Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  Since coming to London, he’d heard talk that the vast corner houses here and in Piccadilly Circus were haunts favoured by men of Oliver McAlinden’s persuasion. The waitresses often took pity on them, guiding fellows towards tables occupied by other single men, so they had the chance to strike up conversation in the most innocent fashion. Jacob glanced round, wondering if anybody would think he and Oakes were playing that game. Would the inspector rather be presumed to be looking out for male company than exchanging information with the Clarion’s newly anointed chief crime correspondent? Surely not, judging by Stan Thurlow’s lurid accounts of the savage treatment meted out in police prison cells to those suspected of unnatural practices.

  Oakes stubbed out his cigarette, and put down the menu he’d pretended to study, but made no attempt to shake hands. ‘I ordered tomato soup and a bread roll for both of us,’ he said brusquely. ‘No point in wasting time.’

  ‘Why all the secrecy? There’s no shame in meeting a journalist, you know. Police officers often talk to the press.’

  ‘You’re no ordinary member of the press, Mr Flint. I never knew a reporter with such an uncanny gift for sniffing out a story.’ There was no mirth in Oakes’ smile. ‘Three times in a week, you’ve been at the scene when a man has died.’

  ‘Hope you don’t find that suspicious, Inspector?’ Jacob’s genial tone disguised anxiety. Oakes’ manner today was distinctly less cordial. ‘Pardoe’s body was being taken to the morgue by the time I arrived at South Audley Street. Shoemaker bundled me out of his office before he was attacked. I was one of a large audience which witnessed the horror of Keary’s death.’

  ‘You were sitting in the most luxurious box in the house, right next to Miss Rachel Savernake.’

  ‘What of it? She was Keary’s guest, and she invited me along.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. I hoped to speak to her after the show, but Keary’s death put paid to that. As for the three deaths, you’re well aware that I had nothing to do with any of them. Pardoe shot himself in a locked room, Shoemaker was attacked by brutes, and Keary’s murderer died while fleeing from justice. Speaking of Barnes, what in heaven’s name was his motive?’

  Oakes fiddled with his napkin. ‘We can’t ask him for an explanation. Perhaps even he couldn’t explain himself. And I doubt he could cast light on the connection between Miss Savernake and Keary. I’m hoping you can help me fill in the gaps.’

  ‘The message from Rachel Savernake making the appoint­ment came out of the blue. I’d been trying in vain to talk to her.’

  ‘What about?’

  Behind Oakes’ head was a large mirror, and Jacob checked to make sure that his expression betrayed no lack of candour. He’d resolved to keep quiet about his meeting with Sara Delamere. She’d dreaded talking to the police even before the horror of becoming an unwitting accomplice in the murder of William Keary.

  ‘I want to write about her.’ It was the truth, if far from the whole truth. ‘Our readers would love a story about a well-born lady playing the detective game. To my amazement, her chauffeur picked me up and took me to the Inanity.’

  ‘How did Rachel Savernake behave when it became clear the final illusion had turned into a tragedy?’

  ‘She… said next to nothing.’

  ‘Surely she was shocked? Upset?’

  An obscure instinct warned Jacob to choose his words with care. ‘I really can’t tell you anything more.’

  Oakes scowled as a ginger-haired nippy, resplendent in black alpaca dress, white apron, and starched hat, arrived with their soup. The success of the corner houses was built upon inexpensive but wholesome fare, and neither man spoke again until their bowls were empty, and the band had launched into the ‘Maple Leaf Rag’.

  ‘I suppose there is one thing.’ Jacob wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘When… when the illusion went wrong, everyone else was panicking, but Miss Savernake’s calm was uncanny. If it wasn’t absurd, I could almost believe she was expecting something horrific to happen.’

  ‘As you say,’ Oakes muttered, ‘that would be absurd.’

  *

  ‘Flinty?’

  After returning to Clarion House, Jacob scarcely expected a further call from Scotland Yard, but Stanley Thurlow’s voice was unmistakable, even when he spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  Thurlow cleared his throat so noisily he might have been preparing to make a speech at Hyde Park Corner, but when he spoke, it was sotto voce.

  ‘It’s like this, Flinty. I’ve… I’ve got myself into a spot of bother.’

  Jacob caught his breath. So he’d been right.

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Stan. What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s… well, it’s a real pickle, Flinty. Bloody awful, actually. For you, too. You already know too much. Can’t talk over the phone. I’m at the Yard right now, and someone might walk in.’

  ‘Shall we meet?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thurlow coughed. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Usual place?’

  ‘No, Flinty. It needs to be somewhere different, out of town. If I’m followed, I’ll have to shake them off. Besides, they know about the Essex Head.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Jacob asked. ‘You sound windy, Stan. What’s eating you?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I don’t mind admitting, Flinty, I’ve got the heebie-jeebies, good and proper. I’m in over my head. I’d never have dragged you into this mess otherwise.’

  Jacob dug his nails into his palms. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Are you free tonight? Lily’s brother has a bungalow out in Benfleet, an hour from London. Quiet spot, and he’s away at the moment. We ought to go separately. You take the train from Fenchurch Street, and I’ll drive.’

  ‘Never knew you had a car, Stan.’

  ‘Ford Roadster. Lovely motor, Flinty, rumble seat and all. Cost a few bob, but worth every penny.’ Thurlow’s voice brightened, before fading in a heartbeat. ‘S’pose I got carried away.’

  ‘Where is this bungalow?’

  ‘Creek Lane. Stone’s throw from the station, you can’t miss it. Eight thirty?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Thanks, Flinty, you’re a pal.’ Thurlow hesitated. ‘One other thing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘For God’s sake, make sure nobody follows you.’

  19

  Jacob’s phone rang again the moment he replaced the re­ceiver. A lady, he was told, calling on behalf of Miss Rachel Savernake.

  ‘Put her through.’

  Mrs Trueman didn’t believe in wasting time on niceties. ‘Miss Savernake can see you this evening. Nine o’clock sharp. She says—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jacob interrupted. ‘It’s very good of her, but unfortunately this evening is impossible. I’m committed to another pressing engagement.’

  In the silence that followed, Jacob exulted. The callow cub reporter had become chief crime correspondent for the Clarion. Scotland Yard inspectors consulted him, erring detective constables begged for his support. Rachel Savernake must take her turn in the queue.

  ‘Cancel it.’

  Had he over-reached himself? He was desperate to discover what Rachel was up to. Her behaviour at the Inanity seemed intensely suspicious, even if he didn’t know what to suspect her of. Yet letting Thurlow down was unthinkable. If the woman wanted to speak to him, she’d try again. He wasn’t her poodle.

  ‘Out of the question, I’m afraid. I’ve promised to keep the appointment. Is Miss Savernake free tomorrow?’

  The phone went dead.

  *

  ‘You already know too much.’

  If only Thurlow were right, Jacob reflected, pulling his coat off the hook. This evening, by rights, he ought to be out celebrating his elevation to Tom Betts’ old role, but he had too much on his plate. For a newly promoted (and thus, by definition, successful) journalist, the scale of his ignoran
ce was hard to exaggerate. Rachel Savernake’s behaviour became more mysterious by the day. He could only hope she’d still talk to him tomorrow.

  As he strode down the corridor, colleagues kept stopping him to congratulate him on the new job. Their generosity humbled him. Oily McAlinden, he noticed, had made himself scarce. Consumed by jealousy? Jacob didn’t care. All that mattered was making sense of what he knew.

  On impulse he decided that, rather than going straight back to Amwell Street, he would make a detour. Outside Clarion House, he turned in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn, and headed for Gallows Court. Darkness had fallen, and the cold night air needled his skin. Halting at the end of the dank passageway, he peered through the gloom for any sign of Hannaway or his cadaverous minion. The lamps shed a sulky yellow glow over the silent yard. Not a soul was to be seen. People only visited this place if they had no choice, and they fled the instant their business was done.

  Jacob scampered across the cobbles to the doorway to Hannaway’s chambers. Apprehension made his neck prickle. Did burglars feel so nakedly conspicuous, dreading a police­man’s whistle, and the grip of a hand like a vice?

  An inconspicuous plate beside the front door bore the name Gaunt Chambers. Judge Savernake must have worked here during his years at the Bar. The names of organisations registered at this building were painted in neat black italics on a long, white vertical board, the same kind which elsewhere in the Inn listed members of a set of barristers. He scanned the list, and found himself rejoicing. The vague memory of his previous visit, the obscure instinct that had drawn him back to Gallows Court, had been founded in fact. Names jumped out.

  Inanity Theatre Limited, The William Keary Talent Agency, Pardoe Properties, The Oxford Orphans’ Trust, Linacre Investments.

  Some were new to him: Harley Street Holdings, The Amalgamated Workers’ Union Welfare Fund, The Soho Land Acquisitions Company, The Gambit Club.

  Cog wheels clicked in his brain. Pardoe Properties – hadn’t Oakes told him that Mary-Jane Hayes had met her end in a house owned by a company controlled by the banker?

  Click, click, click.

  The Gambit Club, Gaunt Chambers, Gallows Court.

  GC, GC, GC.

  Or alternatively, CGCGCG in reverse. Had Levi Shoemaker intended his cipher to lead Jacob here?

  *

  Jacob scuttled out of Gallows Court. Logic told him that the cipher must be straightforward. Shoemaker had barely hesitated before writing it out. He must have made it up on the spur of the moment. Surely that must mean the code was really very simple.

  CGCGCG91192PIRVYBC

  A newspaper vendor made a fruitless attempt to sell him a copy of the Evening News. From habit, Jacob glanced at the front page. What struck him was not the bold headline about the tragedy at the Inanity, but the date above it. An idea sprang into his mind.

  If Shoemaker meant the cipher to be read backwards, might the numbers represent 29 January 1919? He couldn’t imagine why Shoemaker would be concerned about anything dating back more than a decade. But the unravelling process had to start somewhere. The letters were a puzzle, but it occurred to him that RIP might stand for Requiescat In Pace. Had Shoemaker meant to alert him to the death of someone with the initials CBYV?

  Returning to Clarion House, he decided to test his theory, and sought out Trithemius, an exceptionally fat man seldom seen without a cake or a bun in his hand. His real name was Toseland, and he was the Clarion’s puzzle specialist, a compiler of crosswords, acrostics, and assorted brain-teasers designed to take readers’ mind off everyday woes such as whether they were about to be cast into the dole queue. The pseudonym came from a fifteenth-century German abbot with a penchant for cryptography.

  ‘Little conundrum for you,’ Jacob said, handing Toseland the scrap of paper on which Shoemaker had jotted down his code. ‘I have a theory about what it means, but I’d like to test it out.’

  Toseland swallowed what remained of a chocolate eclair, and glanced at the cipher. ‘Any clues?’

  ‘I’m sure the message isn’t complex. The man who wrote this made it up on the spur of the moment.’ Jacob debated how much to reveal. ‘Your clue is Gallows Court.’

  ‘That dingy hole in Lincoln’s Inn?’ Toseland was as well informed as Poyser.

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Toseland wiped chocolate from his chin with the back of his sleeve. ‘I’m up to my eyes with our next bumper puzzle book, but I’ll get round to it tomorrow.’

  Jacob thanked him, and headed home. The previous night, having filed his story about Keary’s death, he’d returned to Edgar House in the small hours, tiptoeing up the stairs to avoid disturbing Mrs Dowd or Elaine, cringing at every creak and groan of the floorboards. This morning, by the time he’d hauled himself out of bed and got ready for breakfast, Elaine had already left for work. Mrs Dowd had been uncharacteristically monosyllabic. A strong smell of gin clinging to her suggested she’d spent the previous evening drinking herself into oblivion. He could have crashed a pair of cymbals all the way up to bed and still not woken her.

  On arriving back at Edgar House, he popped his head into the kitchen, and was dismayed to find Mrs Dowd in a state of distress. Her pink face was tear-stained and blotchy, her thinning hair in disarray. The kitchen was, as always, clean and tidy, but she hadn’t remembered to hide her glass of gin, or the half-empty bottle of Gordon’s on the table.

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Elaine and I have fallen out. She’s flounced off in a real huff.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘You didn’t…’ Mrs Dowd bit her lip. ‘I hate to ask, but did you and Elaine have a quarrel?’

  ‘About the fact I couldn’t take her out? Not really. I did my best to explain and apologise. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her tone was lacklustre. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  What on earth had Elaine said? ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no bother. It’ll take my mind off things. How about a nice omelette?’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ He hesitated. ‘What did Elaine…?’

  ‘Please, Jacob. I’m not in a fit state to be cross-examined. I’ve given you the wrong impression. Elaine is all right. Every­thing is as it should be.’

  She avoided his eye, fixing her gaze on the linoleum floor, an unhappy, gin-sodden woman, to whom disappointment clung like a cheap, pungent scent.

  *

  On the way to Fenchurch Street, and even when making his purchase at the ticket office, Jacob experienced the uncomfortable, tickling sensation of being watched. Yet each time he glanced over his shoulder, nobody suspicious was taking an interest in him. Oakes and Thurlow had done more than put him on his guard, he decided; their warnings had induced a touch of paranoia.

  No need to worry, he reflected, as he finally got off the train at Benfleet, venturing out of the brightly lit station, and into the darkness. The landscape was flat, and a short distance from the railway line ran a wide creek, presumably an inlet of the Thames estuary. The moon and a scattering of stars cast a glow to soften the bleak emptiness of the marshlands, but he was glad he’d taken the precaution of bringing a torch. The beam illuminated a penny-in-the-slot water pump, and a cinder track leading towards a ferryman’s cottage and workings for a new bridge. Even this lonely spot would soon surrender to the march of progress. At present, there was no made-up road, just a narrow grass lane snaking away from the cinders and alongside the creek.

  An owl hooted. Fancifully, he interpreted it as yet another warning. A small creature, perhaps a fox, scrabbled unseen near the water’s edge. The lane was soft and muddy, and he could smell the moist earth. Just as well he’d changed his shoes for a pair of sturdy boots at Amwell Street. His torch picked out a small wooden building designed in the manner of a seaside chalet. A verandah ran along the front of the house, and a few yards away stood a large rainwater tank. The grass lane petered out at the bungalow’s gate, with
a sleek Ford Roadster parked next to a ragged hedge. Thurlow was right; it looked a lovely motor. But how much had it cost him?

  The curtains weren’t drawn. No lights shone at the win­dows, and Jacob couldn’t even detect the flickering of a candle. There would be no gas or electricity at such a remote spot, and he supposed paraffin was used for fuel. Lengthening his stride, he approached the bungalow, but detected no sign of life. Was Thurlow so panic-stricken that he was hiding at the back of the house?

  Jacob walked up to the front door, and rapped three times. When nothing happened, he lifted the letterbox flap, and called, ‘Are you there?’

  The door gave when he leaned against it. Jacob shone his torch on a narrow vestibule with a closed door on either side, and a third standing ajar that was evidently the way in to the kitchen.

  ‘Stan? I’m here.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Bang on time.’

  Nothing stirred.

  He pushed open the door to his left, and shone his torch inside. The room was sparsely furnished with a small sofa, a single armchair, and a sideboard. Lying on the sofa was the body of a man. His frame was so bulky that his long legs hung over the end of the sofa, and touched the matting on the floor. Blood had spurted from a cruel wound in his stomach. Another ugly gash disfigured his neck.

  Stanley Thurlow had been right to be afraid.

  *

  Shock paralysed Jacob. He didn’t need to touch the corpse to see there was nothing he could do. The young constable’s eyes were staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  An unpleasant odour tainted the air. It seemed familiar, yet mysteriously out of place. In his numb state, Jacob could not identify it.