They reached the entrance to Russell Square Tube station. He made as if to shake her hand, but she forestalled him by planting the lightest kiss on his cheek.
‘May I see you again?’
‘I’d love that,’ he said.
‘Please don’t try to find me. I expect I’ll move from one place to another. But I’ll be in touch soon. And thank you, for the most precious gift.’
In his confusion, he made a vague, embarrassed noise.
‘You’ve given me hope.’
She joined the crowd queuing for tickets. He was glad she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. He’d not betrayed any hint of the wild notion that had sprung into his mind.
Suppose Judge Savernake had presided over a group of decadents calling themselves the Damnation Society, who exploited children from the Oxford Orphans’ Home. Perhaps Rachel Savernake was determined to keep the Judge’s secret, and to remove anyone – Pardoe, Keary, and God knew who else – who stood in her way.
24
‘I warned you McAlinden’s boy was no good.’
Gabriel Hannaway’s wheeze made his words barely audible. He’d hobbled into the office after being told of McAlinden’s death. Considering his ailing father dispassionately, Vincent Hannaway wondered how many more times the old man would set foot in their chambers. Sir Eustace Leivers had confided recently over cocktails at the Gambit Club that he didn’t expect Gabriel Hannaway to see out another Christmas.
‘It was a chance worth taking.’
‘The last client who said that to me was hanged,’ Gabriel Hannaway said. ‘Not even Lionel Savernake’s advocacy could save him.’
Vincent groaned inwardly. That must have been more than twenty years ago. The old man was living in the past. What mattered in life was what happened next.
‘I don’t believe for a moment that McAlinden shot himself after finishing Thurlow and the girl. That would only make sense if he was a jealous lover. An absurd notion.’
‘What if the other journalist – what’s his name, Flint? – decided against going to Benfleet?’
‘Why would he? He’s a nosey parker, that’s his job. Thurlow had already fed him enough juicy titbits to make the invitation irresistible.’
‘Very well, suppose he was prevented from making the journey. If McAlinden panicked…’
‘He would have sought further instructions. No, it won’t do, Father. His supposed suicide is a fake.’
‘What about our friend at Scotland Yard? Does he share your view?’
Vincent nodded. ‘I spoke to him less than an hour ago. The whole business has left him thunderstruck. As if things weren’t bad enough, the officer who broke the news to Patience Dowd reported she was having a fit of hysterics. Now he’s wondering if she needs to be put out of her misery. He’s very jumpy all of a sudden. He was nervous about sacrificing Thurlow, and suddenly it seems the fellow’s death, and the girl’s, were in vain.’
‘That pair outlived their usefulness. As for the mother, she has nothing left to live for in any event.’
‘Except the gin bottle.’
‘Much good may it do her.’ The old man dismissed Mrs Dowd with a flap of a claw. ‘Perhaps Flint had the wit to take McAlinden by surprise, and do the deed.’
‘Snaring McAlinden in his own trap?’ Vincent snorted. ‘He doesn’t have the mettle. No, something happened last night that was truly exceptional.’
‘Novus actus interveniens?’ The old man coughed noisily. ‘If you want my opinion, someone took Flint’s place.’
‘Possibly.’
Rheumy eyes considered the younger man. ‘When you take that tone with me, my boy, I know you beg to differ. What is your explanation of this wretched state of affairs?’
Vincent stabbed his blotter with his pen nib. ‘McAlinden was killed by someone strong enough to subdue him, ruthless enough to shoot him at point-blank range, and subtle enough to make a good fist of creating the appearance of suicide.’
‘Well?’
‘There is one credible candidate.’
‘Rachel Savernake’s man?’
The pen nib was broken. With a furious sweep of the hand, Vincent knocked it off the desk.
‘Who else?’
‘I told you she’d make trouble. I never met anyone with such a vicious temper as her father. She’s cut from the same cloth.’
‘Perfect qualifications for a prospective daughter-in-law.’ Vincent’s habitually sardonic tone was edged with bitterness.
‘She’s blessed with more character than the grasping harlots you fool around with. Easy on the eye, too. Good cheekbones and a damned neat figure. She reminds me of someone…’
‘The late Celia Savernake, presumably,’ Vincent muttered.
‘No, no, not her mother.’ The old man shook his head. ‘It’s gone. My memory isn’t quite what it was.’
Not just your memory, Vincent thought savagely. Containing his temper with an effort of will, he said, ‘We’re none of us getting any younger.’
‘Which is why I want to see you settled before I go, my boy.’
‘I shall never marry Rachel Savernake, Father.’
‘More fool you. Your decision, of course. And I know of one other woman worthy of your affections. Someone of independent means who is no longer romantically attached.’
‘The fragrant Widow Bianchi?’ Vincent sneered. ‘At the moment, my priority is clearing up this rotten mess. Ever since Rachel Savernake came to London, we have suffered one disaster after another. Linacre, Pardoe, Keary, now McAlinden.’
‘Where will it end?’ the old man asked dreamily.
Vincent banged his fist on the desk. ‘I’ll tell you exactly where it will end. Forget all that nonsense about wedding bells. It will end with Rachel Savernake lying cold in her grave.’
*
‘You didn’t ask Flint to question the girl’s mother,’ Trueman said.
Rachel buttered herself a crumpet. She and the Truemans were taking tea in the drawing room. ‘Why waste his time? Mrs Dowd wouldn’t tell him anything, for the very good reason that she knew next to nothing.’
‘Edgar Dowd was the Judge’s accountant.’
‘He was never a confidant, like Gabriel Hannaway. Although his widow was bailed out of Queer Street by his old friends in return for the occasional service, it was her daughter who became valuable.’
Mrs Trueman poured herself another cup. ‘What about Thurlow’s wife? Would he have talked to her?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘When he was misbehaving with Elaine Dowd? I doubt it.’
‘What do you propose we do now?’ Trueman demanded.
‘A visit to Scotland Yard is called for,’ Rachel said. ‘But first, another crumpet?’
*
‘Thank you for sparing the time to see me,’ Inspector Oakes said, after a cheerful nippy had served their tea. ‘Especially on such a busy day for you.’
He and Jacob were having a reunion at the Lyons Corner House on the Strand, taking tea again in the mirrored restaurant. On arriving back at Clarion House, Jacob had been told that Oakes had telephoned. When he returned the call, the detective had asked to meet, the sooner the better.
‘Ironic, eh?’ Jacob’s smile was wan. ‘My first full day as chief crime correspondent, and I’m not even writing up last night’s events. It would have been challenge enough, given McAlinden’s involvement, but since Elaine was one of his victims, I’m too close to the story.’
‘I am sorry for your loss.’
Oakes’ tone was stiff and formal, the relaxed intimacy of their early conversations a fast-fading memory. He was chain-smoking, and his eyes were bleary, as though he’d managed even less sleep than Jacob. His shirt hadn’t been ironed with quite the customary rigour, and even his tie looked as if he’d tried to knot it one-handed. What was keeping him awake at night?
‘Thank you.’ Jacob stirred his tea rather longer than was necessary. He needed to be careful, but he must say something. ‘Elaine was…
good company.’
As an epitaph, it was scarcely lyrical, yet his words were heartfelt. He’d enjoyed spending time with her, and he had a lingering recollection of the warmth of her body, pressing against his. If Rachel Savernake was to be believed, Elaine had manipulated his affections. Yet somehow he couldn’t bring himself to despise her duplicity. Whatever she’d done wrong, she hadn’t deserved that squalid end in the silent bungalow.
‘Were you very close?’
‘Just good friends. Her mother seemed to think I was suitable husband material, but I never contemplated asking Elaine to marry me, and I’m sure she was only interested in having a good time.’
‘Especially since she’d involved herself with someone else,’ Oakes said. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘I was vaguely aware another man had been lurking in the background, and I wondered if he was already married, but she never spoke about him, and I never asked.’
‘Odd. I’d put you down as insatiably curious.’
‘Some things it’s better not to know. I was content to assume the affair had died a natural death.’
Oakes winced, and Jacob blushed. For a professional wordsmith, he scolded himself, his choice of phrase could be astonishingly crass.
‘So you had no idea the man in question was DC Thurlow?’
‘When I was told that’ – Jacob caught himself before falling into a trap – ‘earlier today, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I still can’t take it in. Stanley, of all people.’
‘Small world,’ Oakes lit another cigarette. ‘You knew both victims, and also their killer.’
‘Yes.’ Jacob felt he was tiptoeing around quicksand. ‘It’s not just a tragedy, it’s an appalling shock. Forgive me if I seem distracted. I still haven’t had a chance to absorb the news fully.’
‘How well did you know McAlinden?’
‘Not very,’ Jacob said hastily.
‘Did you think he was a pansy?’ Oakes demanded.
‘I didn’t care. It was none of my business.’ Jacob couldn’t resist a retaliatory shot. ‘His manner seemed peculiar at times, but I put that down to his public-school education.’
Oakes glowered. ‘As it happens, he’d been arrested twice in compromising circumstances, but his father pulled strings, and he was never charged.’
A sour note in the detective’s voice made Jacob look up. ‘But he’d been carrying on with Elaine?’
‘Or at least carrying a torch for her, yes. So it would seem.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘My opinions don’t matter. I’m here to find out what light you can shed on the tragedy.’
‘I’ve already given a statement to one of your men. Fellow called Dobing, face like a…’
‘Old Dobbin? Yes, I’ve read what you told him.’ Oakes leaned back in his chair. ‘I wondered if there was anything you might like to add. On reflection, as it were.’
Jacob opted for attack as the best form of defence. ‘Only to express my astonishment about Thurlow. I don’t know how good a policeman he was, but I liked him. We’d had a drink together once or twice, as you may know.’
‘Yes,’ Oakes said. ‘I did know.’
‘I’d no idea he was mixed up with Elaine. Naive of me, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he sought out your company,’ Oakes said harshly. ‘To laugh at you behind your back.’
‘Was the affair common knowledge at the Yard?’
Oakes’ frown gave Jacob a jolt of satisfaction. Weary and bewildered he might be, but he’d landed a blow.
‘Far from it. He took great pains to keep his… activities secret, and with good reason. He’d have been chucked out on his ear if we’d got wind of them.’
‘He must have been well-regarded,’ Jacob said. ‘Otherwise he’d never have been offered promotion.’
‘Promotion?’ Oakes glared. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He told me he was going to be made a sergeant. To be honest, I’d not realised you held him in such high esteem.’
‘As far as I was concerned,’ Oakes said stiffly, ‘Stanley Thurlow was a country mile away from promotion. You must have misunderstood.’
‘Certainly not. He was very definite. And suitably jubilant.’
‘When did he tell you this?’
Jacob knew he must tread with care. ‘Only yesterday. The very last time we spoke. He rang me up to break the news, and I mentioned my own elevation. We agreed to get together for a joint celebration.’
‘Which never took place?’
‘And now, of course, it never will.’ Jacob indulged in a lavish sigh. ‘Strange that you say he wasn’t earmarked for promotion. Stan may not have been a varsity man, but he’d never have got the wrong end of the stick about something like that. You don’t think…?’
‘I don’t think what?’
‘I hate to raise this,’ Jacob said, with insincerity worthy of a grizzled Fleet Street veteran, ‘but is it possible that he had… a hold over someone in authority at Scotland Yard?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ A furious colour had risen in Oakes’ cheeks. Never before had Jacob seen him provoked to anger. ‘Corrupt friends in high places?’
‘Forgive me,’ Jacob said. ‘Far be it from me to suggest anything at all.’
They looked each other in the eye, both acutely conscious of derisive words hanging unspoken in the air between them.
If the cap fits…
*
Walking back to Clarion House, Jacob couldn’t help congratulating himself. If Oakes’ aim had been to trap him into some kind of admission, the conversation had not gone to plan. Jacob was confident he’d given as good as he’d got.
His shot about Scotland Yard had certainly hit home. Might Oakes’ jumpiness be due to the fact that he’d come to a similar conclusion? If so, did Oakes have a suspect in mind?
Passing the newsroom’s open door, he spotted Poyser in conference with the foreman-printer. Pop-Eye raised a hand in greeting.
‘George, has anyone interviewed Mrs Dowd?’
Poyser nodded. ‘Did it myself. I’m not sure it’s dawned on her yet that she’ll never see her daughter again. The gin bottle’s offering her comfort for the time being. Don’t blame you for not rushing back there.’
Heart sinking, Jacob plodded back to his room. Rather than dwell on how to comfort a woman who had lost her only child, he turned his mind back to the possibility of corruption at Scotland Yard. Oakes’ shock about Thurlow’s claim of imminent promotion sounded convincing. The only explanation that made sense was that Thurlow was being repaid by someone senior enough to pull the right strings.
An image sprang to his mind of the Inanity before the lights dimmed and the show began. He’d glimpsed Sir Godfrey Mulhearn in a box opposite Rachel’s. Tom Betts had mocked Mulhearn’s incompetence at the time the Clarion was hounding the Yard after Dolly Benson’s murder. To Betts, Mulhearn typified what was wrong with the police hierarchy; he was a military man with a minimal grasp of the realities of detective work. During the war, he’d been a member of the band of donkeys that had led so many brave lions (including Jacob’s father, blown to bits in France) to the slaughter.
But warfare was one thing, killing in cold blood was quite another. Wasn’t it?
*
He was still debating the question when his door creaked open, and Toseland, alias Trithemius, rolled in. The unaccustomed brightness of his porcine eyes indicated that he was in a state of excitement.
‘Cracked it!’ He was panting. ‘As a matter of fact, the cipher is damnably simple. As soon as I put my thinking cap on, it began to make sense, but I had to do a fair bit of research to paint in the details.’
‘I’m grateful. What does it mean?’
‘It’s a note about the deaths of two people.’
‘Two? Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ Toseland tapped the side of his nose. ‘Trust Trithemius.’
‘With my life,’ Jacob sa
id extravagantly.
‘Steady on, old boy. Let’s not get carried away, specially after what happened to old McAlinden. Bad business, eh?’
‘Shocking,’ Jacob agreed. ‘Now – the cipher?’
‘Your mention of Gallows Court made me curious, so I nipped round there this afternoon.’
‘You did?’ Jacob couldn’t picture Toseland nipping anywhere. ‘And what did you find?’
‘There’s a place called Gaunt Chambers, and a board next to the door indicates that it’s home to something called the Gambit Club. So we can account for the first six letters of the cipher. Three identical pairs of initials have simply been reversed.’
Jacob nodded. So far, so good.
‘If we read the message backwards, that gives us R.I.P., and the date 29 January 1919.’
‘Yes, I rather thought so.’
‘In that case,’ Toseland said with mock severity, ‘you could have saved me a job by going to Somerset House yourself, rather than leaving all the donkey work to yours truly.’
‘Sorry. You’re right, of course.’
‘I looked up everyone who died on that date. Took a while, but two names fitted the bill. Charles Brentano and Yvette Viviers.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘The place of death given in both cases was Lincoln’s Inn, so there must be a connection, and the cipher must refer to them.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s the only conceivable interpretation. But as to who they are…’
‘I drew a blank with the woman. French, by the sound of her. But Brentano merited an obituary in The Times.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, came from a wealthy family. Eton and Oxford, and all that malarkey, but he didn’t do anything noteworthy until war broke out. He won the DSO and was awarded the Croix de Guerre. Quite a hero, but he paid the price by being blown up in a German shelling attack. He spent the last months of the war being patched up in a military hospital.’
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