Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Did he die of his wounds?’

  ‘Apparently not. The death certificate gives the cause of death as heart failure.’

  ‘Did he have any family?’

  ‘The obituary makes no mention of either a wife or children. It struck me as rather guarded.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Obituaries are often as interesting for what they leave as for what they include. In the case of certain confirmed bachelors, sometimes their proclivities are hinted at in a subtext. More usually, they are glossed over.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The same cause of death is given for the woman, Yvette.’

  ‘They both died of heart failure on the same day?’

  ‘Strange coincidence, eh?’ Puffing and grunting, Toseland made his way to the door. ‘Hope it helps with whatever story you’re working on. Anyway, I must be getting off. Feeling rather peckish after so much activity.’

  ‘Thanks, Toseland. I’m more grateful than I can say.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, old boy. One excitement after another these days, isn’t it? First, we lose poor Betts, now McAlinden’s topped himself. There’s talk that he was mixed up in an eternal triangle. Incredible. I wouldn’t believe a word of it if I hadn’t read it in the Clarion.’

  Jacob laughed. ‘Must be true, then. Anything else of note in the obituary?’

  ‘It was only brief. One other point might interest you. Brentano’s father was a diplomat from Berlin who came over here, and fell for an English girl. She belonged to a wealthy family, the Savernakes. Her brother was Lionel Savernake, the notorious hanging judge.’

  25

  ‘Rachel Savernake wants to meet us?’ Superintendent Chadwick repeated.

  ‘This evening, yes,’ Sir Godfrey Mulhearn said. ‘Irregular, damned irregular, but we live in irregular times.’

  ‘You’ve agreed to see her, then, sir?’ For once, Chadwick’s discipline slipped. A gaping mouth revealed his incredulity.

  ‘Yes, Chadwick.’ A pink tinge coloured Sir Godfrey’s cheeks. ‘She was most insistent, practically invited herself over here. Said she was in possession of vital information about the death of DC Thurlow.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘She wouldn’t be drawn. I said we were satisfied that McAlinden had killed Thurlow and his girlfriend, and then put a bullet through his own brain. Simple case of jealousy. But she refused to discuss the matter further on the telephone.’

  ‘I’ve expressed this view before, sir,’ Chadwick said icily, ‘but I don’t hold with encouraging amateurs to blunder into serious detective work.’

  Sir Godfrey snorted. He was acutely aware that Rachel Savernake was not the only amateur Superintendent Chad­wick had in his sights.

  *

  As Toseland’s lumbering footsteps echoed down the corridor, Jacob was struck by a memory. Hadn’t he bumped into McAlinden coming out of this office when he’d spoken to him about his report of Shoemaker’s death? What had the fellow been doing in Betts’ room? He had no business there, surely. Jacob hadn’t given it a thought at the time – he’d been more concerned with having a surreptitious look-see himself – but now he knew that McAlinden was a murderer. Had Oily been searching through Betts’ things, looking for records of the crime correspondent’s enquiries about Rachel Savernake?

  Jacob surveyed the clutter surrounding him. It would be almost impossible to put your hands on anything if you didn’t know where to look. For all he knew, McAlinden had turned the room upside down, and still left it tidier than he’d found it.

  If there’d been anything worth taking, McAlinden would doubtless have removed it, but Jacob decided to make a further check before departing for Amwell Street. It was as good an excuse as any for delaying the dreadful moment when he came face to face with Mrs Dowd.

  Ten minutes later, he was once again ready to admit defeat. After trawling through each drawer in Betts’ cupboard, and glancing at every notebook he could find, he’d drawn a blank.

  Lydia Betts’ innocent face smiled at him from the photo­graph that Betts had tucked under his telephone. There was another bereaved woman Jacob would soon be meeting, at Tom’s funeral. Another stilted, hopeless conversation. Jacob groaned. He hated funerals and graveyards even more than hospitals.

  As he looked at Lydia, another picture came to his mind. The bookshelf in the Betts’ flat, and the one title that unquestionably belonged to Tom, Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination. Was his favourite story, like Jacob’s, ‘The Purloined Letter’?

  Jacob pulled out the photograph, and turned it over. There was Betts’ familiar, if barely decipherable, pencilled scrawl.

  Charles Brentano

  Vincent Hannaway

  99th Division, Cumberland Fusiliers

  St Quentin redoubt

  What happened?

  Betts’ notes were hiding in plain sight, just like Poe’s clue, although they gave rise to a fresh mystery rather than solving one. Charles Brentano, nephew of Judge Savernake, who had died at Gallows Court, and Vincent Hannaway, the solicitor who practised there, had been comrades in arms during the Great War.

  *

  Jacob was still wrestling with the puzzle of Tom Betts’ notes when he arrived back at Edgar House. Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the front door.

  He’d never thought of himself as a sensitive soul, but the moment he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong. The silence seemed not mournful but sinister. And, following his ill-starred trip to Benfleet, painfully familiar.

  ‘Mrs Dowd?’

  No answer came.

  Turning the handle of the door to the kitchen, he found it locked. There was a stopper in the keyhole. He sniffed suspiciously.

  ‘Mrs Dowd? Are you all right?’

  He put his shoulder to the door, and it began to give. Heaving with all his strength, he heard wood splintering, and a final shove forced the door open.

  The stench of gas almost knocked him off his feet. His eyes stung as he took in the pile of unwashed saucepans and plates by the sink, and then the sorry sight on the linoleum-covered floor.

  Patience Dowd was motionless. Her head must have been in the oven for quite some time.

  *

  ‘Thank you so much for allowing us to meet at short notice, Sir Godfrey.’

  Rachel Savernake put down her bag, and smiled at the other men in the assistant commissioner’s room. Mulhearn was flanked by Chadwick and Oakes. Trueman sat next to the superintendent, closest to the window, with the moonlight shining on his face.

  Sir Godfrey pointed at Trueman. ‘You didn’t mention that you would be accompanied by your servant.’

  Rachel’s voice cut the silence like a razor tearing flesh. ‘I have no secrets from Trueman.’

  ‘Even so, on a matter of delicacy…’

  ‘Trueman is, despite his… rugged appearance, no stranger to matters of delicacy,’ she said. ‘Now, may we proceed?’

  ‘Please.’ Sir Godfrey made a performance of consulting his pocket watch. ‘I have a dinner appointment tonight. If you don’t mind keeping it concise…’

  ‘I’ll be very concise, Sir Godfrey.’ Her tone was cool. ‘I came here to say that DC Stanley Thurlow was taking bribes.’

  ‘Miss Savernake!’ Sir Godfrey threw a nervous glance at his colleagues. ‘I really don’t…’

  Oakes interrupted. ‘What evidence do you have for this very serious accusation?’

  ‘Thurlow made revealing comments to Jacob Flint from the Clarion.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Flint told me himself.’

  ‘The word of a journalist,’ Chadwick muttered in disgust.

  ‘He had no reason to lie, Superintendent. I am satisfied that he told me the truth.’

  Oakes said, ‘He said nothing of the kind to me when I interviewed him earlier today.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Rachel replied, ‘you did not ask him the right questions.’

  ‘Thurlow might have
been romancing,’ Sir Godfrey said. ‘Young fellows do it all the time, Miss Savernake. Trying to impress his chum, you know.’

  ‘I’ll take your word about the behaviour of young men,’ Rachel said, ‘but the supporting evidence is unequivocal. Thurlow lived far beyond his means. A shiny new car, a gold pocket watch…’

  ‘The man’s dead!’ Sir Godfrey barked as if he was back on the parade ground. ‘He can’t respond to this disgraceful slur.’

  ‘It’s rather disgraceful conduct, Sir Godfrey. And I’m afraid that he wasn’t alone in behaving improperly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Oakes muttered.

  ‘He told Flint he was about to be promoted to the rank of detective sergeant.’

  ‘Inconceivable!’ Sir Godfrey snapped. ‘How in the blazes can you suggest…?’

  ‘His loyalty had been bought.’

  ‘He invented the supposed promotion. Must have.’

  ‘No, he’d every confidence that the reward he’d been pro­mised would be delivered.’

  ‘Tommyrot!’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘One of you knows I’m right. One of you has sold not only his reputation, but also his soul.’

  *

  Once the ambulance had removed Patience Dowd’s body, and a dour police constable had taken a statement from him, Jacob tossed some things into a suitcase, and trudged down Margery Street before stopping at the first hotel he came to. He couldn’t contemplate the prospect of spending the night in Edgar House.

  A wizened gnome occupied a glass hutch at the back of the foyer, like an example of the taxidermist’s art on display in a cobwebbed museum. With every sign of reluctance, he raised the glass shutter, and gloomily confirmed that he had a single room available for the night. The room proved to be grubby, the curtains moth-eaten, and the mattress full of lumps. The mirror made Jacob resemble a deformed gargoyle, but he didn’t care. The past twenty-four hours had left him numb.

  The walls were thin, and he heard raised voices. The couple next door had evidently been involved in a financial transaction, and a raucous dispute was raging about the price payable and the extent and value of the services supplied. The row ended with a slapping noise, the banging of a door, and footsteps clattering down the corridor. He heard a woman weeping, but after a few minutes she departed as well, and silence reigned on the second floor.

  He lay on his back, sore eyes scrutinising the ceiling. The jagged cracks in the plasterwork reminded him that the life he’d known was crumbling. The Jacob Flint who had accosted Rachel Savernake in the fog seemed a different person, innocent and carefree. Betts’ death, despite its inevitability, had rattled him, and the murders of Thurlow and Elaine, followed by her mother’s suicide, had left him bereft. Stan and the two women may have nursed ulterior motives in befriending him, but he’d enjoyed their company.

  As for Rachel Savernake, her allure remained disturbing, her motives unfathomable. Last night, as she’d quizzed him about his dealings with the police, he’d asked if she trusted Oakes.

  Her reply was as evasive as a lawyer’s quibble. ‘He’s that rarity, a clever policeman. Sometimes, of course, one can be too clever.’

  The recent alteration in Oakes’ demeanour was striking. What was the matter with the fellow?

  There could only be one answer. Inspector Oakes was afraid.

  *

  ‘Madam!’ Outrage made Sir Godfrey’s voice break. ‘That is nothing less than an actionable slander.’

  She turned to Oakes. ‘What say you, Inspector?’

  Pale and drawn, Oakes bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry to say that you’re right, Miss Savernake.’

  ‘Would you care to enlighten your colleagues?’

  Oakes took a breath. ‘I’ve become convinced that the spate of recent… incidents is not coincidental. I believe that a group of prominent individuals have combined to defy the law. Men such as Pardoe, Linacre, and Keary, and others as yet undetected. They all came from the same social circle, but the bond between them is, I’m sure, much closer than we have realised. Their motives are as shadowy as their actions, but I suspect that nefarious activities have benefited from illicit assistance, courtesy of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Great heavens, man!’ Sir Godfrey exclaimed. ‘Have a care what you’re saying.’

  ‘I hadn’t wanted to utter a word, sir. My enquiries are still in their early stages, and I freely admit that there is much I don’t yet know. But Miss Savernake’s outburst leaves me with no choice but to put my cards on the table. It pains me to say so, but she is right. DC Thurlow was not our only rotten apple.’

  Sir Godfrey glared at him. ‘Very well, man. Spit it out. Who are you suggesting…?’

  ‘Let me save Inspector Oakes a little embarrassment,’ Rachel said. ‘I can read his mind. I’m sorry to say that his suspicions are directed towards you, Sir Godfrey.’

  The assistant commissioner’s cheeks turned an unnatural shade of purple. ‘Madam, this…’

  She raised a hand. ‘Am I right, Inspector?’

  Oakes, crimson with mortification, said nothing.

  ‘The theory is based on diverse scraps of information, Sir Godfrey. You belong to the same moneyed, well-born class as Pardoe and Linacre. Your family banks with Pardoe’s. You are an avid theatre-goer, and have often been seen in a box at the Inanity. You were even present on the night William Keary was killed.’

  ‘It was my wife’s birthday! A little celebration…’

  ‘I won’t labour the point. Suffice to say that the inspector has turned up enough material to build a circumstantial case. But it won’t do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Oakes asked hoarsely.

  Chadwick rose to his feet. ‘You’re not saying that Oakes himself bribed Thurlow? Damned impertinence! First you defame Sir Godfrey, and now…’

  ‘Sit down,’ Rachel snapped. ‘I’m accusing the inspector of nothing more serious than a failure to see the wood for the trees.’

  ‘What the devil are you blathering about, woman?’ Chad­wick demanded.

  ‘Sir Godfrey didn’t bribe Thurlow, any more than the inspector did. The rotten apple at the top of the barrel was you, Superintendent Chadwick.’

  *

  ‘Miss Savernake.’ Sir Godfrey looked as though he might suffer a stroke at any moment. ‘I sincerely hope you can substantiate that allegation. Otherwise, I must ask you to retract it and apologise. The superintendent—’

  ‘… is one of the most experienced and well-regarded officers in this building,’ Rachel yawned. ‘That’s precisely what blinded even Inspector Oakes to the truth. The idea that such a man would sacrifice everything he’s worked for is anathema to him.’

  Finding his voice, Chadwick snapped, ‘That accusation is filthy and contemptible. You’re a disgrace to womankind, just as your father was a disgrace to the judiciary.’

  ‘The Judge? Twenty years ago, his savagery made you recoil, and I can’t say I blame you. How disappointing that you succumbed to the overtures of his disciples.’

  ‘Poppycock! You’ll need a lawyer as brutal as your old man when I serve my writ for slander. Where’s your evidence?’

  ‘When Thurlow asked Flint who sent the anonymous note that led him to Pardoe’s house, he said he wanted to pass on the information to you. Odd, given that you’re a desk-bound superintendent. Surely he would report to the inspector?’

  ‘Trivial hearsay,’ Chadwick jeered. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Thurlow told Flint about the discovery of the pawn in Pardoe’s study. The inspector had instructed his men to keep that snippet of information secret, but you authorised Thurlow to leak it. You fed Flint with juicy titbits to gain his confidence.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. Anything else?’

  ‘A great deal, I’m afraid. Enquiries undertaken by Levi Shoemaker before your paymasters procured his untimely demise reveal that your son and his family have moved into a new bungalow on the front at Hastings. The sea air will do your granddaughter goo
d after her sickness. It’s far less expensive than the mansion you bought for your wife and yourself in Wimbledon, but luxurious for a couple with the husband out of work and a child in constant need of medical attention. The doctors’ fees alone must cost you a king’s ransom.’

  ‘Chadwick?’ Sir Godfrey’s eyes were popping. ‘Is there any truth in this?’

  ‘Ask Oakes,’ Rachel said.

  Mulhearn turned to the inspector, who nodded miserably.

  ‘I don’t know about the place in Hastings, sir, but the Wimbledon property is quite something. The neighbours are mostly high-ups in the City. I was concerned, I must admit, but the superintendent set my mind at rest. He happened to mention that he’d received a legacy after the death of his aunt. He was the residuary beneficiary, I gather.’

  ‘Perfectly true.’ Chadwick gritted his teeth. ‘All open and above board. Take a look at the paperwork in Somerset House, if you doubt me.’

  ‘Levi Shoemaker did exactly that,’ Rachel said. ‘You inher­ited the princely sum of ninety-three pounds after pay­ment of your aunt’s debts. Hardly enough to sustain the life of sybaritic self-indulgence to which you and your family have become accustomed.’

  ‘Self-indulgence? How dare you?’

  Chadwick’s temper broke. He balled his fists, and took a step towards her. He’d been a heavyweight in his boxing days, but Rachel didn’t flinch.

  ‘Your days in the ring are long past,’ Rachel said calmly. ‘Don’t embarrass yourself.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ Sir Godfrey said. ‘Don’t do anything stupid!’

  ‘Shut up, you old windbag!’ Chadwick shouted. ‘Have any of you the faintest idea what it’s like to work all your life, and then watch your grandchild clinging to life with pathetic desperation? Have you…?’

  ‘We all have our crosses to bear,’ Rachel said. ‘Save the extenuating circumstances for your plea in mitigation at the trial.’

  ‘You arrogant bitch! You deserve everything you get!’

  Chadwick reached inside his jacket, but even as he brought out a revolver, Trueman sprang from his chair, and knocked him to the ground. Long years behind a desk had slowed the superintendent’s reactions, and softened his muscles. Trueman pinioned him to the floor, and Chadwick swore wildly as Oakes snatched away the gun.