Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  Rachel opened her bag, and fished out a pair of handcuffs. ‘Forgive me, Sir Godfrey. Even in Scotland Yard, I wasn’t sure you’d have these in your own room. So I came prepared.’

  Juliet Brentano’s Journal

  4 February 1919

  Expect the unexpected. It was my mother’s favourite piece of advice. And this evening Henrietta brought – for once – welcome tidings along with my evening meal. So welcome that I found I’d regained my appetite.

  Cliff’s condition hasn’t worsened. She even dares to think he may be a little better. Might there yet be hope for him?

  And if so, what will he do when he finds out how Brown hurt his sister?

  26

  Jacob overslept the next morning. As he forced his eyes open, the sombre tolling of a distant church bell told him that it was eleven o’clock. Fortunately, he didn’t need to go in to work. The Clarion appeared six days a week, and had a sister paper, the Sunday Clarion. In theory, the two businesses were distinct, but journalists on the daily often wrote for the Sunday newspaper, and the British public’s love of scandal and sensation on the Sabbath kept crime reporters busy. But even that taskmaster Gomersall recognised his staff needed a day – or at least a few hours – of rest.

  Jacob’s head was sore, and his mouth parched. He felt hungover despite not having drunk a drop of alcohol. Cramped and disagreeable as his bed was, it took an effort of will to haul himself out. He blinked at his distorted reflection in the mirror, hollow-eyed and unshaven. His bones ached. Was this what it felt like to be old?

  He put on his dressing gown, and padded down the passageway to the unpleasant little bathroom at the end. A cold bath was supposed to be healthy, he reminded himself, after discovering there was no hot water.

  Once he’d towelled himself dry and shaved, he lay down again on the lumpy bed, and closed his eyes. The face of Sara Delamere swam into his mind. He was beginning to understand how Sara could transform into the exotic and desirable Nefertiti. Her gamine appearance reminded him of Louise Brooks, his favourite American film star.

  Sara’s face somehow transformed into Elaine Dowd’s. With a lurch of dismay, he realised how much he’d cared for her. Knowing that she’d deceived him made a difference, but not much. Financial necessity had driven her, as well as greed. He’d enjoyed her company. Even if she was working to instructions, surely some of her affection had been genuine?

  He hated to think of her lying in a mortuary. Even to recall the moment he’d discovered her lifeless body made him feel sick. Her mother’s suicide was…

  Suicide? A question jolted him. Had he been mistaken in jumping to the obvious conclusion? She hadn’t left a note, but then again, suicides often didn’t explain themselves.

  A trivial oddity had stuck in his memory. He’d found unwashed plates and pans in the kitchen, as well as a dead woman wearing a soup-stained apron. Mrs Dowd’s insistence on cleanliness in her kitchen had bordered on the fanatical. Would she have left the place in such a mess when putting her head in the oven? Jacob thought that if he’d decided life had nothing more to offer, he certainly wouldn’t bother about washing up. Yet Patience Dowd’s priorities in life were very different to his. She cared about appearances.

  Patience Dowd knew what Elaine was up to; the omniscient Rachel Savernake had been adamant about that. She’d quarrelled with her daughter, she’d told Jacob so. Was she getting cold feet about the people they were mixed up with, the likes of McAlinden and Thurlow? With her daughter dead, the landlady might have talked out of turn, perhaps to the police. Had she been silenced?

  And if so, who had killed her?

  *

  Gabriel Hannaway and his son sat facing each other, at opposite ends of a Chippendale dining table. They were eating Sunday lunch at the old man’s Georgian residence on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Vincent owned a luxurious flat in Chelsea, but came to dine with his father every Sunday and Tuesday. It was a family tradition.

  A neatly uniformed maid with short fair hair and dimples, no more than sixteen years old, refilled their wine glasses from a bottle of Chateau Latour. Nervousness made her clumsy, and as she emptied the bottle, a few drops spilled onto the white tablecloth.

  ‘Idiot girl!’ the old man wheezed.

  Blushing, the maid began to stammer an apology. Vincent caught her wrist, and the words died on her lips.

  ‘It’s all right, Beatrice.’ His tone was soothing, but his stare cut into her. ‘Father’s not at his best today. The gout, you know. Run along, and I’ll have a word with you later.’

  The girl curtsied timidly. Her skinny body was shaking. Vincent dug his hard fingers into her thin wrist for an instant before releasing his grip, and allowing her to scuttle out of the room.

  Gabriel Hannaway shook his head. ‘She has a lot to learn.’

  ‘I’ll train her.’

  The old man sniffed. ‘Is that what you call it? How long before you become bored? Answer me that. At least the last child had an ounce of character.’

  ‘Vanity caused her to get ideas above her station. I know you always have a soft spot for the plump ones, but my tastes are more eclectic.’ Vincent chewed a roast potato. ‘Variety’s the spice of life. You know that better than most.’

  ‘Everything’s falling apart, I know that. The world’s gone to pot, my boy. Paper pound notes instead of gold sovereigns, chemical mush instead of proper beer…’

  When Vincent yawned loudly, the old man banged down his knife and fork, and pushed his plate away. ‘I can hardly taste this rubbish. What’s the cook playing at?’

  ‘It’s your illness, Father.’ A mocking light came into Vincent’s eyes as he savoured a parsnip. ‘The vegetables are crisp, and the meat succulent, while I find the horseradish sauce satisfyingly pungent. Your taste buds, I’m afraid, are not what they were.’

  ‘You think you know it all.’ The old man clicked his false teeth, a favourite form of rebuke. ‘Yet here we are, facing the worst crisis in our history. Look at the men we’ve lost. And now this wretched news about Chadwick…’

  ‘Chadwick became lazy. He put far too much trust in Thurlow. What he wanted was a young fellow to do his bidding. It’s a familiar pattern, when a man becomes old and complacent.’

  The iguana eyes flickered. ‘Which of us is complacent? All I can see is that my life’s work is threatened, and you remain insouciant. I’m reminded of Dr Pangloss.’

  Vincent chewed on a gravy-smeared chunk of roast beef for fully half a minute before replying. ‘I’d rather seize opportunities than mourn setbacks. The deaths of Pardoe and Keary were regrettable, but at least they’re no longer able to obstruct progress.’

  ‘Get in your way, you mean,’ the old man croaked.

  ‘If you like.’ Vincent shrugged. ‘Rachel Savernake is behind it all, you must see that.’

  The old man bowed his head. ‘I misjudged her.’

  ‘She’s done me a good turn, even if it’s the last thing she wanted.’

  ‘Her father went mad, you know.’

  ‘Dug a penknife into his own wrist in Court Number One, didn’t he?’ Vincent’s smile was malicious. ‘Of course I know. The days are gone when even to hint at that squalid episode was taboo within our fellowship.’

  ‘You’re right.’ The false teeth clicked again. ‘I’ve served the Savernakes all my life. But this is a wicked betrayal. At least the Judge fled London, and hid himself out of sight. His daughter, on the other hand…’

  Vincent smiled. ‘I’m convinced that she, too, teeters on the tightrope of sanity.’

  ‘Perhaps Sir Eustace…’

  Vincent made a noise of exasperation. ‘Do you really think that woman would allow old Leivers to pack her off to a sanatorium? She’s made of stronger stuff than Keary’s wife, you know.’ He paused. ‘Or Mother.’

  The old man said nothing. He was a portrait of defeat.

  ‘As for that tightrope,’ Vincent said, ‘only one question remains. Does she need a helping hand to tip her o
ff?’

  Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the wine-stained tablecloth. The crimson blotch resembled a bloodstain.

  *

  Jacob missed lunch as well as breakfast. He didn’t feel hungry, but a couple of glasses of water had begun to revive him. The first thing he needed to do was to escape this godforsaken place. Should he find somewhere else, or go back to Amwell Street? The rest of his possessions were still in Edgar House, and having paid his rent until the end of January, he was entitled to stay there, even if his landlady was dead. He wasn’t sure he could face it, but the only way to find out was to return to the scene of the crime. And it was a crime scene. Even if Patience Dowd had not been murdered, suicide was a felony, long acknowledged as a crime against God and Man. The landlady wouldn’t be buried in consecrated ground unless someone showed she hadn’t died by her own hand. But who would care?

  He packed his bag, told the wizened gnome that he wouldn’t be coming back – news greeted with such indifference that the man might indeed have been a stuffed exhibit – and set off for Amwell Street. On the way he passed a newspaper vendor with a placard advertising one of the Clarion’s competitors. What he saw made him stumble so that he almost fell under the wheels of an oncoming cab.

  Scotland Yard Superintendent in Handcuffs! Conspiracy Charge Sensation!

  He dug in his pocket, and brought out a few coins. It went against the grain to contribute to the opposition’s coffers, but he had no choice. Leaning against a lamppost, he skimmed through the story. The report was a classic example of making bricks without straw; he’d done it enough time to applaud the skill of the enterprise.

  Superintendent Chadwick had been arrested in connection with the recent death of DC Thurlow. He was suspected of complicity in the events at Benfleet – repeated in lurid detail for the benefit of readers who might have forgotten the previous day’s news – but the nature of his involvement was hopelessly unclear. Sir Godfrey Mulhearn had made a brief announcement to the press using the words ‘sub judice’ as a fig leaf to justify his refusal to say anything meaningful.

  Jacob folded the newspaper, and handed it back to the mystified vendor. He didn’t want to bump into anyone he knew while carrying a rival rag. It would be less of an embarrassment to be seen brandishing a set of the saucy French postcards kept under the counter of a particular shop in Marchmont Street.

  Minutes later, he was standing outside Edgar House. He’d half expected to find a police constable on guard, but the place was deserted. Presumably Scotland Yard was preoccupied with the catastrophes of Thurlow’s murder and Chadwick’s arrest. The gas-oven death of a distressed woman of fifty was hardly a priority.

  He hurried up to his room. It was impossible to contemplate looking in the kitchen, or at the sofa on which he and Elaine had embraced. Now he was back in the building, he wasn’t sure he could bear to stay overnight. Too many memories came flooding back.

  As he took the rest of his clothes out of drawers, he tried to decide where to go next, but his mind kept straying to Rachel Savernake. What role had she played in the arrest of Chadwick? She wove such a tangled web, he found it impossible to believe that the superintendent’s fall from grace had nothing to do with her.

  A furious knocking downstairs jerked him out of his reverie. Almost without thinking, he’d locked the front door after stepping over the threshold, and was thankful he’d done so. A sudden chill touched his bones. His room overlooked an alleyway, and he hurried across the landing to peek out through the drawn curtains of an empty room at the front with a view on the street. But there was a canopy over the front door, and whoever was making such a racket wasn’t visible. Should he pretend not to be there?

  A thought jumped into his mind. Had Rachel sent Trueman to find him? He hated the very thought that she might mean him harm. After all, the chauffeur had saved his life at Benfleet. But their previous encounters had left him with few illusions. Rachel had guessed that he found her good looks beguiling, and she was perfectly capable of taking advantage of him. He was a means to an end, and she was quite prepared to frame him for the Benfleet murders. He found himself praying that he hadn’t outlived his usefulness.

  The knocking redoubled in intensity. Whoever wanted him to open up did not mean to leave without an answer. Perhaps he’d been seen letting himself into the house. If so, there was every chance the visitor would break in if he felt thwarted. The door was stoutly built, but Trueman could punch through it as if it were made of paper.

  Jacob stiffened his sinews, and headed downstairs.

  *

  ‘This will ruin me,’ Sir Godfrey Mulhearn said.

  Inspector Oakes, sitting on the other side of the desk in the assistant commissioner’s office, preserved a tactful silence. The old boy, he thought, was probably right.

  ‘A corrupt police constable is one thing,’ Sir Godfrey said, ‘but a superintendent… the press are having a field day.’

  He looked expectantly at his subordinate. Oakes cleared his throat.

  ‘We can only hope that soon they’ll have something else to distract them, sir.’

  ‘There’s talk that the Indian nationalists are plotting an outrage,’ Mulhearn said hopefully. ‘If we can foil them…’

  His voice trailed away. They both knew that intelligence about extremist factions in the subcontinent was sketchy and unreliable. Oakes decided he must change the subject.

  ‘Superintendent Chadwick is keeping his own counsel, sir. Seems that he’s more frightened of the consequences of betraying his confederates than he is of a long stretch in prison, with or without hard labour.’

  Sir Godfrey banged his fist on the desk. ‘What sort of men are we dealing with, Oakes? How can these scoundrels exert such a stranglehold on someone like Chadwick, with a fine record of public service, and half a dozen commendations for bravery?’

  Money had a lot to do with it, Oakes reflected, but there was certainly more to it than bribery. They had the knack of instilling fear. No, an emotion sharper even than fear. Terror.

  ‘You refer to men, sir, but we’re still not clear about the game Miss Savernake is playing.’

  ‘What d’you mean? When she accused Chadwick, it came out of the blue.’ Sir Godfrey paused awkwardly. He’d come perilously close to saying that he’d expected her to expose Oakes’ villainy. ‘That is, we had no idea that we were nurturing a viper in our bosom, so to speak. Chadwick is plainly up to his neck in this Benfleet business, and she’s stumbled across his secret. Yet she hasn’t blabbed to the press. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Discretion and restraint in such a young filly is admirable.’

  ‘I’m not sure Rachel Savernake has ever stumbled in her life,’ Oakes said quietly. ‘Everything she does, she does for a reason. I wonder about her motives.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ Sir Godfrey said, ‘she’s damned public- spirited.’

  Oakes allowed the words to hang in the air for a few moments. ‘Apparently, sir. But what other considerations are driving her on?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Rachel Savernake poses as some kind of amateur dete­ctive. She was indirectly responsible for Linacre’s death, and I feel sure she was involved with Pardoe’s, though I can’t prove it. The private investigator she hired was murdered, she was present when Keary was killed, and thanks to her, a well-respected senior policeman is currently languishing in a cell. All these incidents are connected; they must be.’

  Sir Godfrey stared at him. ‘You talked to her last night after… Chadwick was taken away. I know she blocks better than a Yorkshire batsman, but did you pick up any clues?’

  Oakes gritted his teeth. ‘Instinct tells me that Rachel Savernake is pursuing a mission. To destroy people who stand in her way.’

  ‘In the way of what, though?’

  Oakes shook his head. ‘That’s the trouble, sir. I still haven’t the foggiest idea.’

  *

  The unknown caller kept pounding on the front door as Jacob fumble
d with his key. He was convinced he’d find himself face to face with Trueman. When finally he opened the door, he was confronted by a squat man with sloping shoulders who was in need of a good shave. He took a step backwards, and his hesitation allowed the visitor to enter the hallway, and bang the door shut behind him.

  He clenched his fists, and Jacob saw that he was wearing knuckledusters.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Elaine?’ Jacob was as flustered as a boy caught stealing from a sweetshop. ‘She’s dead. Murdered. And her mother has killed herself.’

  The man raised his right fist. ‘Don’t be stupid. You know who I mean.’

  Jacob felt his whole body shaking. How could he raise the alarm? It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in Clerkenwell. Even if he screamed the place down, who would hear?

  ‘You mean… Rachel Savernake? She’s not…’

  The man grabbed his neck. ‘I told you not to be stupid. Where is she?’

  ‘I’m… sorry.’ Jacob was finding it hard to breathe. The man was crushing his windpipe. ‘Who…?’

  ‘The Delamere woman.’

  ‘She’s not here. She’s never been here in her life. She’s…’

  ‘Stop wasting my time. She’s left home, but you’re in touch with her. Where is she hiding?’

  ‘I… honestly, I couldn’t even guess.’ He gasped as the pressure on his windpipe increased. ‘I’ve talked to her, it’s true.’

  ‘And?’ The man released his grip.

  ‘She’s frightened, she said she’d left home. I think she’s moving around. I’m expecting to hear from her again, but I’ve no idea when.’

  The knuckledusters caught him a glancing blow on the temple, and he cried out. Tears blurred his vision.

  ‘I ought to kill you just for being a crybaby,’ the man said.

  Jacob could feel blood trickling down his cheek. He didn’t want to die a hero.