Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Was young Sear the first on the scene?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was sweeping that side of the street, I under­stand. Though it’s a busy area, and even in the fog, several people were milling about at that time of evening.’

  This solved one puzzle vexing Jacob. If Sear was in the pay of someone who wished Betts harm, why not finish the job the car driver had started? With a man lying injured on the ground, a few well-directed kicks would do the trick. Perhaps his instructions were simply to tell a good story when help came, putting the blame for the incident squarely on Betts and his gammy leg, rather than on the driver who failed to stop. One fact was certain. If Sear was lying, the car in question would not have been a Ford.

  ‘Do you know where Tom was going that night?’

  Lydia Betts shook her head. ‘It was about this story he was working on. A big story, that’s all I know.’

  ‘About Rachel Savernake? Did he discuss her with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘He kept his own counsel, did Tom. Leastways, when it came to his work. I sometimes wished… he would confide more in me. I always tried to show an interest.’

  She was already talking about her husband in the past tense. Her subconscious protecting her, Jacob thought, accustoming her to what lay ahead.

  He bit into a biscuit. ‘I ought to follow up the story.’

  ‘About this Savernake woman?’

  ‘Yes. If only,’ Jacob said, hating himself for his mendacity, ‘as a way of paying tribute to Tom. Of course, we all long for the day when he’s back in harness, but in the meantime…’

  ‘Tom will never be back,’ his wife said. ‘The doctors are close to giving up. He’s so very poorly. It would be kinder… to let him go.’

  Jacob laid his hand on Lydia Betts’ spindly arm. ‘Hush. You mustn’t talk like that.’

  Her pinched features were a portrait of defeat. All the life had been sucked out of her. She even lacked the energy to answer.

  An idea struck him. ‘Did Tom keep any notes here about stories he was working on?’

  ‘No. You know how untidy he was. If he’d treated our home as an office, we’d have drowned in scraps of paper.’

  Untidy, Jacob thought, was an understatement. In Clarion House, Tom’s fondness for clutter was legendary. ‘So you didn’t know anything about those stories?’

  ‘He used to joke that London needed a better class of criminal. Just before the accident, he was down in the mouth. He said a villain he’d met had been murdered by his gang. The man had wanted to sell him a story but he’d asked for far too much money. Tom was upset he’d missed the chance to find out more. More than that, I don’t know.’

  ‘This wasn’t Harold Coleman?’

  Coleman was associated with the Rotherhithe Razors, whose members menaced London’s racetracks. Six years ago, he’d been jailed for the manslaughter of a bookmaker who wouldn’t pay for protection. Late last year, he’d escaped from Wormwood Scrubs, and gone on the run – until finally, his past caught up with him. A courting couple had found what was left of his body nestling under a hedge. Tom Betts had reported his murder in the Clarion, and written a couple of follow-ups. Such crimes were commonplace among members of London’s gangs, even if few were marked by such savagery. Jacob thought it no bad thing if villains wiped each other out, and Tom’s interest in the killing had puzzled him.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not sure he mentioned a name,’ she said. ‘He was very preoccupied in the days leading up to the accident. I suppose that’s why he got run over. He wasn’t looking where he was going.’

  She was right about Tom’s distracted state, Jacob thought, but what was the cause of it? Crime reporters saw the seamy side of life every day. However gruesome the case, it was water off a duck’s back. Otherwise, how could you survive?

  ‘He never said anything else?’

  ‘All I can tell you is this.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘One night – it must only have been a day or two before the accident – he had a bad dream. He woke me up, talking in his sleep.’

  Jacob’s spine tingled. ‘Did he speak about Rachel Savernake?’

  ‘No.’ Lydia Betts’ eyes were moist with distress. ‘He simply mentioned a place. Nowhere I’d heard of, but he kept repeating its name.’

  ‘Which place, what name?’

  ‘Gallows Court.’

  *

  Four vast oil paintings by Cayley Robinson dominated the entrance hall of Middlesex Hospital. Acts of Mercy, commissioned by a wealthy benefactor, depicted the care given to the sick and needy, delicate orphan girls and wounded soldiers returning from the battlefield. The aim was to symbolise the triumph of human spirit in the face of adversity, but the paintings had haunted Jacob ever since his last visit. The orphans seemed serene if pensive, forming an orderly queue in their pleated white bonnets to collect their bowls of nutritious milk. Yet one of the children stared out of the canvas at him, as if appealing for him to do something impossible – cure terminal illness. The yearning in her eyes revealed her fear that nobody would ever be able to help.

  Jacob hated hospitals. The whiff of ether and surgical spirit always made him feel sick. His conscience was pricking because he’d visited Tom Betts only once since the accident. It wasn’t the enigmatic murals that had kept him away. The sight of his colleague’s grey face, straggly hair, and scrawny, diminished body had been more than he could bear. Huddled up in bed, Tom seemed to be waiting for the end to come.

  ‘Any improvement?’ he asked the sister, a plump Geordie whose beam was as warm as a fleecy blanket.

  ‘Ah, now you’re asking. Once or twice he’s come round briefly. He’s even murmured a few words, but we couldn’t make head nor tail of what he said. At other times…’

  ‘I see.’ While there was life, there was supposed to be hope, but even Lydia Betts was reconciled to the inevitable.

  ‘I’ve just come from seeing Mrs Betts.’

  ‘Ah, poor lass, she… finds it very difficult.’

  The sister pulled a chair up to the bed. Betts was breathing loudly, and she murmured that he might be coming to again. But the rasping sound made Jacob think of a drowning man, who bobs up and down above the waves before the sea finally claims him.

  The stench of disinfectant and the coarse noise from the bed made Jacob’s flesh crawl. Not for the first time, he felt pangs of self-disgust. A man who had, in his no-nonsense way, been generous to him was close to death. Yet here he was, averting his eyes, holding his nose, struggling in vain to overcome revulsion. He uttered a silent, selfish prayer that Betts would not die while he sat by his bedside. How could he console the widow if the worst happened? It would seem like his fault.

  The sister left to tend to others in her care, and Jacob moved close to the figure under the bedclothes. ‘Tom, are you awake? Can you hear me? It’s Jacob, Jacob Flint. I talked to Rachel Savernake.’

  Was he imagining it, or did the sick man’s eyelids flutter? The racket of wheezing was almost unbearable.

  ‘She’s mixed up in another murder.’

  Jacob shifted closer, gripping the edge of the iron bedstead as the sick man’s eyes opened a fraction. Under the lids, the whites were bloodshot. His gaze was unfocused, yet Jacob thought that Betts was making a superhuman effort to communicate. His own throat was dry. He dare not imagine how much pain the man was in, how much these questions were making him suffer. Could he find one key that might unlock the door?

  ‘Tom, tell me this. Where is Gallows Court?’

  Betts’ lips began to move, without making a sound. Jacob’s head moved until it was almost touching the older man’s cheek. Finally he heard a few words, so faint as to be almost inaudible.

  ‘Coleman said he knew her secret.’

  ‘Whose secret, Tom? Who are you talking about?’

  Betts’ eyelids flickered, and there was a long pause before the older man forced out the name.

  ‘Rachel Savernake.’

  *

  The telephone shrille
d as Rachel solved the final clue in the Times crossword. Moments later, Mrs Trueman put her head round the door.

  ‘Flint wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Shoemaker warned me he was persistent.’

  ‘He’s calling from Middlesex Hospital. Betts is still alive, and he’s paid him a visit. He sounds excited, as though he’s onto something.’

  ‘We were told Betts wasn’t expected to regain conscious­ness. Perhaps the doctors underestimated his resilience.’

  ‘Shall I say you’re busy?’

  Rachel looked out across the square. Even on this fine, crisp afternoon, there was nobody about. Tucked between the tall trees and evergreen shrubs was a single wrought-iron bench, but she’d never seen anybody sit on it. One neighbouring building, separated from Gaunt House by a narrow passageway, was owned by an august but inactive literary and philosophical society, while the elderly couple who lived next door were wintering in Cap d’Antibes. At the heart of the capital of the British Empire, the square was an oasis of quiet.

  ‘No, I’ll talk to him.’

  The housekeeper grimaced. ‘Best not to encourage him.’

  ‘Refusing to talk to Betts didn’t put him off.’ Rachel folded The Times. ‘Would you mind tidying the chess set away? The Taverner problem has served its purpose.’

  She strode out onto the spacious landing. A telephone stood on a table beneath a tall window. It commanded a view of a large garden to the rear of the house, crowded with lush evergreens, and surrounded by a wall topped with railings spiked to deter even the boldest intruder.

  She picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, Mr Flint?’

  ‘Miss Savernake?’ The journalist sounded as if he’d run a sprint.

  ‘Didn’t I make myself clear last night? I never speak to the press.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you,’ he said. ‘For the note. You gave me the finest scoop of my career.’

  ‘The note?’

  ‘You sent me a message, telling me to go to Lawrence Pardoe’s address in South Audley Street, not two hours after you’d talked about my yearning for a scoop. Even if for some strange reason you don’t want to admit it, I’m extremely grateful.’

  Her lavish sigh was worthy of a schoolmistress driven to distraction by a pupil’s stupidity. ‘Mr Flint…’

  ‘You took the trouble to find out everything about me. I can’t believe that you haven’t seen the Clarion today.’

  ‘I have an appointment shortly,’ she said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me—’

  ‘Wait! Please. I need to ask you something. Are you familiar with Gallows Court?’

  Softly, she said, ‘I can’t help you, Mr Flint.’

  ‘Tom Betts was onto something, wasn’t he? He was curious about the murder of a man called Coleman. About what happened at Gallows Court.’ Excitement rose in his voice. ‘Is that why someone ran Tom over? What do you know about his so-called accident?’

  Rachel squeezed the receiver until her palm hurt.

  ‘I told you last night not to threaten me, Mr Flint. You should heed my advice. There are worse fates than the misfortune that befell Thomas Betts.’

  5

  ‘Damned good work.’

  Light from a low sun filtered through the narrow win­dows of the assistant commissioner’s room, streaking the newspapers piled high on his writing table. New Scotland Yard was a honeycomb of claustrophobic offices and granite staircases, but the Office of Works had done Sir Godfrey Mulhearn proud. Comfortably upholstered armchairs and a turkey carpet supplied a hint of luxury, and there was even a miniature telephone exchange, with private wires to the principal branches of government.

  Sir Godfrey folded his arms, as if daring his companion to contradict him, but there was no danger of that. Superintendent Arthur Chadwick had not risen through the ranks of the CID by antagonising his superiors, or by failing to take credit when it was his due.

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  Sir Godfrey stroked his moustache, a favourite gesture. A former soldier, he was the very model of a modern assistant commissioner, tall and bronzed, with a square jaw and steel-grey hair. ‘Pardoe was a pillar of respectability. Spent half the family fortune on doing good. No criminal record, obviously. Any suspicion of financial malpractice?’

  Chadwick’s head, bald and shaped like a bullet, shook with regret. ‘Bankers are never as pure as the driven snow. But Pardoe belonged to the old school, like his father and grandfather before him. His list of clients reads like an extract from Who’s Who. None are fools easily parted from their money by a scoundrel.’

  Sir Godfrey gave a man-of-the-world cough. ‘Nothing… untoward in his private life?’

  ‘Not that Inspector Oakes has found, sir. Pardoe was a widower, and there is no indication that he spent heavily – except on worthy causes. He didn’t gamble at the races or on the tables. Despite being a generous donor to numerous charities, he didn’t crave the limelight. Less than twelve months ago, he lost his second wife, and since then he’s lived very quietly.’

  ‘Any suspicious circumstances surrounding her death?’

  ‘She died in childbirth, sir.’

  The reply was a cue for further moustache-stroking. ‘Unusual for a crime as shocking as the Covent Garden case to occur… out of the blue. You’re satisfied that this man did murder the Hayes woman? And that he committed suicide? There’s no question of his being killed by a third party?’

  Puffing for breath, Chadwick pulled out his notebook. A hefty man, in his youth he’d won trophies as an amateur boxer. Nowadays his girth was a tribute to his wife’s cooking, and it was hard to believe he’d ever been nimble in the ring. For years, he had been office-bound, but he’d given evidence in the Old Bailey enough times to know that a fact was not a fact unless and until recorded in writing.

  ‘None whatsoever, sir, we have it on the highest authority. I sent word that Mr Rufus Paul must be called in at once, and he conducted a thorough examination of the body in situ.’

  Sir Godfrey nodded. ‘Very wise. There’s no one better.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. The door was locked from the inside, with the key left in place. There are no windows, or means of access to the study from above or below. Pardoe’s fingerprints are on the gun, and the confession is certainly in his own hand. The style of calligraphy is difficult to forge, and his confidential secretary is in no doubt that Pardoe wrote the note. The weapon is a distinctive example of a well-known model, although we haven’t traced where he obtained it. Our theory is that it was an heirloom. We also found the saw he used to decapitate the woman in the basement of his house. He’d washed it, but not thoroughly enough to remove all traces of her blood.’

  ‘A bad business.’

  Sir Godfrey’s fondness for platitudes led many people in Whitehall, let alone in Fleet Street, to believe he was stupid. A generously minded minority argued that it suited him to be underestimated, and to wear his bluff military manner as a form of disguise.

  ‘Quite so, sir.’

  ‘One good thing about a suicide.’ Sir Godfrey tapped his blotting pad with a pen. ‘It saves everyone a great deal of time and bother. What was his state of health?’

  ‘He suffered from a malignant tumour, diagnosed by Sir Eustace Leivers of Harley Street. Apparently he confided in no one else. Sir Eustace confirms that he expected Pardoe would be dead within months. He’d felt it his duty to warn Pardoe that the final stages would not be pleasant. Pardoe’s confession mentions that he had little time left, and that too confirms its authenticity.’

  ‘And the plywood trunk?’

  ‘We’ve traced the shop that sold it to him. Pardoe’s idea of concealing his identity was to wear a shabby old Ulster, with a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes, and adopt an old Etonian’s version of an Irish accent.’

  ‘Can we be sure it was Pardoe?’

  ‘The shopkeeper has been shown his photograph, and can’t swear to the identification. He realised the fellow was up to something rummy, but of course didn’t g
uess why he wanted the case.’

  ‘I presume Pardoe cleared his staff out last night so that he could do the deed in peace and quiet?’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’ Chadwick puffed on his pipe. ‘His secretary thought he seemed agitated yesterday. So did the butler.’

  ‘Yet you’ve uncovered no history of mental instability?’

  ‘Nothing known, sir, though Sir Eustace said Pardoe took the diagnosis badly. Evidently he’d disposed of a good deal of paperwork, burning it page by page. Whether he destroyed compromising material of some sort, we’ll never know. The confession is the work of a man overwhelmed by guilt and shame.’

  Sir Godfrey tutted. ‘Better late than never, I suppose. What else do we know about his private life?’

  Chadwick consulted his notes. ‘His first wife succumbed to consumption, and there was no issue. Three years ago, he remarried. His second wife was less than half his age, sir, described to us by the cook as a flighty piece, and by the secretary as rather common. She was a theatrical. After losing her and their baby, it looks as if he lost his mind.’

  ‘Suicide fits,’ Sir Godfrey said. ‘Why else would a respectable banker behave like the worst kind of animal?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Tell me about this young journalist. Extraordinary that he arrived outside Pardoe’s home within minutes of the body being found.’

  A hint of reluctant admiration entered Sir Godfrey’s voice. His own career was testament to a gift for exquisite timing worthy of a test match batsman. Having acquired more medals than wounds during the Great War, he had left the army before the ink was dry on the armistice, and secured a post as assistant commissioner at a time when active-service counterparts of similar rank were too weary or flu-ridden to contemplate peacetime. When the A.C. in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department had retired twelve months earlier, Sir Godfrey’s seniority had made him the natural choice as replacement. But becoming the public face of the CID presented more testing challenges than overseeing traffic and lost property.