Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Turns out that Pardoe was a member of a chess club.’

  ‘Surely the secretary knew that?’

  ‘No, that’s the weird thing. When we told him, he was flabbergasted.’

  ‘Maybe Pardoe simply didn’t want to play chess with him. Didn’t want to risk losing to a servant.’

  ‘We searched the house from attic to cellar, but there wasn’t a chess set or board to be found. Let alone a set minus a pawn.’

  Thurlow sank the rest of his drink with a flourish. Jacob nodded at the empty glass. ‘Sounds like a three-pint problem.’

  ‘Eh?’ Thurlow consulted a gold pocket watch. ‘Sorry, mate. Best be getting back.’

  ‘How do you know that Pardoe really was a member of a chess club?’

  Thurlow lowered his voice. ‘Because he mentioned it in his will.’

  ‘In his will?’ The cacophony made by fellow drinkers meant that Jacob had to crane his neck to hear. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He left a small fortune to be used…’ Thurlow cleared his throat, and mimicked the sonorous tone of a dusty old lawyer, ‘at the discretion of the board of trustees for the benefit of my friends and fellow chess players in the Gambit Club.’

  13

  Jacob’s next stop was Whitechapel. He wanted to talk to Levi Shoemaker. His previous experience of private enquiry agents was limited and depressing. In Leeds, he’d encountered a handful of grubby individuals who helped their clients to gather – or falsify – evidence for divorce proceedings, or to collect debts owed by people with no means to pay. Every­thing he’d managed to find out about Shoemaker suggested a very different breed of detective.

  Shoemaker’s name never appeared in the Clarion, or any other newspaper for that matter. He didn’t advertise his services: discreet recommendations from satisfied clients kept him busy. Jacob had never known the grapevine so kind to a private investigator.

  The memory of his encounter with Mrs Mundy in Oxford itched like a flea bite. If he’d managed to infuriate an old lady who had spent a lifetime caring for orphans, prising information out of a professional oyster was likely to prove an insuperable challenge. Shoemaker was no Stanley Thurlow, and Jacob had nothing to offer in the hope of loosening the man’s tongue. He could scarcely out-bid Rachel Savernake.

  Cycling through a fierce downpour, he pondered how to gain Shoemaker’s confidence. Assuming he found him, that was. He’d decided not to invite a rebuff by trying to arrange an appointment. Rain had emptied the drab thoroughfares. He slowed down, peering through the gloom, searching for his destination.

  This was the street, with a shuttered pie house (Hot Stewed Eels & Mashed Potatoes Always Ready) on the corner. A weary old man with a battered felt hat was getting drenched to the skin as he trudged home. Jacob deduced that he was not Shoemaker, given that he was carrying an ancient concertina under his arm. He stopped outside a double-fronted coffee shop and dining rooms (Haddocks, Bloaters, Kippers, and Saltfish Our Specialities – Quality, Civility and Cleanliness Guaranteed), and jumped off his bicycle. Fifty yards further on, a hunched, solitary figure, wearing an overcoat and carrying a walking stick, was fumbling with a bunch of keys. Jacob broke into a run, and the skid and clatter of his footsteps on the wet cobbles caused the man to glance round.

  His face was swollen, and bandaged above the left eye, and dark red bruises disfigured his cheeks. Even before he uttered a word, it was plain that he recognised Jacob, and that he was dismayed to see him.

  ‘Flint!’

  ‘Mr Shoemaker?’

  The detective winced with pain. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was hoping for a private word.’

  The age-spotted hand holding the keys was shaking. ‘Go away. I have no wish to speak with you.’

  ‘You’ve had a nasty accident.’ Jacob gripped the other man’s bony shoulder. ‘What can I do to help?’

  Breathing noisily, Shoemaker wriggled free. ‘The last person I need help from is you.’

  ‘You identified me straight away, yet we’ve never met. I’m not in the least famous, so I ought to be flattered. Instead, I’m very curious.’

  As Shoemaker struggled to fit a key into the lock of his door, the silky scorn in Rachel Savernake’s voice echoed in Jacob’s mind.

  ‘You lodge in Amwell Street, and you worry that your landlady’s daughter seeks to trade her body for marriage. Ambition drove you to join the muckrakers on the Clarion rather than a respectable newspaper. The editor admires your persistence, but frets about your rashness.’

  ‘I suppose you fashioned those arrows for Rachel Savernake to fire at me? I thought she was too harsh about my juvenile poetry.’

  Gasping for breath, Shoemaker bent over, supporting him­self on the stick. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Please. It’s for your own good.’

  ‘You’re really not well. You ought to go to hospital.’

  ‘No… no hospital.’ The stick slipped, and Shoemaker lost his balance. Jacob caught hold of his arm, to save him from collapsing in a heap on the ground, and dragged him to his feet.

  ‘You need to rest, for your own good. Back into your office?’

  Unable to speak, Shoemaker nodded.

  Shoemaker’s office was on the first floor, above a work­men’s cafeteria that had shut up shop for the day. The old man felt like a dead weight as Jacob helped him up the stairs. When they reached the landing, the detective indicated the key for the door to his office, and they entered a dusty L-shaped room with a desk and three chairs. A connecting door led to an inner room, sparsely furnished with two large cabinets and a folded bed, and a small bathroom whose cracked tiles were streaked with blood. Here Shoemaker had bandaged his head: a box of first aid supplies was lying open on the floor, and the air had a salty whiff of iodine.

  ‘Get your breath back,’ Jacob said. ‘Then we can talk.’

  While he waited, he studied his surroundings. Whatever Shoemaker spent his fee income on, it did not include interior decoration. The rooms were as scruffy as the rat-holes inha­bited by the brutal debt-collectors of Leeds.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Shoemaker nodded. ‘Good. Let’s move next door.’

  Wrapping his arm round the other man’s shoulder, Jacob led him back to the office, and helped him into his chair. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

  In a thin, wheezing voice, Shoemaker said, ‘Doesn’t pay to have swanky premises. Clients with an ounce of intelligence realise they foot the bill.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I tripped and hit my head on the pavement.’

  Jacob made a derisive noise. ‘Accidents don’t happen to successful detectives. You’re a careful fellow, Mr Shoemaker. Everything I’ve learned makes that clear. Somebody roughed you up.’

  ‘You’ve been checking on me?’

  ‘Sauce for the goose.’ Jacob grinned. ‘Rachel Savernake hired you to investigate my background. I’m honoured that she thinks I’m fascinating enough to justify your fees. Naturally, I’m keen to know why she bothered.’

  ‘I never discuss my work.’

  Jacob pouted. ‘For a moment, I hoped you might actually co-operate. Is there a file about me in one of your cabinets? Do you mind if I take a peek?’

  ‘I’ve emptied them already. Leave now, Mr Flint. For your own safety.’

  ‘What happened? Did someone try to kill you?’

  Shoemaker chewed his lower lip. ‘Two fellows set upon me at Aldgate East. They looked like working men, a joiner and his apprentice. Nobody else was on the platform. I must be getting careless in my old age. I should never have exposed myself to such danger.’

  ‘They tried to throw you onto the live rail or under a train?’

  ‘No, no. If they’d wanted me dead, they’d have made no mistake.’ Gingerly, Shoemaker rubbed his damaged face. Tomorrow he would have a spectacular black eye. ‘The attack was a message, masquerading as a random act of brutality committed by two fascist hooligans on an elderly Jew.’

 
; ‘What sort of message?’

  ‘The same as I’m giving you. Drop this, Mr Flint, while you still have the chance. You’ve had your scoop. I am sure you couldn’t believe your luck, eh? Now go back to the Clarion, and write about something else.’

  Jacob reached out, and touched the bandage with the tip of his index finger. On the way here, he’d never dreamed that the detective might resemble a chewed rag. Energy surged through him like an electric current. He had youth and confidence, and he meant to press his advantage home.

  ‘Did Rachel Savernake hire thugs to beat you? Have you outlived your usefulness? Is she trying to cover her tracks? Why did she ask you to investigate Lawrence Pardoe?’

  ‘You ask far too many questions.’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘You’re not a fool,’ Shoemaker muttered, ‘but too often you talk and behave with idiotic bravado. Take my advice, Mr Flint. If you want to live to a ripe old age, this particular game is not worth the candle. I intend to heed the message those ruffians delivered. This time next week I’ll be far away.’

  Physically weak as the man was, there was something oddly majestic about him. Quietness and dignity were not qualities Jacob associated with private detectives. Shoemaker might be wrong, but he believed what he was saying; Jacob would stake a year’s wages on it.

  ‘I’d like to help you, Mr Shoemaker, and I wish you would give me a hand in return. You’ll have your reasons for discouraging me, but I can’t walk away from this, even if you can. Won’t you at least give me a start? A hint, a clue. Rachel Savernake…’

  ‘Rachel Savernake is the most dangerous woman in England.’

  Jacob laughed. ‘Really?’

  ‘You have no conception of what you are dealing with. Linacre died in convulsions of agony. Pardoe’s face was blown off, and his brains splashed around his study.’

  ‘You’re not saying their deaths were her doing?’

  ‘I’ve said more than enough.’ Shoemaker hauled himself to his feet. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get home. Tomorrow I leave London for good.’

  Jacob stood up. ‘There’s nothing more you are prepared to tell me?’

  Shoemaker hesitated. ‘In you, I see a shadow of my young self, determined never to take no for an answer. Whilst I was enquiring into your antecedents, I came to feel a ridiculous sense of kinship with you. The final proof that I’ve grown soft in my old age. Wait a moment.’

  He opened a drawer in the desk, and pulled out a pen, notepad, and envelope. Tearing off a sheet, he scribbled rapidly on it, before sealing it inside the envelope.

  ‘Make me a promise,’ he said. ‘If I give this to you, will you swear not to open it, unless and until something happens to me?’

  Jacob was amused. ‘What if you live to a ripe old age?’

  ‘Then my note will be irrelevant.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  Shoemaker gave him a quizzical glance, as if regretting his impulse, before handing the envelope to Jacob.

  ‘Shall I accompany you to your train?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘Thank you, but no. We mustn’t be seen together. That was why I tried to shoo you away when you first accosted me. The damage has been done. We must leave separately.’

  ‘Are we being watched?’

  ‘Humour me, Mr Flint. Will you leave by the fire ladder, rather than the front door?’

  Jacob thrust the envelope into his pocket. ‘If you insist.’

  ‘This way.’

  Shoemaker hobbled out onto the landing, and managed to unlock a door that gave on to an open iron ladder. The rain had eased off, but there was no light, and the steps were greasy. In the event of a fire, Jacob thought, the es­cape route would prove as hazardous as gambling with the flames.

  The cobbles, eerie in the glow of a gas lamp, seemed a long way down. He looked away again quickly, but he didn’t want the old man to think him a coward. He couldn’t resist giving a little bow.

  ‘Till we meet again, Mr Shoemaker.’

  The detective grunted, but said nothing. As he swivelled before commencing the treacherous descent, Jacob glimpsed in the older man’s eyes an expression of utter desolation. It chilled him more than the cold night air.

  *

  Two minutes later, Shoemaker was speaking urgently on the telephone.

  ‘His name is Jacob Flint. He works for the Clarion.’

  A woman’s voice at the other end of the line said, ‘A news­paper reporter?’

  ‘That’s right. Don’t—’ He was interrupted by a commotion downstairs at the front of the building. ‘I’m sorry. I must go.’

  He put the receiver down. Someone was banging on the door to the street. Within moments, the door was being kicked. The scream of wood splintering set his teeth on edge.

  He stepped outside. Clinging to the door handle, he inched onto the top rung of the iron ladder. His shoes slid underneath him, and he came close to letting go of the handle, and plunging to oblivion. Dizzying vertigo made his head swim. He wanted to be sick.

  The ladder offered no escape, only the certainty of a smashed skull and spine. His only hope was to talk his way out of trouble. Over the years, he’d done so time without number, but tonight felt different. Fear smothered him.

  He heard the door to the street giving way. If he barricaded himself into his office, what purpose would that serve? The ruffians had destroyed one door. They could break down another. His stomach was churning, but he must show no weakness. He’d explain he was leaving England, perhaps offer a bargain. If he was still in the country in twenty-four hours, let them do their worst.

  Shuffling into his office, he heard heavy boots clattering up the stairs. The men were young, strong, and cruel; that he already knew. Might they be susceptible to reason? He offered up a silent prayer.

  When they burst into his office, he was sitting behind the desk. One man, broad-shouldered and unshaven, carried a large canvas holdall. His gaze reminded Shoemaker of a dead fish. His colleague had a broken nose, pockmarked cheeks, and a squint.

  ‘Where’s your chum, Ikey?’

  ‘I told him to leave by the fire ladder. Better than getting mixed up in something that isn’t his concern.’

  ‘He’s already mixed up in it. What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing. He helped me up here against my protests.’

  The man grabbed Shoemaker’s arm, and twisted it. ‘You were warned what’d happen if you breathed a word to anyone.’

  ‘He came looking for me. I told him to go away, but he didn’t listen.’

  The man released his grip, and jerked a thumb towards his silent partner. ‘See Joe, here? Used to be a carpenter. Doesn’t say much, doesn’t Joe. Reckons actions speak louder than words.’

  ‘There is no need for any difficulty between us.’ Sweat dribbled down Shoemaker’s pallid cheeks. ‘I’m leaving Britain for good. Tomorrow I’ll be far away, on other side of the Channel.’

  ‘Out of harm’s way, eh?’

  ‘No one has anything to fear from me, I swear it.’

  ‘You know what I think? I think you’re a lying old Jew.’

  The man yanked Shoemaker’s tie, and the knot against his windpipe made the old man gasp.

  ‘Please! I didn’t tell him anything. I don’t know—’

  ‘Enough!’ The man gestured towards the canvas bag. ‘All right, Joe. Take out your tools.’

  Juliet Brentano’s Journal

  1 February 1919 (later)

  Henrietta doesn’t linger when she brings a tray of food and drink. She wants to help, but is powerless. I am grateful that she leaves me to cope with my grief as best I can. Outwardly, she’s respectful of the Judge and Rachel, but she’s on my side, I know it. At least there is one person still alive whom I can trust.

  I haven’t pressed her for details about my parents’ deaths. She doesn’t know the truth anyway. Is there to be a funeral? I don’t know, and I don’t ca
re. I shall remember them in my own way.

  Am I right to suspect Rachel of orchestrating their murder? I was filled with foreboding from the moment Henrietta said there was no sign of them, or of Harold Brown, anywhere on the island. I became so desperate that in the end I went to the Judge’s study. Forbidden territory, but I marched in without knocking.

  He was dozing in his favourite chair, a leather-bound book in his lap. Even in repose, his sharp features reminded me of a bird of prey, waiting to swoop on an unsuspecting victim. I coughed noisily, and his eyes opened.

  ‘What do you mean by this intrusion, miss?’

  His tone was severe, as always, yet for once his face wasn’t puce with rage. A faint smile played on his lips. Something amused him, and I found that more frightening than the most violent outburst of temper.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Your mother and father?’ He grunted. ‘Called away to attend to urgent business in London. Brown has accompanied them.’

  ‘It’s impossible! My mother hates the man!’

  A chill entered his voice, and the smile was gone. ‘Remember what I have said before. Children should be seen and not heard. Never interrupt me when I am at work. Now be off with you, before I reach for my strap.’

  As I fled from the study in tears, I caught sight of Rachel, staring at me from the staircase. Our eyes met, and she smirked.

  I believe she told the Judge some wicked story about my father, and persuaded him to have my parents killed in retaliation. Not on Gaunt; that would be too obvious. Brown spirited them away – probably he’d drugged their wine, so there was no fear of resistance – and had them dealt with in London.

  How long before Rachel disposes of me too? To her, I’m no more deserving of life than the governess’s Pekinese.

  14

  ‘Shoemaker is dead,’ Trueman announced as he strode into the gymnasium the next morning.

  Rachel was absorbed in her work on the rowing machine. She did not spare him a glance. For a full minute he waited as she exercised. Finally she halted the machine, and wiped the sweat off her brow.