I know she’s afraid. Afraid of losing her job. Afraid that in a demented fury, the Judge will turn violent. Afraid, perhaps, of me.
As for myself, I’m not afraid at all. The loss of my parents, followed so quickly by Rachel’s death, has left me in a daze. But one question remains clear, insistent, demanding to be answered.
What happens next?
30
Breakfast in Edgar House was a surreal experience. Jacob and Sara sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, passing the butter and sipping strong tea like a married couple in middle age. Outside, last night’s fog still lingered, but with the stove warming the room, and the aroma of toast, Yorkshire Tea, and apricot marmalade in the air, Jacob could almost forget that a few days earlier, this had been Mrs Dowd’s domain.
His eyes were tired and his joints creaky after a night spent tossing and turning, acutely conscious of Sara’s presence in the house, and aching with desire for her. In a wild moment, he’d contemplated tapping on her door, and asking if she wanted company. Her remark about ulterior motives gave him hope, but he daren’t risk wrecking their friendship. For all her worldly experience, those years in the Orphans’ Home must have left scars.
This morning she wore a creased cream frock, and looked no older than seventeen. As she laid her bare arms on the table, he found it hard to resist the urge to caress them. How could he have failed to appreciate her loveliness that first time she’d called on him at Clarion House? Ever the actress, she’d played the part of mouse, ensuring there was no distance between them, none of the exotic grace that was Queen Nefertiti’s stock-in-trade. She’d judged her performance to perfection; because he hadn’t been overawed, their friendship had blossomed naturally.
Her uncomplaining bravery had won his heart. What she’d endured at the Orphans’ Home would have crushed a weaker spirit. In the past few days, she’d overcome the shock and grief of witnessing her former lover’s appalling death, and survived two attempts on her life. In her own quiet way, she was as formidable as Rachel Savernake.
Sara nibbled a slice of toast. ‘Penny for your thoughts.’
‘When can I see you again?’ His eagerness was juvenile, but he couldn’t help himself.
She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, and glanced at the clock on the dresser. ‘You’re already late for work. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve decided where to go next.’
‘You can stay on here for the time being.’
‘You’re very generous.’
Honesty compelled him to say, ‘With a dead woman’s house. But just for a day or two…’
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry about me. Go now, and I’ll see you very soon.’
*
Poyser, invariably the first senior journalist to arrive at Clarion House each morning, was munching a Cox’s Orange Pippin when Jacob passed by the news desk. By way of greeting, he asked where Jacob had got to the previous day.
‘I took the sleeper to Cornwall, following a lead.’
‘Good luck persuading Gomersall to reimburse your expenses.’ Poyser tossed his apple core towards a waste paper basket, and missed, as usual. ‘Heard about this business at Hampstead?’
‘What business?’
‘Big house burnt down. Both occupants perished in the blaze. Thought you’d be interested.’
One of Poyser’s foibles was that he liked to build suspense, but Jacob wasn’t in the mood. ‘Was the fire started deliberately?’
‘So it seems. The Yard already has a man in custody. The identities of the deceased caught my eye, made me think of you.’
‘Why?’
Poyser beamed. ‘Because of your interest in Gallows Court. This father and son did business there. They were the principals of a firm of solicitors. Hannaway & Hannaway.’
Jacob gaped at him. ‘Vincent Hannaway is dead? And the old man too?’
‘Burnt to a crisp,’ Poyser said cheerily. ‘Shocking case of arson and murder. As chief crime correspondent, you can spin a few paragraphs out of the tragedy, even if there’s no mystery about what happened.’
‘What did happen?’
‘To coin a phrase, the butler did it.’
Jacob gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Be serious.’
‘Not a word of a lie,’ Poyser said virtuously. ‘Fellow sounds like a dyed-in-the-wool rogue. History of defrauding his employers, and when the police picked him up, he was enjoying the entertainment on offer at a brothel in Gerrard Street. So the story goes, he’d hung his jacket up on the door, and the pockets were stuffed with fivers.’
‘I’d better talk to Scotland Yard.’
‘Good thinking, my dear fellow. By the way, what exactly was the nature of your interest in Gallows Court?’
But Jacob was already racing to his room.
*
‘I can confirm the details we have announced.’ At the other end of the telephone line, Inspector Oakes’ mournful formality made him sound like an undertaker. ‘Two bodies were recovered from a property in Hampstead last night, and we are treating this as a case of arson and murder. A forty-seven-year-old man is currently under arrest.’
‘You’re sure the bodies belong to the Hannaways?’ Jacob demanded. ‘If the remains are charred beyond recognition, it’s possible that—’
‘We’re alert to the risk of mistaken identity,’ the detective said coldly, ‘which is why thus far we have refrained from naming the victims. The Hannaways, father and son, attended the same dentist in Harley Street, and we are consulting with him as a matter of urgency.’
‘Off the record, you’re confident it’s them?’
Oakes’ manner began to thaw. ‘Off the record, very con- fident.’
‘What on earth happened?’
‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. It’ll all come out in the wash. The old man’s butler was called Ewing. A presentable and hard-working fellow, by all accounts. What Gabriel Hannaway didn’t know was that Ewing was an assumed name. He was born Walter Busby, and twenty-five years ago, he worked below-stairs for a landowner in Derbyshire. Busby got a housemaid into trouble, and helped himself to some of his employer’s knick-knacks in order to pay for an abortionist. When he was found out, he set fire to the house. The blaze didn’t do much damage, but Busby finished up in Strangeways. Following his release, he started afresh as Ewing, and went back into domestic service with the help of forged references. Two years ago, old man Hannaway took him on after his previous butler retired. We’re not aware of any difficulties until last night, when the house was set ablaze. All the signs are that petrol was sprayed around in a liberal fashion, and then set on fire.’
‘By Ewing?’
‘Who else? A young maid and the cook were in the house, and we’ve found a few charred bits and pieces of servants’ clothing which are probably all that is left of them.’
Jacob shivered. ‘Was Ewing supposed to be on duty?’
‘According to our enquiries, yes. Vincent Hannaway regularly dined with his father. Perhaps there was a confrontation between Ewing and the son. The fire brigade were called when a passing motorist spotted the flames, but by the time they had the fire under control, the house was destroyed, along with almost everything in it. Nasty way to go.’
‘How did you find Ewing?’
‘Anonymous phone call, a couple of hours after the fire was spotted. Chap who wouldn’t give his name said that Ewing had been maligning the Hannaways, and boasting about what he might do to them. He said he’d seen Ewing throwing his money around in a pub in Soho, and picking up a prostitute.’
‘Very public-spirited of him to let you know.’
He could imagine Oakes’ shrug of indifference. ‘People pay off scores by giving us tip-offs every day of the week. Without them, the jails would be half-empty.’
‘You soon caught up with Ewing?’
‘He was found in a raid on a brothel across the street from the pub, and was under lock and key by midnight. In his possession he had ne
arly five hundred pounds.’
Jacob whistled. ‘Good money for a butler.’
‘He gave us some bluster about a lucky streak with the horses. Surprise, surprise, he can’t give us chapter and verse about which outsiders he’s backed. It’s a racing certainty that he stole the money from Gabriel Hannaway, and when the son became suspicious, he set the house ablaze. Old habits die hard. Only this time, he’ll swing for his crime.’
A picture slid into Jacob’s mind. A hooded man, mounting a scaffold on a cold grey morning.
He shivered. ‘Are you sure that nobody else was involved?’
‘Such as?’ Oakes asked.
A name trembled on Jacob’s lips. Rachel Savernake.
But he said nothing, and the detective rang off.
*
Jacob was still digesting the news of the Hannaways’ deaths when his telephone shrilled. With her customary sniff of disapproval, Peggy announced that a Mrs Trueman wanted to speak to him.
His throat felt dry and rough. ‘Put her through.’
The housekeeper said, ‘Mr Flint? I’m ringing on behalf of Miss Savernake. She asked me to say that she wishes to offer you the chance of an exclusive story. Would you call at Gaunt House this afternoon?’
‘Let me check my calendar.’
‘Four o’clock sharp,’ the housekeeper said. ‘You know better than to let her down.’
She rang off before he could think up an impudent reply.
*
He rubbed his sore eyes. So much had happened over the past few days, he couldn’t hope to absorb it all. The morning passed in a haze, and when the telephone rang again he was astonished to find it was already three o’clock.
‘I’m busy,’ he said brusquely. ‘What is it?’
‘Lady to see you,’ Peggy said. ‘Shall I tell her to go away?’
His heart skipped a beat. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Miss Delamere.’
‘I’ll be there in a jiffy.’
‘Not so busy now, eh?’ Peggy said meanly.
Sara was waiting for him in reception. Her fur coat and scarf were as elegant as her neat hairstyle. He put his finger to his lips, not wanting Peggy to eavesdrop, and hurried her back to his room.
‘You’ve taken over your old boss’s office,’ she said. ‘Congrat- ulations.’
He blushed. ‘It seemed to make sense. Tom’s things are still all over the place. But never mind that. Have you heard the news?’
‘About the Hannaways? Isn’t it incredible? I’ve just read the newspaper. Not yours, I’m afraid. The Witness had the story on its front page. Someone set fire to the old man’s house, and the police have already caught him.’
‘Gabriel Hannaway’s butler,’ Jacob said. ‘Inspector Oakes tells me he has a history of this kind of crime.’
Her eyes opened very wide. ‘You don’t think… Rachel Savernake had anything to do with it?’
‘With Rachel Savernake,’ he said, ‘nothing is impossible.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘I do believe you’re obsessed with her.’
‘Rubbish!’ He had to stop himself from protesting too much. ‘Frankly, she frightens me. She reminds me of those fanatics who don’t care how much harm they do in pursuit of their cause.’
‘I understand. The end justifies the means.’
He couldn’t help saying, ‘You don’t seem shocked.’
‘Pardoe is dead, and so are the Hannaways. All three men used and abused countless women. Deep down, I’m sure they hated us. Their existence represented a mortal danger to Rachel Savernake, as it did to me. Now they are gone, I can breathe again.’
William Keary, her former lover, was also dead, Jacob thought. To say nothing of Linacre, McAlinden, and Thurlow. Sara’s trusting disposition worried him. Throughout her life, unscrupulous people had exploited it.
‘Her housekeeper called me,’ he said. ‘Rachel Savernake has invited me to her house for four o’clock.’
‘Really?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I feel rather jealous. What does she want to see you about?’
‘She’s offered me a scoop. That’s all I know.’
‘How thrilling!’ Sara clapped her hands. ‘To think that it took a woman to destroy the Damnation Society.’
He sighed. ‘But has she destroyed it?’
‘Don’t you see? That must be what she’s aimed to achieve, ever since she arrived in London.’
‘What about the other members?’
‘The survivors? They lack a leader, and without the head, the body can’t function. After the Judge’s mind failed, Gabriel Hannaway was in charge for years, before handing over to Vincent. William said some members wanted him to challenge Vincent for the leadership, but his heart was never in it. I’m sure the Hannaways sent that thug to Amwell Street to ask you where to find me. They knew I hated them. Now they are gone, the whole rotten edifice will crumble. All thanks to Rachel Savernake.’
Jacob nodded agreement, but his heart wasn’t in it. The Damnation Society’s members prized inheritance. What good was privilege if it couldn’t be perpetuated by handing it on from one generation to another? Might Rachel Savernake yearn to seize control of the organisation built up by her father?
‘I don’t suppose,’ Sara said, ‘that you’d let me tag along with you, when you go to see her? I won’t come into the house, if you don’t want.’
He hesitated. It seemed patronising to suggest that a tea-time trip to a house in the heart of London was dangerous for her. He was letting his imagination roam too far.
‘After all,’ Sara said with a cheeky smile, ‘if she and I are rivals for your affections, I’d like to find out more about her.’
*
At ten to four, a taxi deposited them in the square. The fog was closing in, as damp and cold as on the night Jacob had accosted Rachel. The night of Lawrence Pardoe’s death. As he paid the driver, Jacob had a sense of coming full circle.
‘Mr Flint!’
He spun round, and found himself staring at Inspector Philip Oakes.
‘What brings you here?’
‘I might ask you the same question. Oh, good afternoon, Miss Delamere. We met… that tragic night at the Inanity.’
Sara, extricating herself gracefully from the back of the cab, eyed the policeman with frank curiosity. ‘Hello again, Inspector.’
‘I received a message from Rachel Savernake’s housekeeper,’ Jacob explained. ‘If I presented myself here at four, she would give me a scoop.’
‘Really? How generous.’ The inspector sounded sceptical. ‘And Miss Delamere?’
‘We’ve become friends.’ Jacob couldn’t help sounding defensive. Yet there was no shame in relishing the company of a beautiful actress, however lurid her past. ‘I’ve told her about Rachel Savernake, and she was curious.’
‘As a matter of interest, Inspector,’ Sara said lazily, ‘why are you here?’
Oakes fiddled with his tie. ‘I received a message, summoning me here for four o’clock.’
‘Really? I’ve often heard of people calling in Scotland Yard, but I never realised it was quite so easy to do.’
‘Unorthodox, miss, I admit.’ A faint cry distracted Oakes. ‘What was that?’
He looked upward, and Jacob craned his neck. Through the gloom, he could make out a woman in a fur coat up on the roof of Gaunt House.
‘Is that her?’ Sara whispered.
‘It’s her all right, that dark hair’s unmistakeable,’ Oakes muttered. ‘There’s an enclosed swimming pool up there, and a roof garden forming a kind of balcony, but this is hardly the weather… Oh God, she isn’t going to jump?’
The woman moved to the edge of the roof. Running around it was a low iron rail. She ran her hand along the rail, moving further back, and out of sight.
Clammy with dread, Jacob shouted, ‘Rachel! This is Jacob Flint. Why did you want to see me?’
Even as the words left his lips, he realised his mistake. It wasn’t that she wanted to see him. She wa
nted him to see her. Teetering on the edge of the rooftop, far about the street, as if about to hurl herself to the ground.
Oakes pulled a whistle out of his pocket, and blew it hard. ‘Miss Savernake! Don’t do anything rash!’
The front door of Gaunt House opened, and Trueman came bounding down the steps, his wife stumbling in his wake. The chauffeur’s face was dark with terror, the woman’s wet with tears.
‘What’s happening, man?’ Oakes demanded.
‘She went up to the top floor,’ Trueman hissed. ‘When I followed, she locked me out. We were afraid this would happen, once…’
‘Once Vincent Hannaway died?’ Sara asked.
‘The Judge made endless attempts to kill himself!’ Mrs Trueman sobbed. ‘She’s never been able to get that out of her head.’
As she spoke, something she’d said on the night of the Benfleet murders sprang into Jacob’s mind. The only person capable of destroying her is… she herself. It was almost like a prophecy. Had she feared that Rachel might commit suicide?
‘We don’t have time for this!’ Trueman shouted. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She edged out of sight,’ Jacob said. ‘Are there steps at the back of the building?’
‘A rusty old fire ladder. Absolute death trap.’
A cobbled alleyway separated Gaunt House from the building next door. Jacob took a step forward, and Oakes followed, but Trueman shouldered them aside before halting at the alley’s entrance, and gazing upwards with despair scrawled over his rugged features.
‘Don’t do it!’ he bellowed. ‘Please listen to me! I’m begging you!’
In the gloom, Jacob could barely make out the figure swaying four floors above them. They heard a distant cry, and Mrs Trueman moaned.
The next Jacob knew, a muffled scream tore through the wet air, and he heard a sickening, scything thud. Trueman sprinted down the alleyway, with Oakes in hot pursuit. A police constable responding to the whistle followed close behind.
Gallows Court Page 28
