyes, as if hoping to hypnotise her. ‘Which reminds me. There is something I’d like to discuss with you after the show. It concerns… your father’s legacy.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ Rachel said. ‘But please, don’t let me monopolise you. I’d hate to keep you from looking after all your other guests.’

  ‘Even a good host is entitled to have his favourites.’ Keary laughed. ‘I hope very much to enjoy your company later tonight. Perhaps we could dine together, once you’ve said goodbye to your guest.’

  ‘You’re most generous.’

  ‘Delighted you think so. In the meantime, I do hope you enjoy our little show.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ Rachel finished her cocktail. ‘I’ve waited for this for a very long time.’

  *

  ‘Where are we going?’ Jacob asked, as the car turned into Shaftesbury Avenue.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath on questions,’ the chauffeur said. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  His accent had a blunt north-country edge. He didn’t sound like a Yorkshireman, and Jacob guessed that he came from the other side of the Pennines. Despite the spaciousness of the Phantom’s interior, his gigantic frame seemed too big for the driving seat. Peggy had been unkind in describing him as an ugly looking blighter; his dark eyes were too thoughtful for a mere bruiser. But his demeanour was as intimidating as his physical bulk. Jacob’s expe­rience of chauffeurs was negligible, but he’d anticipated a touch of courtesy, if not deference. This fellow’s brusqueness per­-plexed him.

  Where was he being taken? This well-heated car was the most comfortable he’d ever travelled in, but his spine was touched by a sudden chill. Had Rachel Savernake sent the message to lure him to a quiet spot where the chauffeur could torture and kill him just as someone had snuffed out Levi Shoemaker? Jacob was fit and young, but he knew in his heart he’d be no match for the chauffeur.