Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  The woman led him into the drawing room, poured brandy into a tumbler, and departed. Framed paintings adorned the walls: nudes, claustrophobic interiors, and music hall scenes. Their sombre hues matched Jacob’s mood. He downed the brandy without bothering to savour its tang, and poured himself another from the decanter thoughtfully left on the table.

  Sipping more slowly this time, he tried to interpret his surroundings. Did they reveal anything about their owner? Not much, he concluded, only that she was very rich, and her tastes ran to art deco furniture and macabre modern art.

  What had brought Trueman to Benfleet? The murders hadn’t disconcerted him. Was McAlinden working for Rachel? Or did she know that McAlinden was a deranged madman, and if so, how on earth was it any business of hers? He couldn’t fathom it.

  Ten minutes passed before the door opened again, and Trueman strode in. He was followed by his wife, and a housemaid. None of them spoke, but the younger woman watched carefully as Jacob took in the sight of her ruined cheek. It reminded him of a girl from the slums of Leeds whose face had been destroyed by acid. He’d repor­ted on her trial for stabbing the man who had attacked her.

  He swallowed hard, sensing that he was being subjected to some kind of test. He mustn’t betray emotion, not pity, nor disgust, nor even rage that anyone could have been so inhuman as to spoil the young woman’s loveliness. According to Betts, Rachel only employed three servants. Were they not so much loyal retainers as conspirators in murder?

  Rachel Savernake walked through the door, and gave Jacob a wry smile.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Flint. Alive and well, I see. Congrat­ulations. You’ve just committed the perfect crime.’

  *

  ‘I don’t understand…’ Jacob began.

  ‘That’s the story of your life, isn’t it?’ Rachel interrupted. ‘You may not think so, Mr Flint, but this is your lucky day. Thanks to Trueman, you’ve escaped death by the skin of your teeth.’

  The back of Jacob’s head was throbbing. He rubbed it gingerly.

  ‘What’s more, I’ve decided to take you into my confidence. Against my better judgement.’

  Jacob cleared his throat. ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’

  ‘There is, of course, a catch.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Rachel leaned forward in her chair. ‘You will never write about what I am going to tell you. Is that agreed?’

  Jacob shifted. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Let me be clear,’ she said. ‘This isn’t a negotiation.’

  ‘An ultimatum, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘Call it whatever you wish. Do I have your word?’

  Trueman, sitting between his wife and the maid on the vast settee, made a scornful noise which Jacob had no difficulty in interpreting. The word of a journalist is worth nothing.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re not making a significant concession. This story you could never publish.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Jacob was becoming mulish. He was alive, but Elaine was dead. In all his life, he’d never felt so weary and depressed.

  ‘I do,’ Rachel said. ‘In fairness, I should point out that your personal situation is somewhat… compromised.’

  Jacob glanced at Trueman. The big man’s fists were clen­ched tight. His tension was palpable. He seemed to be readying himself for a fight.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘How dare you be so crude?’ Rachel’s tone sharpened. ‘You owe your life to Trueman, make no mistake. It would have been so easy for him to allow Oliver McAlinden to kill you.’

  ‘Where is McAlinden? Is he dead?’

  ‘He won’t trouble you again.’

  Jacob felt his gorge rise. He turned to Trueman. ‘You murdered him.’

  ‘McAlinden suffered the fate he’d intended for you,’ Rachel said. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘How did he know I’d be there?’

  ‘Someone told him that Thurlow had persuaded you to come to Benfleet.’

  ‘You mean it was a conspiracy?’ Jacob’s eyes widened. ‘Were Thurlow and McAlinden in it together?’

  ‘Up to their necks, but neither of them was pulling the strings. Thurlow in particular was out of his depth, and wanted to make a clean breast of things to you. I suppose he thought Elaine would help encourage you to keep his own misdemeanours quiet in return for the promise of a story. A good newspaperman always protects his sources, isn’t that your motto?’

  ‘What does Elaine…?’

  ‘Thurlow’s fatal error was to let his unhappiness become obvious to others. He’d outlived his usefulness. So had Elaine. And so had you.’

  Jacob closed his eyes. ‘Glad to hear I was considered useful at one time, at least.’

  ‘Not for long. When you joined the Clarion, McAlinden presumed you’d be much more malleable than Betts. He took you under his wing, but quickly discovered you were determined to be your own man.’

  ‘So he dropped me?’

  ‘Never mind, this story has a happy ending. The police will find his corpse, together with the other two bodies, and they have a genius for drawing obvious conclusions.’

  ‘Double murder, followed by suicide?’

  ‘Precisely. A verdict that will, I predict, be supported by expert forensic evidence from that distinguished pathologist Mr Rufus Paul. Stanley Thurlow was having an illicit liaison with Elaine Dowd. You knew she’d recently been entangled with a married man?’

  Jacob gaped at her. ‘I… well, yes. But I had no idea that her lover was Stanley.’

  ‘I suppose not. McAlinden lodged at Edgar House prior to your arrival there, didn’t he?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he recommended the place to me.’

  ‘Of course he did. How useful for his masters to have a promising young journalist living where Elaine could keep an eye on him.’

  ‘You’re surely not saying that Elaine was…?’

  ‘All in good time, Mr Flint. As I say, the police can construct a plausible narrative. McAlinden carried a torch for Elaine Dowd, but she preferred to consort with a young policeman destined for a rapid rise through the ranks. After McAlinden moved out, she dallied with you to blind him to the truth, but the affair continued, and McAlinden found out. He’d kept a key to Edgar House, let himself back in secretly, and stole a knife from the kitchen, before following the couple to their trysting place in Benfleet, where he killed them in a jealous rage before shooting himself in the face. An open and shut case. No need look for anyone else.’

  Jacob took a deep breath. ‘Good God.’

  ‘Embarrassing for the Clarion, to have their journalists involved in an eternal triangle murder case, but their readers are famously broad-minded. Who knows? It may even benefit circulation. McAlinden himself is no loss. He lacked your talent as a journalist, and came to hate you.’

  Her face was a mask, just as on the night of their first encounter. Try as he might, he could not see through it.

  ‘Is that so?’

  She sighed. ‘Well, I’ve described one version of events in Benfleet, but it’s conceivable that the authorities might come up with an alternative scenario. Would you like to hear it?’

  Something in her voice reminded him of the hollowness in his stomach.

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Elaine Dowd was liberal with her favours. She—’

  ‘She was convivial, warm-hearted,’ Jacob interrupted. ‘You shouldn’t defame her, now that she’s dead, and isn’t able to defend her good name.’

  Rachel gave him a withering look. ‘She charmed you, as she’d bewitched Thurlow and McAlinden. You knew the other men, and had an uneasy relationship with both of them. Thurlow was a source of useful titbits of information, and you paid him for them. It would not be too much of a stretch to construct an unedifying story about the bond between a venal copper who lived far beyond his means and an unscrupulous reporter with overweening ambition.’

  Jacob swallowed har
d. ‘I bought him the occasional drink, that’s all.’

  ‘A little more than that, surely? Thurlow’s widow will confirm the extent of your generosity.’

  ‘I never even met her!’

  ‘She’s even less intelligent than her husband. He told her that you funded the purchase of his new car, and a good deal else beside. The Chancellor of the Exchequer has taken an axe to the pay of policemen, yet your friend has prospered. To his wife, he portrayed his special relationship with the press as the most valuable perk of the job.’

  ‘It isn’t true!’

  ‘Surely your years in journalism have taught you that the truth takes many forms. Reality is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘Whoever greased Thurlow’s palm, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I believe you, but if the authorities are put on enquiry, they will be less sympathetic.’

  ‘It’s outrageous!’ Anger choked him. ‘Utterly unfair.’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘Life is unfair. You’re old enough to have learned that. As for McAlinden, you and he were competitors, riven by ambition. It was common knowledge that you disliked each other. Quite apart from your shared admiration for Elaine.’

  ‘McAlinden wasn’t interested in women.’

  ‘You may defame him, and claim he was a pansy. On another view, he was merely a libertine who loved to smash taboos. Perhaps he encouraged you to do likewise.’

  ‘Preposterous!’

  ‘How can you say so,’ Rachel enquired pleasantly, ‘when you and he spent an evening at the Gay Gordon Night Club in Wardour Street together? It’s a notorious haunt, positively infamous. Young and new to London you may be. Even so, why on earth weren’t you more circumspect?’

  Jacob groaned. ‘I won’t ask how you know about that night.’

  ‘It’s enough that I do know. My understanding is that you didn’t disgrace yourself, but I wouldn’t be surprised if witnesses come forward who tell a very different story. Anyway. There is, of course, much more to be said. You could have stolen the knife as easily as McAlinden.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘And when the police attend the bungalow, they’ll come across fingerprints that don’t belong to the three dead bodies at the scene. Naturally, they will be curious.’

  Jacob pointed to Trueman. ‘I wasn’t the only one at the bungalow this evening.’

  ‘You were the only one who didn’t wear gloves inside the house, and the only one who left muddy footprints on the doormat. You take a size nine in shoes, don’t you? Trueman checked while you were unconscious. It would have been so much wiser to enter in your stockinged feet, as he did. And a more prudent fellow might have made sure he was not observed by the railway clerk who sold him a train ticket to Benfleet. When I congratulated you on committing a perfect crime, I’m afraid my tongue was firmly in my cheek.’

  There was a long pause. Jacob screwed his eyes shut, trying frantically to order his thoughts. Could he escape, Houdini-like, from the trap she’d laid? McAlinden had fired a shot the moment before Trueman knocked him unconscious. What if the police found the bullet? Would it cause them to look beyond the irrelevance? No, he told himself. They would know he was an inexperienced marksman. He might have fired wildly to frighten McAlinden before killing him.

  Was there another loophole? He struggled to compose himself.

  ‘How did I get away from Benfleet?’

  ‘Good question.’ She smiled. ‘I bet you stole a bicycle. You’re a fit young fellow, and an enthusiastic cyclist. You may even have tried to cover your tracks by destroying the cycle upon your return to London. Not well enough, I’m afraid. Pieces of it may be found close to your lodgings in Amwell Street.’

  Oh God, those segments of a broken bicycle with which he’d shared the back seat of the Bullnose Morris!

  His fingerprints were plastered over them.

  ‘Ingenious,’ Jacob muttered.

  ‘Rudimentary, my dear Mr Flint.’ There was no humour in her smile. ‘But I’m afraid that our police like easy answers.’

  Throat parched, he croaked, ‘You’re forgetting something.’

  Arms folded, she leaned back in her chair. ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘I did nothing wrong.’ He jerked a thumb at Trueman. ‘Our friend here killed McAlinden. He saved me from being murdered, yes, but then he knocked me out, and did the deed.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘Slander, Mr Flint. I advise you not to repeat that allegation outside these four walls. Trueman was here all evening; I can vouch for that. The two of us were playing bezique.’

  ‘So who was driving your Bullnose Morris?’

  ‘Bullnose Morris?’ She made a performance of scratching her head. ‘Goodness, I’ve never set foot inside one in my life,’ she said. ‘My car is a Rolls-Royce Phantom, surely you recall?’

  He thrust his head into his hands, as his brain bumped into gear.

  ‘I suppose he stole the Morris?’

  ‘Motor cars are stolen in London all the time. Happily, they are often recovered with no damage done. Sometimes the owner isn’t even aware that they have been taken for an evening.’

  Jacob found the urge to burst into tears almost irresistible. Yet he must show this woman and her servants that he wasn’t the limp idiot they took him for.

  In a muffled voice, he said, ‘You seem to have thought of everything, Miss Savernake.’

  She shrugged. ‘You flatter me, Mr Flint. I’m afraid there are always lacunae. An inevitable consequence of creative improvisation. It would, however, be distressing if the police cottoned on to the interpretation of events I’ve outlined. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Very well. I’m sure you understand why I’m optimistic that you’ll never breathe a word about the events of tonight. Trust me, and all will be well.’

  ‘Trust you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her tone was harsh. ‘Now, tell me about your dealings with Thurlow. Miss nothing out. That young fool may be more use dead than he ever was alive.’

  *

  When Rachel finally swept out of the room, Jacob was reminded of a boxing match he’d once watched in Bradford. The referee had called a halt to a contest between ill-matched opponents before the weaker man, his head already bruised and bloodied, suffered irreparable damage to the brain. He knew exactly how that beaten fighter felt.

  Trueman and the maid followed their mistress, but the housekeeper lingered, and asked Jacob if he’d like something to eat. When he shook his head, she scolded him, saying that it would do him good after such a night.

  ‘You need to get your strength up,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some nourishing soup.’

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ Even if he tried to force himself to eat something, it wouldn’t stay down.

  She tutted in disapproval. ‘You’ll be sorry later on, when your tummy starts complaining.’

  He looked wildly about him. ‘Later on? How long do you expect me to stay here?’

  Her theatrical sigh was worthy of a mother confronted by an obtuse child. ‘For tonight, certainly. After all, you’re not yet ready to go back to your lodgings, and console the mother of the murdered girl. Are you?’

  *

  She was right, naturally. As he sat on his own, hunched up in the armchair, the realities of this catastrophic evening began to sink in.

  Nothing would be the same again. Not in his domestic life, for a start. Elaine was dead, and Mrs Dowd would be demented with grief. Losing her husband had driven her to the bottle, and he doubted she could survive the loss of her daughter. As for what connected the land­lady, her daughter, and McAlinden, he could not begin to guess.

  His working life, too, was changed forever. After the pleasant shock of his promotion, he’d been present at the scene of multiple murders, a story to end all stories, and yet he had no choice but to keep quiet forever. Not for one second did he doubt that his hostess was ready, willing, and able to make him pay if he broke his word. She’d rip him up l
ike confetti.

  Even now, sitting in her luxurious residence like an honoured guest, he knew next to nothing about her. As he puzzled over the enigma, Mrs Trueman returned with a steaming cup of cocoa.

  ‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘Go on. It won’t kill you.’

  He flinched. Was it a sign of paranoia to wonder if this comfortable woman was about to poison him?

  ‘I don’t think…’

  Dawning realisation lit up the housekeeper’s face.

  ‘Worried that it might be laced with arsenic?’ She chortled. ‘After all you’ve been through tonight, I suppose anything seems possible. Go on, then, I’ll have a sip myself, to set your mind at rest.’

  She tasted the cocoa before passing the cup to him. Cheeks burning with humiliation, he swallowed a mouthful. It was hot and flavoursome.

  ‘Not so terrible, is it?’ Mrs Trueman demanded. ‘Before she comes back, let me tell you one thing. Nobody gets the better of Rachel Savernake. Even to try is more than your life’s worth. Believe me, young man, the only person capable of destroying her is… she herself.’

  ‘Why would she destroy herself?’ Jacob asked. ‘What does she want?’

  The woman shook her head, and stood up. ‘I’ve said enough. Finish your drink, and I’ll take your cup for washing. Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat?’

  *

  Five minutes later, Rachel Savernake rejoined him, accompanied by her three servants. They were, Jacob thought, more like partners in crime.

  ‘Martha made up a bed in the room at the back of the second floor before you arrived,’ Rachel said. ‘You’ll be perfectly comfortable. The pillows are filled with the finest goose down.’

  Jacob yawned. He could barely keep his eyes open, yet he yearned to keep her talking. If there was a chink in her armour, he wanted to find it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘On reflection, I’ll accept your kind offer of hospitality. But I’m confused about so many things. Such as what happens tomorrow.’

  ‘You go back to work, what else?’

  ‘The Clarion will be in uproar,’ he said. ‘There’ll be absolute pandemonium the minute the news gets out. McAlinden dead, along with Elaine Dowd and a young policeman. For all I know, the editor will want me to cover the story. What do I do then?’