Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  The trembling of his hand made his torch beam waver. It caught a woman’s pointed red shoe, peeping out from behind the sofa. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to move forward a couple of paces, so that he could see the shoe’s owner.

  The body sprawled on the threadbare carpet belonged to a young woman with vivid red hair. Her green silk blouse was ripped and blood-stained. Her white throat had been slashed.

  But it was not merely the sight of the butchered corpse that made Jacob retch. Even worse was a sickening horror of recognition.

  He was staring at the earthly remains of Elaine Dowd.

  Juliet Brentano’s Journal

  3 February 1919

  Another dreadful day. Henrietta is beside herself.

  Harold Brown is back from London. He arrived in a wild and drunken state. No doubt he’d spent his thirty pieces of silver in the capital’s dens of vice.

  When he heard Cliff was sick, he laughed. It seemed like mere nastiness. Now it is clear why the news pleased him.

  Henrietta says he hurried back across the causeway and into the village, where Cliff’s sister lives with their mother. Apparently he’s done something terrible to the girl.

  ‘Where is it going to end?’ Henrietta said, and burst into tears.

  Poor, brave Henrietta. I have never seen her so wretched. And I too dread to think how it will end.

  20

  The sight of Elaine’s lifeless corpse hit Jacob like a truncheon blow. Tottering, he clutched the sofa to prevent himself crumpling on the floor in a heap. Shock and disbelief made him groggy. His throat had never felt so dry. Even if he’d tried to scream, he could barely have managed a yelp of pain. A single coherent thought formed in his mind.

  Keep quiet. Whoever did this is still here.

  He’d trodden on something. Looking down, he saw the torch beam pick out a large carving knife. The cruel blade was dark with the blood of Thurlow and Elaine. With a jolt of recognition, he realised that the knife’s badly chipped black handle was identical to one in Mrs Dowd’s kitchen. It couldn’t be a coincidence. His first instinct was to pick it up, but a muddled instinct for self-preservation stopped him even as he bent over. Instead he shifted his foot, and switched off his torch.

  He’d seen enough.

  What was that? He strained his ears. Outside the room, someone was moving. He heard soft, cautious footsteps. The murderer was wearing shoes with soles of rubber rather than leather. He was in the hall, preparing to kill for a third time.

  Jacob’s temples throbbed. He was crouching in the dark, with the corpses of a man and woman he’d called his friends for company. The horror of the deaths he must shove to one side. All that mattered now was life. He must survive.

  He had no weapon, only his bare hands to defend himself, and he’d never been any good at fighting. Was the killer still armed, or had he only come here with the knife? Holding his breath, afraid to make a sound, he tiptoed forwards.

  The door creaked.

  Hypnotised, Jacob watched as slowly, slowly, it began to open. He dared not move another inch. The only light was cast by the moon, a sliver of brightness falling through the window. He caught another whiff of that strangely familiar greasy odour that he’d noticed on entering the room.

  He heard the rubber soles move again. The door opened wider, and suddenly the murderer was framed in the doorway. His frightened eyes were visible in the moonlight.

  Oliver McAlinden, whose hair oil gave the atmosphere its malodorous tang, was pointing a small black revolver straight at Jacob’s stomach.

  *

  Vincent Hannaway was ensconced in a leather armchair in the oak-panelled members’ room at the Gambit Club. After signing the last correspondence of the day in his office, he’d trotted up the members’ staircase to the club’s premises. In the tiny private restaurant, he’d feasted on a wonderfully tender and bloody steak, followed by floating island dessert washed down with the finest Imperial Tokay, before settling down to transact a small amount of business while enjoying a Cuban cigar. A servant had placed a telephone on the rosewood table by his side, and he spoke quietly into the receiver, so as not to disturb two distinguished colleagues who were passing the time with a game of chess prior to enjoying the more recondite privileges of club membership.

  ‘I have no news as yet. Be patient.’

  ‘I’ve always had doubts about McAlinden. He’s unreliable. Like so many of his sort.’

  ‘Watch your words. His sort, as you call them, include several distinguished members of our fraternity. And of course his father—’

  ‘Is a fine man, goes without saying. It’s simply the question of the son’s reliability…’

  ‘This is an acid test. Before tonight’s out, we’ll know what stuff he’s made of.’

  ‘You’ll notify me as soon as you hear?’

  A bookcase facing Hannaway slid to one side, revealing a well-lit corridor wallpapered in the rose and pink style of William Morris. This was one of several concealed exits from the Gambit Club’s rooms. Ultimately they led, by circuitous routes, to unmarked doors opening out into Carey Street and Chancery Lane, rather than Gallows Court. A young Chinese woman, whose white satin gown contrasted with her waist-length black hair, stood in the entrance to the passageway. Her delicate red lips formed in a polite, enquiring smile, and Hannaway inclined his head.

  ‘Let me call you later.’ He frowned at the receiver. ‘In the meantime, I must ask you not to telephone me here again. Please assure me that you aren’t losing your nerve.’

  ‘There’s no question of that, believe me. I merely—’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. With so much crime about, Scotland Yard needs you to be at your sharpest.’

  *

  The hand in which McAlinden held the gun was shaking. Jacob thought: He’s almost as scared as me.

  ‘Lie down on the floor, and close your eyes.’

  McAlinden sounded like a schoolboy actor, terrified of fluffing lines so painstakingly rehearsed.

  ‘Oliver. What have you done?’

  ‘What have I done?’ McAlinden’s voice was pitched high. ‘I’ve earned my spurs, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve committed the perfect murder. Three times.’

  Jacob felt the muscles in his face tightening. ‘I don’t under­-stand.’

  ‘You stabbed Thurlow and that trollop Elaine with a knife you stole from your lodgings, then shot yourself in the mouth while suffering a fit of overdue remorse.’ McAlinden giggled. ‘Only your fingerprints will be found on the gun. Perfect, eh?’

  Once, at school, Jacob had been lashed on his bare buttocks when a schoolmaster seized on a minor misdemeanour to gratify himself by inflicting pain. Not since that whipping had anything hurt as much as McAlinden’s needling glee. It wasn’t enough for McAlinden that he was to die. He was to be condemned as a cowardly murderer who committed suicide to escape the wrath of the law. A poor man’s Lawrence Pardoe.

  ‘Oliver, please.’

  ‘Please?’ McAlinden’s hand had steadied. Jacob had no idea what to do, other than play for time, and hope for a miracle. ‘What have you ever done for me?’

  Was it possible to jump at him, and knock the gun away before he squeezed the trigger? Anything was better than tame surrender to a bullet in the mouth. To have a chance, he must edge closer to his target.

  ‘Don’t move!’ McAlinden screeched.

  ‘What on earth is all this about?’ Jacob asked. ‘Tell me that, at least, before you…’

  A smile sidled across McAlinden’s moonlit features.

  ‘The Damnation Society, of course. Don’t pretend you don’t know anything about it.’

  Jacob stared. He had no idea what the fellow was talking about.

  McAlinden raised the gun. ‘Now, lie down. If you are good, I’ll settle your hash quickly. If not… I’ll make a real mess of you.’

  Jacob tensed, preparing to jump at his enemy.

  Suddenly something happened. A loud explosion ripped the air, and
McAlinden pitched forward, firing the revolver as he fell. Flinching, Jacob shut his eyes, and hurled himself to one side. Colliding with the floor jarred his shoulder, but he felt nothing else. Not the pain of a bullet tearing through his flesh, for sure. The shot had missed.

  Relief surged through him like a tidal wave, but before he could wrench open his eyes, a powerful hand seized his neck. Thick fingers pressed into his windpipe, and something hard hammered against his head.

  The rest was black nothingness.

  *

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ Mrs Trueman asked.

  ‘That is three times you’ve asked in the last hour.’ Rachel looked up from The Beautiful and the Damned. A cheerful fire warmed the sitting room while Bing Crosby crooned on the wireless. ‘Stop fretting. If you persist with your embroidery, instead of breaking off every five minutes, the results will be delightful.’

  ‘I’m a bag of nerves tonight.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ Rachel said lazily.

  ‘I’d go to bed, but I’d not get a wink of sleep.’

  ‘Pour yourself a glass of whisky, and the world will seem a better place.’

  The older woman snorted. ‘Confidence is all fine and dandy, but don’t get complacent.’

  ‘Listen.’ Noting her place with a tasselled bookmark, Rachel fixed her gaze on the housekeeper. ‘We agreed what must be done. There’s nothing more for either of us to do, except wait.’

  ‘How can you remain so calm?’ the older woman demanded.

  ‘You’d prefer hysterical whimpering? I’ve waited for years for this, don’t forget. A few more hours are nothing.’

  ‘It’s not just a matter of a few more hours, is it?’ Mrs Trueman’s face was as bleak as winter. ‘When will we see an end to it?’

  ‘On Wednesday, actually,’ Rachel said. ‘Be patient. Soon it will be over. I’ll have done what I set out to do.’

  *

  How long Jacob remained unconscious, he never knew. As he began to come round, he forced open his eyes, although it took a supreme effort of will. His whole body was hurting, and something strange had been done to him. Blinking, he realised he was out in the cold night air. The moon had disappeared, and he seemed to be alone. But he was helpless. He’d been draped head-first over the side of the large iron tank he’d glimpsed on his approach to the bungalow.

  His head was so sore that he wanted to cry out in pain, but his mouth had been taped to prevent him making a sound. Something was cutting into his wrists and ankles, and he realised he’d been tied up with a strong cord. Even if he tried to free himself of his bonds, he’d have no chance of success. Movement carried danger. What if he fell into the rain­-water tank?

  The tank was ten feet deep, and the bottom third was filled with foetid water. His body was precariously balanced. If he slipped over the side of the tank, he would drown.

  Gingerly, he lifted his head until he could just about peer over the edge of the tank. There was a small platform of half-bricks, on which his assailant must have stood to position him like this. Looking round, he saw the bungalow’s back door, open and swinging in the night breeze.

  A catarrhal snort of satisfaction came from inside. Jacob didn’t know whether to be glad that he’d not been abandoned to his fate, or terrified of what lay in store. He had no idea who was in the building. It took a few moments for him to remember that Elaine and Thurlow were dead.

  Oily McAlinden, of all people, was a murderer.

  Or had he dreamed it all? Were his lurid mental pictures of the bloodstained corpses no more than a perverted night­mare? On such a surreal night, he could not be confident of anything.

  A loud noise from inside the house shattered the quiet. A single gunshot.

  Holding his breath, Jacob glimpsed a shadow in the doorway. Someone was emerging through the back door.

  Jacob’s helpless body tightened in a spasm of fear.

  21

  ‘Better now?’ Rachel asked.

  Mrs Trueman drained the tumbler of Glenlivet, and put it down on the small burled walnut table. ‘You have something in common with the Judge.’

  Rachel savoured her whisky. ‘Really?’

  ‘You know a fine malt when you taste one.’

  Rachel gave an ironic little bow. ‘You alarmed me. I thought you were suggesting that despicable old tyrant and I share the same mental kink.’

  ‘You’re as sane as me or Trueman.’

  ‘Should I find that comforting?’

  The older woman’s face creased in a reluctant smile. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘How much of one’s nature is formed by heredity, and how much by life’s experiences?’ Rachel closed her eyes. ‘I wonder.’

  ‘It’s not like you to sound unsure.’

  ‘I hoped an admission of frailty might remind you that I’m human.’

  ‘Oh, you’re human, right enough. I remember your face the night that vile man demanded money as the price for his silence about Juliet Brentano.’

  Rachel opened her eyes again, but said nothing.

  ‘White as a blessed sheet, you were. Trying to fathom how much he knew, how much he’d guessed.’

  Rachel breathed out. ‘He got what he deserved.’

  The housekeeper nodded. ‘You’re decisive, I’ll give you that. But even now, we can’t be sure, can we? We’ll never be safe. Never.’

  ‘Fearing the worst is futile.’ Rachel’s voice rose. ‘Remem­ber, by Wednesday, it will be over. Look at what we’ve achieved already. Pardoe and Keary are dead. As for Claude Linacre…’

  ‘And what about Betts? Or Levi Shoemaker?’

  ‘Casualties of warfare.’

  ‘And Barnes?’

  ‘He – he wanted to die. Your husband told us so, remember?’

  ‘Even so…’

  Rachel’s voice sharpened. ‘We’ve always known the truth about life. Even the innocent suffer. Usually, they suffer most of all.’

  Mrs Trueman shook her head. ‘It’s not easy to bear.’

  ‘No.’ Rachel reached for the older woman’s hand, and squeezed it. ‘There is nothing easy about justice.’

  ‘That sounds like the Judge talking.’

  ‘Some of the people he condemned to death were actually guilty.’

  ‘What about Jacob Flint?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’ll be no great shakes in a rough house.’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I can’t help that.’

  ‘And if he dies tonight?’

  Rachel didn’t answer.

  *

  The man who came out from the bungalow was broad-shouldered, and over six feet tall. Dressed from head to toe in black, he wore a stocking mask with slits for his eyes and mouth. A gun nestled in his massive palm. As he marched towards the tank, he ripped off the mask.

  Jacob let out a gasp, and Rachel Savernake’s chauffeur scowled at him.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ Trueman said. ‘I’m going to lift you down. Be very careful. One sign of trouble, and into the water you go. Head-first.’

  Jacob held his breath. The big man lifted him as if he were a ragdoll, and set him on the ground.

  ‘Behave.’ Trueman thrust the gun’s nozzle between Jacob’s ribs. ‘I’ve used this once tonight. What difference would a second shot make? To me, nothing. To you, everything.’

  They were standing on a cinder track, a quarter of a mile from the bungalow. There was no sign of the Phantom in which Trueman had taken him to the Inanity, but a rusty Bullnose Morris four-seater was parked by the hedge. Trueman’s clothes were shabby. No chauffeur’s livery for him tonight.

  What about McAlinden? He was nowhere to be seen. Jacob couldn’t help opening his mouth again.

  ‘Why—’

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ The gun dug into Jacob’s guts. ‘Don’t talk.’

  Jacob’s head was throbbing, and the cord was still cutting his wrists. He ought to be glad to be alive, but the night’s events had left him not only bewildered but sicke
ned.

  ‘I’ll untie your hands, and shove you in the back of the car. You’ll find some bits of a broken bicycle in there, push them out of your way. Get some sleep; you look as if you need it. I’ll keep off the main roads, and I don’t expect anyone will stop us, but if we drop unlucky, keep your mouth shut. I’ll make up a story. Probably say you’re drunk and incapable. Whatever I do, go along with it. I’ve nothing to lose. Understand?’

  Jacob nodded. Incapable, yes, he certainly felt incapable.

  ‘Don’t try anything clever.’ Trueman jerked a thumb in the direction of the bungalow. ‘I saved your life, but remember this. What you’re given can always be taken away.’

  *

  The long drive through darkness was a nightmare that Jacob thought would never end. Even seated behind a steering wheel, Trueman radiated menace. He might be heading for some other godforsaken spot, to dispose quietly of his passenger. Exhaustion and misery had mashed Jacob’s brain, but he’d seen enough of Trueman to know it would be fatal to provoke him. As they bumped along endless country lanes and side roads, he obeyed the order to keep his mouth shut. Soon he was dozing fitfully, his mind infested with nauseating images of the blood-soaked corpses of the policeman he’d drunk with, and the girl he’d kissed.

  Although Trueman had anticipated that they’d be stopped, nobody interrupted their journey. Eventually it came to an end in the heart of London. Trueman stopped the car outside Rachel’s house in the square, and bundled him up the steps.

  The front door was opened by a comfortably built woman whose expression betrayed relief, but no sign of surprise. This must be the housekeeper he’d spoken to on the telephone. She’d been expecting them.

  ‘You look as though you could do with a nip of brandy, Mr Flint. Come inside. Miss Savernake will join you presently, once Trueman has done the necessary with the car.’

  ‘Thank… thank you.’ His voice sounded scratchy and old. He had no idea what doing the necessary entailed.