Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Rather late for a flight, surely?’

  ‘A plane had been chartered specially to take him to Beauvais in France. We’re looking into who made the arrangements – Barnes, or an accomplice.’

  ‘You think that he cooked this up with someone else? Surely that blows a hole in the theory that he killed Keary in a fit of insane rage?’

  ‘Barnes obviously planned his actions with care. Whether he had help from a third party is uncertain. On the surface, it’s highly doubtful, but we are sure he couldn’t have afforded to buy an Invicta. Keary was a generous employer, but the wages of a stagehand at the Inanity don’t go so far.’

  ‘Damned peculiar. Could he have stolen the money?’

  ‘Quite possibly. We are also trying to ascertain if somehow he persuaded Keary himself to advance him the cash.’

  ‘Macabre thought,’ Sir Godfrey muttered. ‘How did we get onto him so quickly last night? Once I realised Keary was dead, I called a taxi for my wife, and then reported to the Home Secretary. At the time I left, the whole place was in uproar.’

  ‘Once it became clear that there’d been monkey business with the sarcophagus, and that Barnes was missing, we knew who to look for. A report came in of an Invicta being driven fast and erratically, five miles short of the airport. One of our chaps gave chase on a motorcycle, and the rest you know.’

  Sir Godfrey contemplated his fingernails. Barnes had put his foot down, and soon lost his pursuer, but also lost control of the car. Taking a bend too fast, he’d wrapped the Invicta round an elm tree, breaking his neck in the process.

  ‘Saved the hangman a job,’ Chadwick said sourly. ‘The only pity is, we never had the chance to discover what led him to murder Keary. We’ve questioned the staff at the theatre, but nobody is aware of any quarrel between the two men. Everyone is in a state of shock. Barnes was an awkward cuss, but good at his job. People say he’d seemed depressed of late, but nobody can believe he hated Keary enough to want to kill him in such a brutal fashion.’

  ‘What do we know about the woman who set fire to him?’

  ‘Queen Nefertiti? Her real name is Sara Delamere; at least that’s what she goes by. One of the dancers – a spiteful little minx – said that in the past, Keary had taken advantage of the girl.’

  ‘Really?’ Sir Godfrey was startled. ‘Might she have been his mistress?’

  ‘If so, he was a busy man. He lived with a widowed Italian woman. I gather they hadn’t made the union legal, but you know how these theatricals behave. They’re a law unto themselves.’

  ‘If Keary dallied with the Delamere girl, and then abandoned her, she might have thirsted for revenge. Could she have put Barnes up to it, provided the wherewithal to buy the car?’

  ‘We never rule anything out, sir, but it seems unlikely. All the signs are that she and Keary remained genuinely fond of each other, up to and including last night.’

  ‘Even so,’ Sir Godfrey mused. ‘Hell hath no fury, and so on.’

  ‘Given the exceptional circumstances, I took it upon myself to talk to her. She’s very different in real life to the character she portrays on the stage, but all I can say is that if her distress was feigned, Mary Pickford should look to her laurels. She must be the finest actress of her generation.’

  ‘An appalling crime, Chadwick.’

  The superintendent pursed his lips. ‘You must have found it shocking yourself, sir. Out for an evening’s relaxation in the company of Lady Mulhearn, only to watch a man fried to death.’

  ‘I witnessed plenty of ghastly sights during the war, Chad­wick, but a soldier expects such things.’ Sir Godfrey’s voice was hollow. ‘Last night was uniquely vile.’

  ‘You weren’t the only notable witness,’ Chadwick said. ‘Seen this morning’s Clarion?’

  ‘Frankly, I’ve only had time to glance at the serious news­papers. I suppose the others are swarming over the story like wasps round a jam pot.’

  ‘Jacob Flint has written an eyewitness account of events at the Inanity.’

  ‘The young fellow who turned up in South Audley Street, the night Pardoe died?’

  ‘That’s him. Like you, he was watching the show last night.’

  ‘Dammit, that’s an astonishing coincidence!’

  Chadwick’s face made clear his opinion of coincidence. ‘He was a guest in the box of Miss Rachel Savernake.’

  *

  ‘Congratulations, young man.’ Walter Gomersall gestured to the front page of the Clarion on his desk. ‘Not a bad piece.’

  Jacob nodded his thanks. Lack of sleep would hit him eventually, but for now he was thriving on adrenaline. Never in his life had he experienced anything to compare with the previous evening. To spend so long sitting next to a beautiful woman was memorable in itself, but the drama that had followed Nefertiti’s piercing scream he’d never forget.

  At first, some members of the audience had presumed that her shrieking horror was all part of the performance. A handful of people actually laughed, but Jacob realised at once that something had gone badly wrong. The audience’s enjoyment turned to stunned disbelief as the boys in Egyptian costume ran on to douse the remains of the fire, and haul the charred remains of William Keary out of the sarcophagus.

  Yet Rachel had remained utterly serene. Jacob stammered that he’d meant to pass on a warning from the actress who played Queen Nefertiti, but she’d cut him off in mid-stream, saying that surely he should go downstairs and find out what had happened. He’d hesitated before hastening down towards the stage. Chaos reigned, but within minutes, he had the makings of an exclusive.

  ‘I was lucky,’ he admitted.

  ‘Very.’ Gomersall put his hands behind his head, a familiar pose when he was in reflective mood. ‘Twice in a matter of days, you’ve been on the spot to report a major murder story. That sort of good fortune, any journalist would kill for.’

  Jacob wasn’t ready to admit that Rachel had invited him to the Inanity. First, he needed to understand what she was up to. With a cautious nod of the head, he said, ‘Quite a coincidence.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Gomersall screwed up his eyes, as if trying to see through his young reporter. ‘Sure you’ve not entered into some kind of Faustian pact? Not sold your soul to old Nick in return for a couple of banner headlines?’

  Jacob laughed. ‘I’d put a higher price on my soul, sir.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Gomersall didn’t laugh with him. ‘Well done, lad. Nobody could fail to hit the bull’s eye with such a sensational story, but you’ve written it up with flair. I’m impressed, but I’m also worried.’

  ‘Worried, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ The editor shook his head. ‘Good luck always runs out. Watch it doesn’t turn to bad.’

  *

  ‘Where did Barnes find the money to buy the Invicta?’ Chadwick demanded.

  ‘He paid in cash, and it didn’t go through his bank account.’ Inspector Oakes stifled a yawn. His eyes were duller than usual, and he hadn’t shaved with his customary precision. ‘Was it the proceeds of a crime we haven’t discovered? Nobody knows. He had few friends, and didn’t confide in anyone.’

  ‘Is it possible that he was a blackmailer?’ Chadwick sounded doubtful, an unimaginative man venturing into the twilight world of ifs and maybes. ‘That would explain the secret hoard. Did he have some hold over Keary, who then threatened Barnes with exposure?’

  ‘Conceivably, sir. The only other plausible explanation is that he blamed Keary for the girl’s death, which seems ridiculous. There can’t be any doubt that Linacre was guilty of the crime. Keary showed Barnes nothing but kindness, yet the fellow repaid it by inflicting on his benefactor the most agonising death.’

  ‘Utter madness,’ Chadwick said.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘At least Barnes is dead.’ Chadwick thrust out his lower lip. ‘Let’s be thankful for small mercies.’

  ‘That he escaped justice?’

  ‘Depends on your notion of justice,’ Chadwick said heav�
�ily. ‘It was a stroke of luck that Sir Godfrey was present, and quick to raise the alarm. We’d have stopped his plane from flying to France even if he’d made it to Croydon alive. I suppose we shouldn’t worry about the odd loose end. It’s still a neat outcome.’

  ‘Neat as the Pardoe case, sir?’

  Chadwick glowered at his subordinate. ‘Let’s not confuse the issue.’

  ‘Jacob Flint was spotted by young Thurlow shortly after Pardoe died. What if he hadn’t just arrived, as he told Thurlow, but was present at the time Pardoe killed himself?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Nothing, sir, just thinking aloud. Last night, Flint watched Keary’s death from the comfort of a luxurious box in the company of Miss Rachel Savernake. I’m left wondering why a wealthy young woman would invite a junior reporter along to the Inanity.’

  ‘Some sort of romantic tryst?’

  Oakes sighed. ‘If so, it took an unusual form. Our men were at the scene within minutes of Keary’s death, and they took the names and addresses of everyone there, including Flint. But there was no sign of Rachel Savernake.’

  *

  Jacob made himself a cup of strong, sweet tea, and retreated to Tom Betts’ old room to straighten the tangles in his brain. When he’d run down to join the mêlée on the stage last night, his overriding instinct had been to discover what had happened, and turn it into copy. The smell turned his stomach, and the commotion hurt his ears. Women were wailing, members of the audience and the cast alike, while police officers kept shouting for calm.

  A weeping Sara Delamere, still unrecognisable in her guise as Nefertiti, had been shepherded away by the police, and his attempt to beg an interview met with a stern but inevitable rebuff. When he looked up at the box, Rachel had vanished. He made a token effort to look for her, but soon abandoned the search to devote himself to writing and filing his sensational story.

  A fresh burst of tea-fuelled energy prompted him to telephone the Inanity, and ask for Sara Delamere.

  ‘She ain’t here,’ an adenoidal voice informed him.

  ‘Can you give her a message?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘I’m a journalist with—’

  The phone went dead. He decided to try his luck with Rachel’s house. His call was answered by the housekeeper, who told him that Miss Savernake was not at home. He doubted it was true, but he’d gain nothing from calling the woman a liar.

  ‘Would you be good enough to tell Miss Savernake that I called? I’m anxious to speak to her as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘I’ll pass the message on, sir. Good day.’

  She rang off, leaving him to scowl at the silent receiver. Prising information out of Rachel Savernake was like squeezing juice out of granite. He took his cup back to the smelly, claustrophobic kitchen used by the junior staff writers, and bumped into Oily McAlinden.

  The kindness Oily had shown him in recommending him to Edgar House had later given way to ill-concealed professional jealousy. His brief words of praise for Jacob’s front-page story were conspicuous for their insincerity.

  ‘You’re becoming quite the star reporter,’ he sneered. ‘Ready to step into Tom Betts’ shoes, I shouldn’t wonder. You’ve heard, I suppose?’

  Jacob’s heart sank. ‘Heard what?’

  McAlinden grinned. He always seemed to take pleasure in being first to break bad news. ‘Old Gomersall’s calling a meeting in half an hour to make a formal announcement. The hospital has been in touch. Betts kicked the bucket early this morning.’

  18

  ‘Barnes was killed outright,’ Trueman announced as he walked into the sitting room. ‘He was flying along at sixty miles an hour when he smashed into that tree.’

  Rachel was idly picking out ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ on the Steinway as Martha served coffee. Trueman threw his coat over the back of the sofa. He’d spent half the morning digging out information about the circumstances of George Barnes’ death.

  ‘A blessing, if you ask me.’ Mrs Trueman folded her arms, daring her husband to contradict her. ‘Didn’t Barnes tell you that his life ended the day Dolly Benson died? He’d never have settled in France. What sort of miserable existence is it, forever looking over your shoulder, trying desperately to convince yourself that you’re out of harm’s way?’

  ‘Not so very different from our lives.’ Rachel gave a cynical smile. ‘But I’m not in the least miserable. It’s simply a matter of attitude.’

  ‘Barnes was never beholden to anyone.’ Trueman shrugged. ‘I don’t say he rammed his car into that old elm on purpose, but he was past caring what happened.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ his wife said. ‘At least you needn’t worry he’ll betray you.’

  ‘I was never worried.’

  ‘If the police had made him talk…’

  ‘He’d never have breathed a word,’ Trueman said. ‘Depend on it. I can judge a man’s character better than most. Even if they’d got him in the cells, and roughed him up, he’d have kept his trap shut.’

  Mrs Trueman turned to Rachel. ‘I suppose you’ll say nobody’s to be trusted.’

  ‘You’re both right.’ Rachel abandoned the piano stool to warm her hands in front of the fire. ‘Trusting Barnes was a gamble, yes, but worth taking. Everything worked out perfectly.’

  ‘Except for Barnes,’ Mrs Trueman said.

  *

  Walter Gomersall took Jacob aside two minutes before he was due to address the staff meeting. ‘You’ve heard the news?’

  ‘About Tom? Yes, it’s awful.’

  ‘God knows how that poor woman will cope on her own.’ Jacob had never seen Gomersall look so grim. ‘Betts was everything to Lydia. We’ll do what we can for her, but not even the Clarion can give someone a reason to live.’

  Jacob blurted out, ‘I called on her the other day.’

  ‘You did?’ The thick black eyebrows jumped. ‘Paying your respects, or ferreting out information?’

  ‘Bit of both, sir.’ Jacob flushed. ‘I wanted to know if… if she could tell me anything that could cast light on what happened to Tom.’

  ‘No need to go beetroot red, lad. You can be a human being and a reporter at the same time. Remember that. You’ll be tested by worse folk than me.’

  Jacob’s smile was uneasy. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Just to give you advance warning. I’ll be announcing the name of our new crime correspondent shortly. Congrat­ulations, you’ve earned it.’

  Gomersall pumped his hand. Jacob stammered, ‘You mean I’m…’

  ‘Tom’s successor, yes. It’s what he wanted, just ten bloody years too soon. You’ll do all right. Call in the office in half an hour, and we’ll talk about pay. Just don’t go buying your ladyfriend a mink coat to celebrate. We’re not made of money.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The words seemed inadequate.

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank Tom. Last time I sat by his bedside, the only thing he said that made any sense was to give you his job.’

  *

  ‘Jacob Flint telephoned,’ Mrs Trueman told Rachel, after her husband left the sitting room. ‘Wanted to speak to you. Says there’s something he can’t understand.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘Bewilderment is his natural state; it has a certain sweet charm. The urge to ruffle his hair, give him sixpence, and tell him to go off and play is overwhelming.’

  ‘Get away with your bother. What did he say last night?’

  ‘Only that he’d had a conversation with Sara Delamere. She told him she’d heard Pardoe and Keary talking, and what Pardoe said made her fear for my life.’

  ‘And why she didn’t approach you herself?’

  ‘Because of her dubious past.’

  The older woman snorted. ‘Are you going to talk to Flint?’

  ‘When the time is right.’

  ‘He’s in danger, isn’t he? He’s made himself a target.’

  ‘He only has himself to blame. All our actions have consequences, you and I
both know that.’

  ‘You like him, though.’ The housekeeper peered at her over her spectacles, a prosecuting counsel cross-examining an unscrupulous witness.

  ‘His innocence entertains me. But I can’t save him from himself.’

  *

  Jacob was still reeling from the twin shocks of Tom Betts’ death and his sudden elevation to the Clarion’s hierarchy when the shrilling telephone jerked him out of a daze of conflicting emotions.

  ‘Inspector Oakes for you,’ Peggy announced.

  An icy voice murmured, ‘You ought to be re-christened Johnny on the Spot, Mr Flint.’

  Jacob began to mutter a vague reply, but the detective cut him short. ‘Are you free for another of our little chats?’

  ‘I did give a statement to one of your officers before I left the Inanity to file my story.’

  ‘I’ve read it. Naturally, the constable you spoke to wasn’t aware of the full background. Can we meet?’

  ‘Very well.’ Jacob paused. ‘Tom Betts is dead.’

  ‘My condolences.’

  ‘The editor has promoted me. I suppose you’ll say every cloud has a silver lining, but I’m sure Betts didn’t have an accident. He was murdered.’

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘He was asking questions about Rachel Savernake.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she arranged for him to be run over?’

  ‘I’m not… look here, we shouldn’t discuss this on the telephone.’

  ‘Let’s meet at the Lyons Corner House on the Strand.’ Oakes spoke curtly, with no hint of his habitual dry humour. ‘Be in the Mirror Hall in half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘And Flint.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is just between you and me, understand? Don’t breathe a word to anyone else.’

  *

  Jacob hurried down the steps to the Mirror Hall, and spotted Oakes waiting for him at a table crammed next to an elegant looking glass. A band called The Dixieland Entertainers was playing Scott Joplin’s ‘The Easy Winners’, and the smell of pastry and freshly baked bread wafted through the air. This working-class Versailles was one of the capital’s most popular haunts, with hardly a spare seat to be found. He pushed his way through the maze of tables, and had to apologise to a wide-hipped nippy for knocking her tray, and almost sending a teapot and crockery flying over a pair of smart young chaps whose lamb cutlets lay untouched on their plates. The men were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t even notice that they’d almost been drenched in scalding hot tea. The nippy gave Jacob a cheeky wink, and he couldn’t help blushing.