Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Idyllic, my eye!’ She heaved a sigh. ‘You know, I’m not sure I’m jealous of her anymore.’

  He grinned. ‘You’ll change your tune when I tell you her Rolls-Royce was custom-built, and her furniture is designed to order by Ruhlmann of Paris. She buys lurid modern art for prices that would make your eyes water. Her only other interest seems to be amateur detection. She shuns high society, and hates the press.’

  ‘Can you blame her?’ Elaine retorted. ‘Not everyone wants their face plastered all over the Clarion. I suppose if I was filthy rich, I wouldn’t want a nosey parker like you prying into how I spent my money.’

  ‘Something else intrigues me. She keeps astonishingly few servants. Only a married couple, and a housemaid. A craving for privacy, I understand. But why be so frugal about help in the house?’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘There’s a story to be told about the woman, and I want to tell it.’

  ‘I can see the headline now,’ Elaine breathed. ‘The Garbo of Detection.’

  He laughed with delight. ‘Excellent! I might steal that. If you’re ever sacked by the shop, a glittering future awaits you as a subeditor.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She snuggled up even closer, and Jacob slid his free hand inside her pink cardigan.

  A furious knocking on the front door stopped his wan­dering fingers in their tracks. Mrs Dowd’s footsteps pounded along the hall, and she made a noisy performance of un­locking the door, before giving a low exclamation.

  Moments later, with Elaine smoothing the tangles in her hair, the landlady marched into the parlour, clutching a sealed envelope. It bore Jacob’s name in an elegant hand.

  ‘Someone left a note for you. In this weather, too! I looked to see who it was, but they’d vanished into the fog.’

  He tore the envelope open.

  ‘Who is it from?’ Elaine demanded.

  Jacob stared at the message, before glancing up at Mrs Dowd.

  ‘No signature.’

  ‘Anonymous!’ The landlady was agog. ‘Not a poison-pen letter, I hope?’

  ‘No, no…’

  ‘You look hot and bothered, dear.’ Mrs Dowd’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense! What does the note say?’

  Groaning inwardly, he asked himself why he’d ever talked to his landlady and her daughter about his job. But there was nothing for it. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Find your scoop at 199 South Audley Street. Nine o’clock sharp.’

  *

  A burly young policeman with a broken nose blocked the pavement as effectively as a brick wall. He raised a shovel-like hand. ‘Sorry, sir, you can’t go through.’

  Jacob climbed off his bicycle. The road was cordoned off, and through the fog, he could make out three police cars, and an ambulance. The door of one of the grand houses was open, with uniformed police officers and men in plain clothes bustling in and out. Windows of the neighbouring houses were lit. Curtains twitched as people tried to make out what the fuss was about.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me, Stan? The fog may be thick, but surely you’ve not forgotten my ugly mug?’

  ‘Flinty?’ A note of wonder entered the officer’s voice. ‘How the blazes did you get wind of this so quick?’

  ‘Get wind of what?’

  ‘Don’t give me that sad puppy look, my lad. Your flannel may work a treat with the ladies, but you can’t butter me up, not when I’m on duty. A budding crime reporter doesn’t stumble across something like this by accident.’

  ‘Something like what?’

  Detective Constable Stanley Thurlow frowned. ‘Are you denying that you know what’s happened?’

  Jacob bent his head towards the policeman’s cauliflower ear. ‘I’ll be straight with you. I was tipped off that something was up, but I haven’t the faintest clue what it might be.’

  ‘Who told you? Come on, Flinty, spill the beans. It’ll do me a power of good with Superintendent Chadwick if I can give him some inside information. I need to keep him sweet.’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t say. Even if I wanted to, I’d have to keep my mouth shut. You know a journalist never reveals his sources. The tip-off was anonymous.’

  Thurlow scowled. ‘Expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Why not? It’s the truth.’

  ‘And my name’s Ramsay MacDonald.’

  Stung, Jacob dug into the pocket of his coat, and brought out the note with a flourish. Taking a pace forward, Thurlow peered at the crumpled notepaper under the lamplight.

  ‘You see?’ Jacob demanded. ‘Even if I tried to guess who sent me here, chances are I’d be wide of the mark.’

  ‘Posh handwriting. Not like a man’s.’ Surliness gave way to a touch of swagger. ‘One of your fancy women, Flinty? Truth to tell, it makes no difference to us. We’re not looking for anyone else in connection with this case.’

  In silence they watched two ambulance men manoeuvring a laden stretcher out of the house. A sheet covered the body from head to toe.

  Jacob exhaled. ‘Dead?’

  ‘As a doornail.’ Thurlow lowered his voice. ‘Between you, me and the gatepost, it’s the bloke who lives here. Name of Pardoe.’

  ‘Murder, accident, or suicide?’ Jacob hesitated. ‘If you’re not looking for anyone else, I suppose he topped himself.’

  ‘Got it in one.’ The policeman jerked a thumb towards the house. ‘You’d better have a word with the inspector when he’s finished in there.’

  ‘You’re sure nobody gave him a helping hand?’

  ‘Out of the question. He locked himself into his study, and shot himself at close range after writing a detailed note. Saved us a hell of a lot of trouble.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He left a confession, saying he killed that woman in Covent Garden.’

  Jacob’s throat constricted, as it had when Rachel knotted his scarf around his windpipe. ‘Who is this man? He might be deranged. How can you be sure he’s telling the truth?’

  Thurlow chuckled. ‘No mistake, Flinty, scout’s honour. You didn’t hear this from me, right? Let the boss tell you himself, if he’s of a mind to do so.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jacob whispered.

  ‘The proof is what you might call conclusive. Looking us straight in the eye when we broke in to the locked room.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Staring out of a plywood trunk was the poor woman’s head.’

  3

  ‘Satisfied?’ Mrs Trueman demanded.

  Rachel Savernake looked up from her armchair, putting aside the final edition of the Clarion, and Jacob Flint’s breath­less exclusive. Night lawyers had seasoned the report with an allegedly in every other sentence, but no caveats could blunt the sensational suicide and confession to murder of a prominent banker with a reputation as a philanthropist. The young reporter had bagged his scoop.

  ‘Satisfied?’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve barely started.’

  The housekeeper shook her head. ‘Last night, everything went perfectly. None of Pardoe’s staff sneaked back unexpectedly. The left-luggage attendant took his bribe, and closed his office down. Pardoe realised that if he didn’t kill himself, Trueman’s photograph of him holding the woman’s head like a trophy would destroy him. We won’t always be so lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Rachel pointed to the story. ‘We make our own luck. Our tame journalist has done our work for us. Did you notice his final paragraph?’

  Mrs Trueman leaned over her shoulder, and read aloud.

  ‘The deceased was renowned for unstinting generosity towards good causes. His personal fortune came from the family bank which bears his name. Over the years he acted as personal banker to a uniquely distinguished list of clients. His circle included members of the aristocracy, politicians, and such distinguished figures in public life as the late Mr Justice Savernake.’

  She hesitated. ‘How did Flint find out about the Judge’s connection to Pardoe?’

  ‘He does his homework.�
��

  ‘I don’t like it. There was no need to mention the Judge.’

  ‘It’s a clue disguised as a space-filling irrelevance.’ Rachel contemplated the blazing fire, watching the flames writhe. ‘He’s sending me a message, showing off what he’s deduced. That I wrote the note sending him to Pardoe’s house.’

  ‘You should never have encouraged him.’

  The housekeeper folded her arms, and planted herself in front of the fireplace. Her hair had turned grey during her thirties, and worry had dug deep furrows in her forehead, yet her solid frame and square-set jaw gave the impression that not even an earthquake would shake her.

  Rachel yawned. ‘It’s done now.’

  The vast sitting-room looked down on the square. The spiky branches of the oaks and elms in the central garden were bathed in pale sunlight, the fog of the previous evening barely a memory. Inside, the furniture was all delicate lines and subtle curves, with exotic wood grains embellished by ivory and sharkskin. Book-crammed shelves occupied the alcoves on either side of the fire. On the other walls hung paintings: dark, sinister, impressionistic. As Mrs Trueman cleared her throat, she glared in disapproval at a Gilman nude, sprawled over an unmade bed.

  ‘What if he makes himself even more of a nuisance than Thomas Betts? If he finds out about Juliet Brentano…’

  ‘He won’t.’ Rachel’s voice was flat and uncompromising. ‘She’s gone. Forgotten.’

  ‘He’s bound to show your note to his friend at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Of course. How else can he explain his presence in South Audley Street at nine?’

  ‘You don’t sound dismayed.’

  ‘I’m positively euphoric. Linacre and Pardoe are dead. As for Scotland Yard, it suits me to keep them guessing.’

  ‘Wondering who is next?’ The housekeeper picked up a poker. ‘Jacob Flint will be next, if you ask me. He was a fool to mention the Judge’s name in the same breath as Pardoe’s. He might as well have tied a noose around his own neck.’

  ‘He likes playing with fire. But then, so do I.’

  The older woman stabbed the burning coals. ‘One day you’ll get burned.’

  Rachel’s eyes flicked back to the garish headline in the Clarion. ‘HEADLESS TORSO KILLER’ FOUND SHOT. Millionaire philanthropist is suspected suicide.

  ‘The danger,’ she said softly, ‘is what makes life worth living.’

  *

  ‘Not bad,’ Walter Gomersall said.

  From the lips of the editor of the Clarion, this amounted to effusive praise. Gomersall’s features, rugged and unyielding as the Pennine landscape of his forefathers, never gave anything away, but Jacob detected a hint of pleasure in the older man’s growl. The editor loved stealing a march on the Clarion’s competitors.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Gomersall’s thumb indicated a chair. ‘Take the weight off your feet, lad.’

  Jacob sat, obedient as a puppy awaiting his master’s instructions. Gomersall was a gruff and parochial Lancastrian, but for all the old rivalries between the Red and White Rose counties, he’d given the young man from Leeds the chance to deputise when Tom Betts’ accident left him fighting for life. Betts, who hailed from Grange-over-Sands, had once told Jacob that the editor had more time for Northerners than any upstarts from London.

  ‘A question.’ Gomersall tugged at his left ear lobe. His ears were exceptionally large, and he liked to say they were the greatest asset a journalist could have. ‘How did you get to the scene of the crime so fast?’

  Jacob hesitated before replying, ‘Information received, sir.’

  A phrase favoured by every close-mouthed policeman Jacob had met. He hoped Gomersall would appreciate his wit, rather than resent the evasion.

  The editor folded his arms, and Jacob caught his breath. Perhaps he’d been too cheeky.

  ‘Fair enough. In the absence of a straight answer, here’s another question. Why mention old Judge Savernake?’

  Jacob’s reply was ready and waiting. ‘He died last year, sir. If I mentioned any of Pardoe’s living friends or clients, there would be uproar. Nobody in respectable society relishes being associated with a self-confessed murderer.’

  Gomersall grimaced. ‘All right. Why did Pardoe do it?’

  ‘I spoke to the inspector in charge of the case, sir, and he refused to let me see the confession, but the police assume the motive was… um, sexual in nature. Pardoe killed and decapitated the woman in a frenzy, and then panicked when it came to disposing of his trophy.’

  ‘She was a nurse by profession, supposedly respectable. He was a banker without a stain on his character, if you can imagine such a contradiction in terms. Spent his spare time, and a small fortune, Doing Good. No known history of sexual misconduct on her part, or violence on his.’ Gomersall shook his head. ‘Makes no sense.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, sir.’ Flattery, Tom Betts often said, was a vital weapon in the journalist’s arsenal. Might even newspaper editors succumb to its seductive caress? ‘Inspector Oakes seemed baffled.’

  ‘Smart as paint, young Oakes. Unlike that old blunderer they put in charge of the Yard.’ Gomersall pursed his lips. ‘What if Pardoe is innocent, and this is a put-up job?’

  Jacob blinked. ‘He shot himself inside a locked room.’

  ‘Never take anything at face value, lad.’

  Time for a tactical retreat. ‘I’m already planning how to follow up my story. I’ve called Scotland Yard and asked to meet Inspector Oakes. And I want to interview the dead woman’s family, and someone who knew Pardoe.’

  Walter Gomersall’s raised eyebrows resembled hairy black caterpillars, arching their backs. ‘That’ll keep you out of mischief.’

  ‘Assuming you approve, of course. We want to keep one step ahead of the Witness, two ahead of the Herald. Don’t we, sir?’

  ‘Get on with it, then. But watch your step.’

  ‘I’ll tell the truth as I find it,’ Jacob said. ‘Pardoe’s no more of a threat than the old Judge. Neither of them can sue for libel.’

  ‘Don’t be too cocky,’ Gomersall said. ‘I wasn’t thinking of Pardoe, or the wretched woman who lost her head. Remember what happened to Tom Betts.’

  *

  Each day Rachel Savernake devoted an hour to taking exercise, dividing the time between the gymnasium in her basement and the swimming pool on the top floor. She was working up a sweat on the wooden treadmill when she heard footsteps. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched Martha, the housemaid, coming downstairs.

  ‘A visitor?’ she asked, breathing hard.

  Martha nodded. She seldom spoke when a gesture would suffice. Her figure was disguised by a starchy grey uniform, her luxuriant chestnut hair crammed beneath an unflattering cap. Anyone who glimpsed her right profile would be captivated by her beauty, but it was her habit to avoid catching anyone’s eye. She dreaded seeing revulsion in those who saw, for the first time, the puckered flesh of her ruined left cheek.

  Rachel halted the treadmill. ‘Not Gabriel Hannaway?’

  A brisk nod.

  ‘Quick off the mark for an old man.’ Rachel mopped her brow. ‘Offer him whisky while he waits for me. He’ll need a stiff drink to calm his nerves.’

  *

  Walter Gomersall’s parting remark echoed in Jacob’s mind as he returned to the cramped and noisy junior reporters’ office. The editor measured his words with the care of a pharmacist dispensing henbane to a discontented spouse. Did he suspect that Betts had been the target of a deliberate attack?

  Betts’ career as a crime reporter stretched back twenty-five years. Long ago, he’d attended the trials of Crippen and the Seddons, and had a ringside seat when George Joseph Smith was found guilty of killing the Brides in the Bath. In childhood, polio had left Betts with a withered leg precluding military service. The same cussedness that helped him to overcome infantile paralysis was responsible for a chronic inability to respect authority. Time and again he’d resigned from good jobs to forestall dismissal
after provoking his superiors beyond endurance. He sniffed out scoops where most reporters smelled nothing, but neither Beaverbrook nor Northcliffe could stomach him, and the trade union barons who held the purse strings at the Herald found his unwillingness to toe the party line equally intolerable. Gomersall, determined to build circulation come what may, had given him a last chance in Fleet Street, and although the pair came close to blows more than once, Betts had earned his place on the payroll.

  Taciturn and short-tempered, he was never afraid to make himself unpopular, but he’d taught Jacob the value of persistence. After hearing from his sources at the Yard that the enigmatic Rachel Savernake had somehow identified Linacre as the Chorus Girl Murderer, Betts was like a dog with a bone. He’d wanted to find out the full story, and then tell it to the Clarion’s readers. But then he was hit by a passing car in a side street off Pall Mall, and left for dead by the roadside.

  The accident occurred on a foggy evening, and was witnessed by a young Welsh crossing sweeper. When an ambulance and the police arrived, he said he’d seen Betts miss his footing, and stumble under the wheels of a motor car as it turned into the street, knocking him to the ground. The car had been moving slowly, given the poor visibility, but the driver had failed to stop. In such a pea-souper, the Welshman couldn’t swear that the driver would realise he’d hit a man rather than some minor obstacle. The vehicle might be a Ford, but the lad hadn’t noticed the registration plate when rushing over to tend to the injured man. At first, he’d thought Betts was a goner. As well as smashing both elbows, the journalist had cracked his head open, losing a great deal of blood. Although he’d not died on the spot, his internal injuries were severe, and the prognosis was bleak.

  Jacob needed to interview the crossing sweeper. Such crea­tures belonged, in his mind, to a Dickensian past, when the poor earned a few coins by dusting dirty urban streets for the benefit of well-to-do passers-by, but a few still plied their trade in the capital. The account of the accident carried the ring of truth. Betts’ disability sometimes caused him to lose his balance, and in the darkness and the fog, it would be easy to slip in a puddle or on a patch of mud, and fall under the wheels of a passing motor car. But what if the Welshman was wrong? Or lying?