Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

Jacob bounded up the path and rang the bell. The door opened to reveal a woman of perhaps forty-five summers who mustered a wan smile of welcome. She was dressed in black from head to toe, but there was about her a touch of faded elegance, as well as dignity. Lines criss-crossed around her eyes, and pink blotches from recently shed tears coloured her cheeks, but her handshake was warm. She had a fine head of corn-coloured hair and appealing, regular features; Jacob understood what Levi Shoemaker had seen in her. His immediate impression was of a decent woman, adept at distracting her lover from the harsh realities of a private enquiry agent’s professional life.

  Relieving him of his hat, coat, and bag, she led him into the front room, where a log fire blazed in an inglenook. She noticed his appreciative scrutiny of the antique rosewood furniture and the deep-piled Axminster carpet.

  ‘I could never afford such comfort on what Tilson left me. Levi was extremely generous. How did you happen to know him?’

  ‘I was following up a lead on a story, and thought he might be able to help.’ Jacob stood in front of the fire. ‘I visited his office the afternoon he died.’

  ‘The solicitor didn’t tell me exactly how Levi died,’ Wenna Tilson said quietly. ‘Later, when his secretary called, I asked what happened, but she said there’d have to be an inquest. She was trying to be kind, but I’m stronger than people think. I buried two children and two husbands before ever I met Levi. I don’t believe he drowned by accident. He was a strong swimmer. We used to go bathing together at Newlyn. Please tell me the truth. He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

  Jacob inclined his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Tilson. I don’t know who was responsible for his death, but I suspect it was connected to an enquiry he’d undertaken. He told me he’d been followed, and he was planning to leave the country. I’m in his debt, because he persuaded me to leave his office by the fire escape. He must have telephoned you the moment I left. If I’d stayed ten minutes longer, I suppose I’d have been attacked and killed too. You could say that he saved my life.’

  She closed her eyes, absorbing the confirmation of what she’d dreaded. ‘In the Ukraine, Levi endured unspeakable horrors. He used to say that nothing could compare to that. Recently, though, something changed. He seemed to be constantly looking over his shoulder. It wasn’t like him to be afraid.’

  ‘He was a brave man.’

  Wenna Tilson studied the bruise and cut on his face. ‘By the look of it, so are you.’

  ‘A minor altercation.’ He waved it away. ‘Something and nothing.’

  ‘Do you think Levi’s recording will cast light on who killed him?’

  ‘With any luck,’ Jacob said, ‘You’ve listened to it?’

  ‘No, I’m not ready to hear his voice again.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Flint, I find this very difficult. Levi came here on a flying visit, the week before last, and that was when he dictated his statement. He must have realised his life was in danger. I’ll leave you in peace to listen. See, the paraphernalia is over there on the sideboard.’

  The door closed behind her, and Jacob took out his notepad and pencil, ready to listen to the voice of a dead man.

  28

  ‘I’m telling this story,’ Levi Shoemaker said, in his careful, almost flawless English, ‘without knowing how it may end. Nor do I know if anyone will ever hear me tell it. If they do, it will be because I am dead. If I meet my maker in suspicious circumstances, I trust this statement helps to bring the per­petrator to justice.

  ‘Last autumn, I was consulted by a man giving his name as Trueman. He asked if I could undertake certain highly confidential investigations into the activities of several well-known individuals. I satisfied him of my credentials, and quoted a daily fee exceeding the highest rate I’ve ever charged. He did not blink at the cost.

  ‘He gave me four names. Claude Linacre, Lawrence Pardoe, William Keary, and Vincent Hannaway. An artist, a financier, an actor-manager, and a solicitor. All were known to me by reputation, though Keary was by far the most famous. Trueman said he sought a detailed report about their personal habits and activities. Their business activities interested him only in so far as they touched on the men’s private lives. He refused to explain the purpose of his enquiry, saying that he wanted me to investigate with a completely open mind.

  ‘Trueman was businesslike and intelligent, but he displayed none of the arrogance typical of men accustomed to great wealth. Weather-beaten cheeks and calloused hands indicated years spent undertaking rough work, much of it outdoors. Plainly, he was acting on behalf of an undisclosed principal.

  ‘When I put this to him, he said he represented Miss Rachel Savernake. I was vaguely aware of a late judge by that name, and Trueman confirmed she was his daughter. She’d recently arrived in London, and had reason to be curious about certain of her father’s former acquaintances. That, he said, was all I needed to know.

  ‘I said I was only willing to accept the instructions if I could meet my client. Ultimately, this was agreed, and I called on her at Gaunt House, a home previously owned by Crossan, the fraudster. It was not so much a domestic residence as a luxurious fortress. Even more fascinating was Rachel Savernake herself. She was astonishingly self-possessed, like those female saints whose faith was so fervent that they faced scourging and decapitation with sublime indifference.

  ‘Although she was utterly rational, I detected a touch of fanaticism. This was a woman prepared to destroy anything – perhaps including herself – to achieve her goals.

  ‘Whilst I was dubious about the assignment, I surrendered to intense curiosity, as well as the oldest frailty of all. Not the allure of a beautiful woman, but the prospect of comfortable retirement on the strength of what she paid me.

  ‘First, I sought proof that she could afford the outrageous payment on account that I’d demanded. Not only was she ready for the question, she went so far as to show me her father’s will. The Judge had left his estate in trust for her. She became absolutely entitled to it on her twenty-fifth birthday. The Judge had accumulated great wealth during his years at the Bar, to add to a substantial inheritance which included an island and a large if dilapidated manor house. Rachel Savernake was one of the richest women in Britain.

  ‘Before long, I was working for her full-time, even though she also employed other agents. As she said to me, she never put all her eggs in one basket. She asked me to investigate a police constable called Thurlow, a mother and daughter by the name of Dowd, who lived in Clerkenwell, as well as three journalists on the Clarion, Thomas Betts, Oliver McAlinden, and Jacob Flint.

  ‘As regards Claude Linacre, I pieced together a picture of a debauched sadist, a second-rate artist and a third-rate libertine. Making free with Rachel Savernake’s chequebook, I learned sickening details of his behaviour towards young women whom he met at the Inanity, and ultimately of his affair with Dolly Benson. When she was murdered, her former lover was arrested, but my information made Linacre an obvious suspect. I told Rachel Savernake so, and said she must go to the police.

  ‘To my surprise, she agreed without demur, promising my name wouldn’t be mentioned. She was true to her word, but the buffoons at the Yard were terrified by the prospect of interviewing a minister’s younger brother. Frustration presumably led her to contact Linacre. What she said to him, I do not know, but it was enough to drive him to suicide.

  ‘Perverse as it may seem, I was reassured. Perhaps she’d gleaned information from her late father discrediting his former associates, and wanted to serve justice by having me substantiate her suspicions. I was puzzled, however, when she asked me to look into the backgrounds of Sir Godfrey Mulhearn, Superintendent Chadwick, and Inspector Oakes. Already I’d found that DC Thurlow was conducting a clandestine relationship with the Dowd girl. Thurlow and the girl’s mother had something in common. Both lived beyond their means. Stories of corruption at the Yard are rife, but I’d thought the cancer was confined to sergeants in Soho taking bribes for turning a blind eye to the local dens of vice. I never
anticipated that the rottenness might have infected the hierarchy. Worryingly, however, I have now concluded that Arthur Chadwick’s expenditure far outstrips his income. A modest recent legacy does not begin to explain it.

  ‘Pardoe, Keary, and Hannaway all belong to the same clique. Pardoe’s second wife was a floosie he met at the Inanity, but she died from natural causes. Keary boasts a long line of conquests, but has settled down with an Italian widow of independent means. Hannaway is a bachelor who has made more than one young woman pregnant before paying through the nose to have the unborn child disposed of.

  ‘McAlinden relishes feasting with panthers. Flint is bright but impulsive. He, like McAlinden before him, lodges with the Dowd women. Betts was conscientious and law-abiding. He’d become intrigued by Rachel Savernake, and was making enquires about her until someone ran over him.’

  Shoemaker coughed. ‘Something was fishy about that accident, and although Rachel Savernake did not ask me to do so, I took it upon myself to investigate. The crucial witness vanished after giving a false name, and I suspected that Betts was injured deliberately. Had curiosity been his undoing?

  ‘I took myself off to the newspaper reading room at the British Museum, and pored through articles Betts had published. I was struck by the disproportionate attention he’d paid to a vicious recent murder, of a criminal called Harold Coleman. His account of the death led me to his report of Coleman’s original conviction for manslaughter. A bookmaker had been killed during a quarrel involving half a dozen men. The evidence identifying Coleman as the one who struck the fatal blow was questionable, and Betts implied that he’d been made a scapegoat. It wouldn’t be the first time a gang has sacrificed one of its number in order to protect a more powerful rogue. When Coleman broke out of prison, Betts’ articles about the escape again harked back to the dubious nature of the man’s conviction.

  ‘My next step was to investigate Coleman. A cellmate who befriended him in the Scrubs, and who had himself just been released, told me that Coleman confided in him. In a nutshell, Coleman’s real name was Smith, and he deserted from the army while on leave in 1916. After that, he moved from job to job in his native Cumberland, calling himself Harold Brown. Later, he adopted the surname Coleman, earning a crust at northern racecourses through the “bucket drop”. Bookmakers are threatened their business will be wrecked if they don’t pay for protection, and are required to drop half a crown each into a bucket that the rogue takes around the track. Coleman set his sights higher after moving to London. He hung around the fringes of the Rotherhithe Razors gang up to the time of his arrest.

  ‘What startled me was what he’d done before then. Spe­cifically, a job he took just after the armistice. For a few weeks he was working – to his cellmate’s amusement – as a butler in a manor house on a remote northern island.’ Shoemaker paused. ‘His employer was Judge Savernake.’

  *

  A discreet knock at the door caused Jacob to stop the machine.

  ‘I’m forgetting my manners in my old age.’ Wenna Tilson was bearing a tea tray. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  She looked at him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Jacob said hastily. ‘It’s just strange, listening to him speak, knowing that…’

  ‘That’s why I can’t bear to listen. Is that cowardly, Mr Flint?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Right, then. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  The moment the door closed behind her, Levi’s voice filled the room again.

  ‘How much of what the cellmate said was true, how much of it melodramatic embellishment? To me, Coleman’s story was so strange that, even if embellished, it must have a kernel of truth.

  ‘He said the Judge was wildly unpredictable. Even though a tame doctor prescribed a cocktail of drugs to keep his mind and temper in balance, he often behaved in an erratic and violent fashion. Everyone on the island of Gaunt hated him – except for his daughter, Rachel. She’d inherited his cruel streak. Whenever she was crossed, she would take out her temper on someone defenceless. Or something. Once, after she’d quarrelled with her father, Coleman witnessed her wringing the neck of a servant’s pet cat.

  ‘Another girl of similar age to Rachel lived at Savernake Hall. The Judge’s illegitimate great-niece, Juliet Brentano. Her father, a soldier, was the Judge’s nephew. Charles Brentano was a gambler, on close terms with the Judge. A French woman of the streets had given birth to Juliet, and mother and daughter had lived under Brentano’s protection until the war broke out. At much the same time, the Judge was forced to retire from public life after attempting to slash his wrist at the Old Bailey. Brentano sent his mistress and daughter to Savernake Hall while he went off to fight in France. He became quite a hero before suffering severe wounds. He didn’t return to Gaunt until some weeks after the armistice.

  ‘Juliet was a sickly, consumptive child, though Coleman believed her ill-health was exaggerated by her mother, so as to keep her out of harm’s way. Rachel resented their presence on the island, and became intensely and irrationally jealous of Juliet. To feed her father’s paranoia, she pretended that Brentano had misused her, and persuaded the Judge to rid himself of both Brentano and his mistress. Coleman was paid fifty guineas to kidnap the couple, and take them to an address in London. He came back to Gaunt, but Brentano and the woman never returned. The story was given out that they’d died of the influenza. Coleman believed that the Judge’s associates had murdered them. And that Rachel Savernake, not quite fifteen years old, had orchestrated their deaths.

  ‘Coleman told his cellmate that he left Gaunt because he found the place and the people loathsome. Rachel might be young, but he described her as pure evil. Yet he seemed obsessed by the Savernakes – just as Betts seemed obsessed with Coleman. And he enjoyed dropping cryptic hints that he knew a secret about Rachel Savernake, something he could profit from, if only he could get out of jail.

  ‘The cellmate didn’t have any idea what Coleman had got up to between absconding from the Scrubs and arriving at the mortuary. The ordeal that Coleman had endured prior to his death bore some of the gang’s hallmarks, although with a difference. This time, they used acid as well as razors. He surely begged to be allowed to die.

  ‘Nobody has been arrested for Coleman’s murder. Only the Clarion, thanks to Betts, bothered to report it. As regards Rachel’s part in the deaths of Brentano and his mistress, perhaps Coleman exaggerated. Could a young girl really be so wicked? But he was right, the couple died together. At Somerset House, I found death certificates for Charles Brentano, and one Yvette Viviers. Heart failure was given as the cause of death, but many different things can cause the heart to fail.

  ‘The place of death was given as Chancery Lane, on 29 January 1919. There was no more precise address. Both certificates were given by the country’s most eminent medical practitioner, Sir Eustace Leivers. I’d discovered he was a fellow member of the chess club to which Pardoe, Keary, and Hannaway belonged. So were distinguished men from all walks of life – politicians, businessmen, a bishop, and even a trade union leader.

  ‘The club was known as the Gambit Club, based in a building called Gaunt Chambers, at Gallows Court on the edge of Lincoln’s Inn and Chancery Lane. Gaunt Chambers was home to a barristers’ set founded by Lionel Savernake. The same building also houses the firm of Hannaway & Hannaway, and is the registered office of a host of businesses connected with men such as Keary and Pardoe.

  ‘These discoveries bring me almost up to date. I am concerned that matters are coming to a head, but what happens next is impossible to guess. I have been followed more than once lately – by whom, I cannot be sure. I have no wish to suffer the same mishap as Betts. Rachel Savernake has now told me to discontinue my investigations into Lawrence Pardoe. She gave the same order forty-eight hours before Linacre died. If Pardoe also meets an untimely end, I shall at once terminate my retainer with Miss Rachel Savernake.’

  *

 
; ‘I’m not accusing anyone of any criminal offence.’ As he came to the end of his statement, Levi Shoemaker sounded as cautious as a solicitor determined to avoid any hint of defamation. ‘I simply wish to state the facts of which I am aware. I leave it to others to decide what, if anything, to make of them.’

  And that was all. Jacob sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to make sense of everything he’d heard. For all the old man’s calm, it wasn’t fanciful to detect a note of anxiety. He’d realised he was in danger. And there was little doubt in Jacob’s mind that he was afraid of Rachel Savernake.

  Suppose Coleman was right, and Rachel had somehow engineered, through her father, the deaths of Charles Brentano and Yvette Viviers at the hands of the Judge’s friends. Having inherited a fortune, and made a new life in London, she’d be desperate to keep her secret. Had she set out to eliminate the men responsible for killing the couple?

  As a man on the run, Coleman would be desperate for money. The chances were that he’d come across Tom Betts earlier in his criminal career; hence Tom’s interest in writing about him.

  Coleman said he knew her secret.

  Had Rachel paid him to keep quiet about her past? Or arranged his death to make sure he kept his mouth shut? Taking wild gambles excited Rachel Savernake. Perhaps madness ran in the family.

  Juliet Brentano’s Journal

  5 February 1919

  A terrible storm has raged all day. The worst I can remember. It uprooted trees like a child plucking daisies. The causeway lies beneath four feet of water, and the sea is so rough that any attempt to cross Gaunt Sound by boat would be an act of suicide.

  The telephone lines are down. Harold Brown is still in the village, probably drinking the pub dry. Cliff, meanwhile, is regaining his strength, though Henrietta says Rachel started coughing this morning. Now she is feverish and rambling.

  Who knows what the coming days may bring?