Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  “A privilege to meet you, Miss Savernake. Your father’s long illness and subsequent death was a grievous loss to the English legal profession.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Our paths never crossed, I’m sorry to say. He rose to eminence in the field of criminal law, whereas I’m merely a humble practitioner in the law of wills, trusts, and probate.”

  Mulkerrin struck Rachel as being precisely as humble as every other professional man she’d ever met. “I was given your firm’s name by Leonora Dobell of Mortmain Hall. I believe you have acted for the Dobell family for many years.”

  He bestowed an ingratiating smile. “Of course, it would be unprofessional to comment on the existence or otherwise of a relationship with a client, but I can say that we value any recommendation most highly.”

  Trueman’s information about Mulkerrin’s devotion to confidentiality was spot on. Rachel gave him another chance to rise to the bait. “She spoke highly of you.”

  “Most kind, most kind. It will be my pleasure to assist you to the best of my ability. How may I…?”

  “Forgive me, Mr Mulkerrin. I don’t mean to seem rude or ungrateful, but I did make a specific arrangement to see your partner and I don’t want to trouble you unnecessarily.”

  Mulkerrin’s sandy eyebrows twitched. It was probably as close as he ever came to registering astonishment. “Of course, dear lady, of course. But let me first explain myself. If I may say so, I have toiled for thirty years in the vineyards of Chancery law. This firm has served some of the country’s most distinguished families. Louis Morgans’ father and I belonged to the third generation of partners. Louis joined the practice shortly before Humphrey Morgans’ untimely demise, but he is young and…”

  “Mr Morgans’ lack of experience doesn’t concern me. He can turn to you for wise counsel whenever the need arises.”

  “Naturally, my dear young lady. But—”

  “Judge Savernake’s estate is, to put it with a lawyer’s delicacy, not inconsiderable. His affairs were looked after by Gabriel Hannaway, who died earlier this year.”

  “Ah yes, such a tragedy.” Mulkerrin’s regret was perfunctory.

  “I need to consider which firm to retain for the long term. So it’s only right that I should speak to the younger members of the practices in question before arriving at a decision. I’m sure you understand.”

  The eyebrows twitched again. “Do I understand that you are seeking to… draw a comparison between ourselves and professional colleagues in other firms?”

  Rachel put a hand to her mouth. “Please forgive me if I seem impolite. It’s simply that I lack the business experience of a man of the world. I do hope you will indulge me.”

  Angus Mulkerrin hadn’t toiled in the vineyards for thirty years without knowing a fait accompli when he saw one. He coughed long enough to adjust to the inevitable.

  “Your approach is certainly novel, Miss Savernake. If you are quite certain…”

  “I am.” She smiled sweetly and folded her arms.

  “Very well.” Another cough. “It may be that your… unorthodoxy will strike a chord with Louis.”

  Rachel was sure that Mulkerrin yearned to make the best of a bad job. The fees to be earned for looking after the Savernake fortune were not to be coughed at. He rang a bell, and Louis Morgans came in.

  Mulkerrin made the introductions and said, “I’m sure the two of you will get on like a house on fire.”

  Rachel surrendered to an irresistible urge to simper. “Oh, I do so hope we will.”

  *

  “Judge Savernake, eh?” Louis Morgans asked. “Lord, what a turn-up for the books. He sat on the bench long before my time, but I’ve heard a few stories. Quite a tartar, eh?”

  They were ensconced in the junior partner’s cubbyhole, a fraction of the size of Mulkerrin’s domain. It was a warm day, and the atmosphere was stuffy; by opening the sash window, Morgans had allowed the smells of the rubbish bins in the passageway to drift inside. Every available surface was cluttered with papers tied with pink ribbon; Rachel inferred that whenever he was given a legal problem to chew over, Morgans bailed himself out of trouble by briefing learned counsel to do whatever was necessary.

  Rachel leaned towards him in conspiratorial fashion. “Between you and me, he was an old terror.”

  He smirked at this confidence. “Parents, eh?”

  Louis Morgans was pale and sleepy-eyed, with a weak chin and an even weaker handshake. Long brown hair and a dazzling yellow tie were token gestures towards bohemianism. His languid pose suggested that he’d rather be reclining on a sofa, cigar holder in one hand and gin rickey in the other. Rachel diagnosed a character fashioned by a mother’s worship and a father’s contempt.

  She waved at a pile of deed boxes in a corner of the room. The second box from the top bore the name Dobell. “I was delighted when Leonora Dobell gave me your firm’s name,” she said. “I must admit I find myself bewildered by legal affairs.”

  “Frankly, Miss Savernake, I sympathise.” He treated her to an impudent smirk. “Take it from me, they’re much duller than most affairs.”

  “Please call me Rachel.” Her tone was coquettish.

  “Splendid! And I’m Louis.” He smirked again. “So you want a guiding hand, eh?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Perish the thought! No need to fuss over the legal niceties. Your pater died last year, didn’t he? Probate granted, and whatnot?”

  “The formalities have been dealt with. I wish to look forward, not back.”

  “It will be an honour to serve you, Rachel. Let me assure you of my closest personal attention.”

  “That’s very good of you, Louis. It would take such a weight off my mind.”

  “Think nothing of it. Absolute pleasure.” He flapped a neatly manicured hand. “Tell you what, might you fancy dinner some time? My treat, of course. No question of the old taxi meter running. Just a chance for us to get to know each other better.”

  “How kind! I’d love to.”

  Fishing a leather-bound diary out of a desk drawer, he said, “When would suit you?”

  “It just so happens,” she said, “that I’m free tomorrow evening.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Splendid! Shall we say seven?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  For a fleeting moment, Rachel thought she’d overplayed her hand, but Louis Morgans’ grin made clear that he took subservience as his due.

  “Do you know Foibles in Soho, by any chance? I’ll have my secretary reserve a private booth, so that we can… talk undisturbed. As it happens, I’m on rather good terms with both the head waiter and the sommelier.” He leaned back in his chair. “That’s the secret, Rachel. It’s all about who you know.”

  “I’m sure,” she said meekly, “you never spoke a truer word.”

  *

  After Clifford Trueman had driven her back to Gaunt House, Rachel changed into a new Jantzen swimsuit, a fetching shade of carmine. She swam a dozen lengths in the rooftop pool before joining the Truemans. As she towelled her hair, she regaled Martha and Hetty with an account of her visit to Albemarle Street.

  “Tomorrow night, I’ll pump Morgans about Leonora and her husband. Meanwhile, Cliff can do a little breaking and entering. I’d like to peek inside the Dobells’ deed box.”

  “You know where it’s kept?” Martha asked.

  “In plain sight in Morgans’ office. The sash window is easy to force, even if Morgans closes it before he leaves for the day.”

  “You expect Morgans to talk about Leonora?” Hetty asked.

  “If my personal charms aren’t enough to loosen his tongue, the prospect of fat fees should do the trick. And I’ll ask about Gilbert Payne. Who knows, their mutual love of poetry may have brought them together.”

  “At the Clandestine Club?” Martha asked.

  “Where else?”

  *

  “Let me get this clear.” Jacob washed down t
he last slice of his veal-and-ham pie with a mouthful of pale ale. “I’ve blotted my copybook with someone in authority. You don’t know who or how or why. But I’ve been found guilty of raking over old coals. Whatever the hell that means.”

  Oakes put down his soup spoon. They were lunching at Stone’s Chop House on Panton Street. Jacob had chosen the venue partly because he’d heard that the helpings were lavish and the beer excellent and partly to see whether it was true that the waiters wore brown knickerbockers and red waistcoats; and indeed it was.

  “That’s about the size of it.” Oakes considered his companion. “You’ll know what they are talking about.”

  “Perhaps I do,” Jacob said. “Perhaps I don’t.”

  “I bet you do. Care to let me in on the secret?”

  Jacob rubbed his chin. “I reported the Danskin trial. It prompted my interest in previous miscarriages of justice.”

  “I’ve heard it said,” Oakes snapped, “that Danskin’s acquittal was the miscarriage of justice.”

  “Careful what you say, Inspector.” Jacob grinned. “He’s an innocent man. Isn’t he?”

  “So the court ruled.” Oakes shook his head. “It wasn’t my case, but the experts were morally certain that he set the car on fire with malice aforethought. Which isn’t the same as proving it. Beyond reasonable doubt is a high threshold.”

  “Better that a hundred guilty men go free than one innocent man be convicted.”

  “I’d take a lot of convincing if the guilty man had killed someone I cared for.”

  “But not if you were the innocent man?”

  “Maybe not.” Oakes tapped his spoon on the table. “Do you mind telling me which cases you’re looking into?”

  “Not at all,” Jacob said disingenuously. He didn’t intend to mention Gilbert Payne’s resurrection in the form of Bertram Jones. “As long as you promise not to spill the beans to the Witness or the Trumpet.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “The Wirral bungalow murder is one case. The Gorrie trial is another.”

  Oakes’ brow wrinkled. “Going back a while, aren’t you? Refresh my memory.”

  “A Liverpool businessman was arrested on a count of strangling his mistress in their love nest. Just in time, the cuckolded husband was discovered to be the culprit. As for Mrs Gorrie, her boyfriend murdered her old man, but she was charged too. She’d egged her lover on, but she was acquitted.”

  Oakes gave him a sharp glance. “Is that all?”

  “This complaint you’ve had, it’s a mystery to me.”

  “Very well, I’ve passed the message on to you. What happens now is no concern of mine.” Oakes beckoned for the bill. “So how is Miss Rachel Savernake these days?”

  “I’ve barely seen her.”

  “You surprise me. Such an extraordinary woman.”

  “She isn’t easy to get to know.”

  “I can imagine.” Oakes eyed him speculatively. “You’d like to get to know her better?”

  “She’s rich, clever, and beautiful.” Jacob laughed. “Draw your own conclusions. If only I were rich, clever, and handsome, I might stand a chance.”

  “I wonder if she’s lonely.”

  “In London, with its teeming millions?”

  “Especially in London.”

  Jacob leaned forward. “Mind if I ask a question?”

  “Fire away.”

  “What do you know about the Clandestine Club?”

  Oakes frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason.”

  “Reporters don’t ask questions for no particular reason any more than policemen do.” Jacob said nothing. “Is this anything to do with those old coals you’ve raked over?”

  “Sylvia Gorrie and Henry Rolland?” Jacob still didn’t want to let slip his interest in Gilbert Payne. “They’re not connected with the Clandestine Cub, as far as I know.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “I’ve heard of the place, but I don’t know anything about it. Call it an innocent enquiry.”

  “There’s nothing innocent about the Clandestine Club.”

  “You’ve piqued my curiosity. What do you know about the Clandestine?”

  “Your maiden aunt would call it a sink of iniquity.”

  “Now I’m even more interested.”

  Oakes grunted. “You’ll find the Clan in a smoky basement in Soho, not ten minutes’ walk from here. There’s no name on the door, and no official telephone number. It’s for people in the know.”

  “Why don’t the police shut it down?”

  Oakes glowered at him. Both men knew that when it came to Soho clubs, officers of the Metropolitan Police had an embarrassing history of turning blind eyes and pocketing bribes.

  “The Clan isn’t a conventional vice den. People run nightclubs to make easy money by robbing their clients blind. They lack patience and discipline, so they take shortcuts, break rules. Sometimes I think these places are called disorderly houses because the managements are so inept. They flout the licensing laws, they harbour criminals and prostitutes, they allow every Tom, Dick, and Harry to become a member. And then they have the brass neck to squeal because Harry happens to be a plain-clothes policeman.”

  “But the Clandestine Club is a legitimate set-up?”

  “It’s a haven for rich decadents, but thank the Lord I’m not responsible for policing nightlife in Soho. Between you and me, I’m glad the Clan isn’t my pigeon.”

  “But?”

  “I smell something rotten. Call it instinct.” Oakes sighed. “Or just call me old-fashioned and strait-laced.”

  “If the club attracts undesirables, why don’t your colleagues raid it one night? Make a few arrests, send out a message?”

  “Easier said than done. As with Danskin, reasonable belief is one thing. Proving guilt to a criminal standard gives us a mountain to climb. Hearsay, gossip, rumour, that’s our stock-in-trade, just like your game. But it’s not enough to bring a case to court.”

  “I’ve never read about the place in the press.”

  “Other nightclubs thrive on publicity, good or bad. The Clandestine lives up to its name.” Oakes heaved a sigh. “Nobody blabs to the News of the World, no crimes on the premises are ever reported. The club started up ten years ago, and it’s survived when most of the competition has closed because there are so few customers around. The idle rich are a dying breed.”

  Jacob grinned. “At least one good thing came out of the Wall Street Crash, then?”

  Oakes wasn’t in the mood for levity. “I hear the Krug costs less than you pay at the Criterion. The members aren’t exploited financially. They aren’t your common or garden undesirables.”

  “So who are they?”

  “People with money, breeding, the right sort of background. And with tastes for the… exotic, of course.”

  “Or so you believe.”

  Oakes gave a weary shrug of the shoulders. They walked to the door. “You asked the question. I’m trying to give an honest answer.”

  “Thanks,” Jacob said. “Who owns the Clan?”

  “Wish I knew. There’s a tangled web of holding companies, subsidiaries, and frontmen. Who holds the purse strings, I don’t know. Whoever they may be, they are very well advised. Police powers of entry aren’t as wide as everyone thinks.”

  “Or as Scotland Yard likes to make out?”

  The inspector’s rueful smile spoke for itself. They stepped into the street. The sun was high, with not a cloud to be seen. “In the absence of evidence of wrongdoing, what can we do?”

  “So you’ve given up?”

  Oakes glanced around. Nobody was in earshot. “We’re still off the record?”

  “You can trust me.”

  A bitten-off laugh. “As much as I trust any reporter.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Don’t get carried away; there’s no other journalist I’d trust an inch. Officers from C Division have tried to get in once o
r twice, but their efforts always backfire. The people who run the Clan keep one step ahead of us. The minute that m’learned friends send a stiff letter to the commissioner, threatening injunctions and Lord knows what else, he runs a mile.”

  “Due to retire next year, isn’t he?”

  A rare note of bitterness sharpened the inspector’s voice. “All he wants is a quiet life.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  Oakes looked him in the eye. “Not you and me. Good luck with investigating the Clandestine. You’ll need it.”

  Jacob shook his hand. “I didn’t say I was conducting an investigation.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Oakes gave him a bleak smile. “Nobody has asked me to warn you off the Clandestine, as it happens.”

  “If it’s so well run, how can I get in, when I’m not a member?”

  Oakes thought for a moment. “Are you free tomorrow? Very well, leave it with me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If curiosity does get the better of you, remember that the people behind the Clan are ruthless. Take good care of yourself.”

  15

  “Jacob darling, how marvellous!”

  Griselda Farquharson’s kiss of greeting was as exuberant as her tumbling black curls, her kohl-smeared eyes, and her plump, powdered cheeks. Shocking-pink lipstick matched her chiffon dress, complete with train sweeping down from her shoulders. Her lavender perfume was so pungent that it brought tears to Jacob’s eyes. He’d only met her half a dozen times in his life, but she hugged him to her voluminous curves as if he were a long-lost son.

  Her embrace knocked the breath out of him. Effusiveness was hardly conduct becoming to the august environs of the Highgate Literary and Scientific Institute. The Reading Room was supposed to be an oasis of tranquillity. A bust occupied an alcove, paintings of former presidents adorned the wall by the door, and beneath them stood a large globe. At the rear of the room, steps led up to the librarian’s rooms, with a bell next to the door.

  The door had a peephole. Jacob wondered if the librarian used it to check if Griselda had gone before emerging. The members present had buried their heads in their books and newspapers. Nobody tutted in disapproval, or tried to shush Griselda into silence. Any attempt to cow her into conformity was doomed to failure. Griselda was a law unto herself. Genteel yet outrageous; vain yet amusing; snobbish yet brimming with joie de vivre. A force of nature.