Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  29

  Before boarding the train back to London, Jacob telephoned Clarion House. Peggy sounded pleased that nobody wanted him, not a blessed soul. So: no word from Oakes, from Sara, or from Rachel Savernake.

  As the express thundered through the English countryside, he gazed out at the bare trees and sleepy meadows. Listening to a dead man’s voice had left him in an unaccustomed state of melancholy. For the first time since moving to London, he felt a pang sharper than hunger. He was on his own. Sara was lovely, but she was a millionaire’s former mistress. Even if she came to no harm, as he profoundly hoped, he was sure she was out of his reach.

  As for Rachel Savernake, a remark of Wenna Tilson’s as they exchanged farewells had stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘The secretary told me you needed to listen to Levi’s statement.’

  ‘The secretary?’

  ‘Yes, I told you. She rang me to ask if Levi had left any messages for anyone. Her employer needed to know. Something to do with obtaining probate; I didn’t understand the technicalities, but that’s the law for you. I told her about the Dictaphone, and said Levi had asked me to call you.’

  He cringed inwardly. ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes, she didn’t seem surprised. Actually, she was very helpful, and even gave me the Clarion’s phone number, so I didn’t have to look it up. She suggested I leave it until Monday morning to let you know, so I took her advice.’

  Who else could be the secretary, Jacob thought, but Rachel Savernake? She must have learned of Wenna Tilson’s existence, and the name of Levi’s lawyer, probably from one of the other investigators at her beck and call. She left nothing to chance. She was keeping tabs on Levi even after his death.

  Yet she’d made no attempt to prevent him from travelling to Cornwall. All she’d done was try to ensure that he did so at the beginning of this week, rather than earlier. It was as if she wanted him to know all about her.

  Or did she simply want him out of London for a while?

  *

  Gabriel Hannaway finished his coffee – a strong Brazilian blend, imported specially at vast expense – and glared at the dimpled maid. As she hurried around the dining table with the jug, Vincent Hannaway gave her rump a playful smack.

  ‘Where’s Ewing?’ the old man wheezed. ‘I rang the bell for him, and he hasn’t answered.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ the maid said, ‘but Mr Ewing isn’t here.’

  ‘Not here?’ Gabriel’s leathery face crinkled in outrage. ‘What do you mean he’s not here? He’s my butler, damn you. There’s no question of his not being here.’

  ‘Would you like me to ring again for him, sir? Then you can see for yourself.’

  The iguana eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you think you’re being rather impudent, young lady?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Try harder, dammit. You still haven’t explained yourself.’

  ‘I saw him put on his hat and coat half an hour ago, sir. On his way out, he was.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense! He wouldn’t slip out without per­mission whilst we are dining.’

  The girl was trembling. Vincent took another sip of coffee, then tweaked one of the hairs growing from his nostrils, as if in aid to thought.

  ‘Did Ewing say where he was going, Beatrice?’

  ‘No, sir. But five minutes later I popped outside, and his motorcycle had gone.’

  ‘Peculiar.’ He turned to his father. ‘I thought he looked shifty when I was here on Sunday. You don’t suppose… are you all right?’

  Gabriel Hannaway’s features contorted. In a faint whisper he said, ‘Feeling off-colour. That’s why I wanted to see Ewing. Ask him where the lobster came from.’

  ‘It’s rather warm in here.’ Vincent loosened his collar. ‘I like a roaring fire, but perhaps…’

  ‘What the devil’s wrong with me?’ the old man wheezed. ‘I feel dizzy… that damned lobster.’

  The maid had left the dining room door ajar. From behind it came a low, tuneful humming. Vincent recognised the melody of a popular song.

  ‘You’re the cream in my coffee.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  The humming stopped, and an unseen woman murmured, ‘Don’t blame the lobster.’

  The two men looked up at the same moment, and watched the door swing open.

  Rachel Savernake stepped into the room, followed by Trueman. Each of them wore gloves, each of them held a revolver; Rachel’s pointed at the father, Trueman’s at the son.

  ‘Blame me,’ she said.

  *

  Darkness had fallen long before a cab dropped Jacob outside the front door of Edgar House. Amwell Street was quiet, and the mist of early evening was thickening into fog. He peered through the gloom, but couldn’t see anyone loitering. Yet as he fitted his key into the lock, someone hissed his name.

  ‘Jacob!’

  He opened the door, and stumbled over the threshold with his bag.

  ‘Jacob, it’s me. Sara!’

  A figure emerged out of the murk. He found himself facing an elderly, hunched woman in a black bonnet and widow’s weeds. She wore thick glasses and carried a large, badly scuffed handbag. He’d have sworn on the Bible that he’d never seen her in his life. But hearing was believing.

  He seized her by the shoulder, pulled her inside, shut the door, and locked it.

  ‘I’d never have recognised you!’

  Shaking herself free, she straightened her bent back, and tossed the bonnet onto the floor. ‘Remember, I’m an actress.’

  Astonishment gave way to delight, and he laughed out loud. ‘The woman of a thousand faces!’

  She took off her glasses with a flourish, and the old crone metamorphosed into a young woman with a teasing smile. It was like witnessing the climax to a fairy tale.

  ‘I didn’t know if anyone was keeping watch on your house. But I’ve been hanging around for over an hour, ambling up and down like an old biddy with nothing better to do, and I’m sure this house isn’t under observation.’

  ‘An uninvited guest turned up here on Sunday.’ He rubbed his damaged face. The bruise still felt tender. ‘He wanted to find you.’

  Sara groaned. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘I told them the truth. I didn’t have a clue where you were.’

  ‘And took a beating for your pains, I see.’ She stroked his cheek with gentle fingertips. ‘Poor boy.’

  ‘What’s happening, Sara?’ he demanded. ‘Who’s after you?’

  ‘They work for Vincent Hannaway.’

  ‘Why should Hannaway want to find you?’

  ‘Because William confided in me about the Damnation Society.’

  *

  ‘I haven’t told you everything,’ Sara said.

  They were sitting chastely on the same settee he’d shared with Elaine only a few nights ago. Finally, facing the kitchen crime scene, Jacob had retrieved a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream from Mrs Dowd’s pantry, and poured them each a glass.

  ‘What do you know about the Damnation Society?’ he asked. ‘To me, it’s only a name. I heard of it from a policeman, but when I asked Rachel Savernake about it, she told me it didn’t exist. I’m not sure if she was telling…’

  ‘A lie?’ Sara frowned. ‘The Damnation Society was founded by Judge Savernake.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He felt a chill on his spine.

  ‘She must be ashamed of what her father did. The society is a secret group of hedonists. Rich men with a taste for decadence. It amuses them to pretend to be pursuing the most innocent pastime imaginable. Playing chess.’

  ‘The Gambit Club,’ Jacob said slowly. ‘With premises in Gallows Court.’

  ‘That’s right. The society was founded by old Judge Savernake. William belonged to it, and so did Pardoe and Claude Linacre. Alfred Linacre is a member, and the Hannaways are leading lights. Men accustomed to doing exactly as they please. To taking exotic pleasures with no constraints.’

 
Jacob thought aloud. ‘They manage the Orphans’ Home, giving the impression of philanthropy, but their interest lies in having a ready supply of young girls.’

  ‘Not only girls,’ Sara whispered. ‘Boys too, I told you. A steady stream of orphans who reach the age of fourteen are taken on as servants by men like the Hannaways. A lucky few find work on the stage, as I did. Dolly Benson was the same, and Winifred Murray, the flighty piece who became Lawrence Pardoe’s second wife. But members of the Damnation Society seldom marry their victims. Once they have served their purpose, they usually disappear off the face of the earth.’

  Jacob recoiled. ‘Vile.’

  ‘Befriending the powerful helped William to earn a fortune. He didn’t share their tastes, but he did turn a blind eye. When I begged him to go to Scotland Yard, and reveal what was going on, he asked if I wanted us both to end up at the bottom of the Thames with stone blocks chained to our ankles. Or worse.’

  ‘You must have been terrified.’

  ‘We both were. William admitted that even the little he’d told me put my life at risk, but he promised to make sure I was safe. If only I’d had the courage to speak out! Keeping quiet didn’t save him, did it?’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Jacob! But the society’s tentacles stretch into the government, and even Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Superintendent Chadwick has been arrested.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that story on a press billboard. God alone knows what will happen next.’ She laid her hand on his; her touch was cold, but he didn’t care. ‘I see now that it was a terrible mistake, but I felt I simply had to trust William. And now I’ve lost him.’

  *

  Vincent Hannaway mopped his brow, and Rachel asked, ‘Pulse racing? Feeling dizzy?’

  His eyes strayed from the gun to his cup. ‘Was it the coffee?’

  Rachel gestured with her free hand to the young maid, whose habitual nervous servility had given way to an intimidating sternness. ‘You carried out your part of the bargain perfectly, Beatrice. You know what happens next.’

  As Gabriel Hannaway gasped an obscenity, the maid strolled out of the room. The guns did not waver.

  ‘Yes, it was the coffee,’ Rachel said, ‘mixed with potassium cyanide salts.’

  ‘Cyanide?’ Terror flared in Vincent’s eyes. ‘Tell me what you want, and you can have it. If you will only…’

  Trueman interrupted. ‘She’ll have what she wants, regardless.’

  ‘All the preparations are in place,’ Rachel said. ‘The telephone wires are cut. Your butler is off on his motorcycle to Soho with five hundred pounds in his wallet.’

  ‘Five hundred pounds!’ the old man shrieked.

  ‘Yes, he’s under the illusion that he’s the beneficiary of a colossal mistake. He agreed to betray you for a mere one hundred. The money was left for him in an envelope. I suspect he can’t believe his luck.’

  Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but Rachel put a finger to his lips. ‘Hush now. In a moment Beatrice will return.’

  As if on cue, the maid came back into the room. She was carrying a dirty old tin can. A container of petrol.

  *

  ‘What’s next for you?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘I’ve money put aside,’ Sara said. ‘William made me an allowance as well as paying my wages through the Inanity. Tomorrow I’ll begin a new life. I’d like to stay in London, but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I must talk to Rachel Savernake. She’s the only person who can bring this madness to an end.’

  ‘What makes you believe that?’

  Sara took a breath. ‘I didn’t tell you everything I heard when Lawrence Pardoe ranted about her. Forgive me, Jacob. I wasn’t sure how much it was safe to say, for both our sakes.’

  He squeezed her hand, and she didn’t pull away. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’ She returned the pressure. ‘Pardoe was convinced Rachel wanted to usurp men like himself and Vincent Hannaway.’

  Jacob was baffled. ‘Usurp them?’

  ‘He had this fancy that she wanted to carry on where her father left off.’

  ‘You mean – actually taking charge of the Damnation Society?’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Sara said quickly. ‘She’s a woman, not a monster. I’m sure she’s filled with remorse over her father, and wants to put a stop to what he created.’

  ‘A sort of atonement?’

  Sara sighed. ‘Tomorrow, I hope to speak to her, once I’ve decided where to stay.’

  ‘Stay here tonight,’ Jacob said on impulse.

  ‘Here?’ She smiled. ‘You’re very kind, but you’ve already risked your safety for me. The bruising to your face will soon fade, but next time might be much worse.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’ll stay awake all night if necessary, making sure you come to no harm.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s good of you, Jacob, but think of your reputation. I’m a woman with a past. And a terrible past, at that.’

  ‘I don’t care about your past,’ he said. ‘I care about who you are now. Who you will become. There’s a spare room with a bed on the first floor, overlooking the street. Mrs Dowd kept it ready in case she took another lodger. You won’t be disturbed, I swear.’

  She hesitated. ‘You’re so generous, Jacob.’

  They looked into each other’s eyes. He felt himself colouring.

  ‘Please, it’s a genuine offer. No ulterior motives.’

  ‘Thanks, Jacob. Just for tonight, then, I’ll accept gratefully.’ She leaned towards him, and he inhaled her lilac fragrance as she dropped a gentle kiss on his cheek.

  *

  Gabriel Hannaway bent over and retched. His son held out both arms in supplication.

  ‘Rachel, my dear. The Damnation Society is yours for the taking. Please believe me, I never meant to stand in your way. The Judge created us, and you have every right to follow in his footsteps. You want what he wanted, don’t you? Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory.’

  At a nod from Rachel, the maid opened the can of petrol. First she sprayed the dining table, then the carpet, finally the curtains. As he watched, Vincent Hannaway screwed himself up like a coiled spring. Written all over his sweaty pink face was the notion of leaping from his chair in an attempt to get away.

  Rachel took aim at the wine glass standing on the table next to Vincent’s dinner plate, and fired. The glass shattered with a noise like the blast of a bomb. A jagged shard caught Vincent’s face. With a frantic wail, he clawed at his cheek. Blood streamed from the gash.

  The old man raised his head, and croaked. ‘Your father was mad, and so are you!’

  Rachel smiled. ‘Rest assured, the Judge’s sins did not go unpunished.’

  The air in the dining room reeked of petrol. From her apron, the dimpled maid produced a matchbox.

  ‘Please,’ Vincent whispered. ‘You can’t destroy us all.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Rachel said. ‘I have the key to the door, and we’ll lock you in. Our car is outside. Beatrice and the cook are coming with us. We’ll be sailing down the drive as the blaze takes hold. Will you both die of smoke inhalation before the cyanide kills you? Trueman thinks so, but I’m less sure. We’d make a bet, but the inquest won’t give a definitive answer. This old mausoleum will be gutted. A smouldering ruin, with precious little left for the pathologist to examine. Possibly your teeth.’

  Vincent’s face was reddening as the poison washed through his system. Tears trickled from the corners of his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘You won’t get away with this.’

  ‘Actually,’ Rachel said, ‘I will.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Scotland Yard will be tipped off about Ewing’s whereabouts, and realise that his real name is Walter Busby. He’s a plausible fellow, but his previous convictions include stealing from his employers and committing arson to cover his tracks.’

  ‘What?’


  ‘You should have checked his testimonials with as much care as Levi Shoemaker did. How will Ewing explain away the five hundred pounds in his pocket, or what Beatrice said about his vicious assaults on her in a letter she’s sent to a friend from the Orphans’ Home? The prosecution’s case is open and shut. Ewing preyed on young women, but feared exposure. He decided to cut his losses, by taking enough money from that safe you hide behind The Monarch of the Glen to start a new life.’

  Gabriel Hannaway clutched his throat. His hoarse words were barely audible.

  ‘Have mercy.’

  ‘Remind me,’ Rachel said. ‘When did you last show mercy?’

  She and Trueman each took a step backward, their move­ments precisely choreographed.

  ‘Enough conversation.’ She turned to the maid. ‘I kept my promise, Beatrice. The stage is yours.’

  Eyes fixed on Vincent, the girl prised a match out of the little box. At the door, Rachel sang softly.

  ‘Even orphans with a grudge do it. Let’s do it…’

  Juliet Brentano’s Journal

  6 February 1919

  It happened very quickly, as sometimes it does. Rachel was dead within hours of succumbing to the flu.

  She turned blue, Henrietta said, and started struggling to breathe. But fighting for air is fruitless when the plague has you in its clutches. Like so many others before her, she suffocated.

  It would have made no difference, even had the doctor been able to reach her. What could a local medical practitioner hope to achieve, when the Spanish Lady has defeated medical science from one side of the globe to the other?

  The Judge was with her when the end came, Henrietta says.

  ‘This will turn his mind.’

  ‘It turned years ago,’ I said.

  ‘He talks to her as if she’s still alive.’

  ‘In his eyes, she was perfect. The girl who could do no wrong. That’s why she was such a wicked—’

  ‘Oh, Juliet. We mustn’t speak ill of—’

  ‘I loathed her,’ I said. ‘Rachel Savernake was jealous, vain, and cruel. And she loathed me.’

  Colour came to Henrietta’s pale cheeks. Plain speaking does not come naturally to her, at least not in the presence of those she is supposed to serve, but she was too honest to deny the truth. Instead, she stroked my hand.