Gallows Court

by Martin Edwards

  ‘I’d tell you if I knew.’

  Cowardice or common sense? He was struggling for breath. Fear was suffocating him.

  ‘One last time. What’s her address?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue!’

  The man punched him in the ribs. ‘Do I have to break every bone in your skinny body?’

  ‘She didn’t trust me enough to say.’

  He coughed out the words. The blows had hurt him badly. What about internal bleeding? Was he going to die here, less than twenty-four hours after Patience Dowd?

  The man gave him a long, hard stare before giving a brisk nod. ‘Who would trust a weakling like you?’

  Jacob cringed. He burned with humiliation, but was long past caring about his dignity. Everything in his life boiled down to this: he desperately wanted to survive.

  ‘You’re a marked man,’ his assailant said. ‘The minute you find out where she is, put an advertisement in the Clarion’s personal column. Your first name, followed by the address. Do it at once. Understand?’

  Jacob made a gurgling noise. He hoped the man would take it for assent.

  ‘Make sure you do. No delaying. Or next time, I’ll break that scrawny neck of yours in two.’

  The man turned on his heel, and was gone. Jacob sank to the floor. The blood had run onto his hand, and it seeped onto the floral carpet, darkening the pink pattern of a rose. But he didn’t care. He was alive. For the moment, nothing else mattered.

  27

  ‘Picked on someone bigger than yourself, lad?’ Gomersall demanded after the next morning’s editorial meeting.

  Jacob mustered a thin smile. ‘Argument with a door, sir. The door won.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘It looks worse than it feels.’

  ‘Thank heaven for that.’

  Jacob winced. Studying the cut and bruising on his face in the shaving mirror that morning, he’d persuaded himself that he’d escaped lightly from his encounter with the thug and his knuckledusters. Once he’d calmed down after the intruder’s departure, he’d decided he was lucky to be alive, and resolved to make the most of it. He stayed overnight in his room at Amwell Street, but after the physical and emotional pummelling of the past few days, he’d been early to bed, sleeping fitfully until his alarm clock rang. Nobody was keeping watch on Edgar House, so far as he could tell, although it occurred to him that someone skilled in the craft of surveillance might also be skilled in avoiding detection.

  Gomersall, who didn’t have a credulous bone in his body, gave him an old-fashioned look.

  ‘You worry me, lad. Fighting doors is all fine and dandy, but remember what happened to Tom Betts. Let alone that young devil McAlinden. These are dangerous times for Clarion journalists. Given your habit of finding yourself cheek-by-jowl with violent death, there’s not a life company in the land that would treat you as a good risk.’

  Jacob opted for contrition rather than bluster. ‘Sorry, sir. I’m learning that you need eyes in the back of your head in this job. But I won’t let you down.’

  Gomersall clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Not saying you will, lad. But things come in threes. I don’t want to find myself mourning by your graveside. Not in winter, anyhow. I don’t care for funerals, and I loathe them even more when it’s this bitter.’

  *

  Gomersall was right about the weather. The temperature had tumbled overnight, and Jacob had trudged to Fleet Street through a shower of sleet. As he returned from the editor’s sanctum to Tom Betts’ office – no, his office, he must look ahead, not back – he told himself to make up his mind. Last night, he’d agonised over whether to adopt Baldwin’s philosophy of safety first.

  The trouble was, that slogan had lost Baldwin the last election, and wrecked his career. A crime reporter needed to take risks, even if putting his life in jeopardy on a daily basis was taking devotion to duty too far. Jacob couldn’t bear the prospect of simply giving up on his investigation into Rachel Savernake. It hurt more than the damage to his face. He owed it to Tom to do a Harry Lauder and keep right on to the end of the road. To do otherwise would betray not just Tom, but also Sara Delamere.

  Would Sara keep her promise to contact him again? He hoped so, though he wasn’t quite sure whether that was due to curiosity or desire. If she did get in touch, they’d need to take every precaution. Was it better to concoct an advertisement with fictitious information, or simply do nothing? Each time he remembered that ruffian’s determination to discover her whereabouts, he couldn’t help shivering. Whoever had hired him either wanted to find out something Sara knew, or to silence her because she knew too much.

  Jacob chewed his lip. Rachel Savernake’s man had saved him at Benfleet. He didn’t want to believe her motives were impure. And Sara wanted to make sure Rachel knew about Pardoe’s threats. Surely Rachel had no reason to wish her ill?

  And yet. There was something wild and unpredictable about Rachel. The calm way she’d watched William Keary burn to death, and the confidence with which she’d blackmailed him to keep quiet about Benfleet, frightened him. Trueman had killed McAlinden – thank God! – and she didn’t bat an eyelid. He’d never known a woman so self-possessed. It wasn’t natural.

  A black telephone sat quietly on his desk. His hand strayed towards it. The itch to call Gaunt House, and ask to speak to Rachel needed to be scratched. But she’d made it clear that she was the one who’d decide if and when they spoke again, and he put his hand back in his pocket. He dared not defy her.

  What about ringing Scotland Yard? Inspector Oakes might be willing to spare him half an hour, even if he remained tight-lipped about exactly what had led to Chadwick’s arrest.

  The telephone shrilled, and Jacob jumped. Had the in­spector read his mind?

  He picked up the receiver, and he heard Peggy’s distinctive noisy sniff.

  ‘Lady for you.’

  His heart pounded. Sara or Rachel, which of them wanted to speak to him?

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Calls herself Mrs Wenna Tilson.’ He visualised Peggy pulling a face. ‘Funny accent.’

  Sara, he thought, it must be Sara, pretending to be someone else because she was so afraid.

  ‘Put her through.’

  ‘Mr Flint?’

  The voice was unfamiliar. An older woman, whose burr suggested the deep south west of England.

  ‘Sara,’ he whispered, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Flint. Didn’t the girl tell you? My name is Tilson. Mrs Wenna Tilson from Sancreed.’

  He blinked. ‘Sancreed? Never heard of it.’

  ‘Sancreed in Cornwall. I was given your name by a very good friend of mine.’ A tremulous note entered her voice. ‘He told me to call you. Said it was important.’

  ‘Who is your friend, Mrs Tilson?’

  He heard the woman gulp. She sounded as though she might burst into tears. ‘He died last week.’

  Jacob racked his brains. The roll call of the recently deceased was alarmingly long. ‘What was he called?’

  He could almost picture the woman at the other end of the line squeezing the telephone in her hand. She sounded as if she was making a supreme effort of will. Unless she was as good an actress as Sara, this conversation was proving very hard for her.

  ‘His name was Mr Leviticus Shoemaker.’

  *

  For once Jacob was speechless. The clutter surrounding him matched the confused jumble in his mind.

  ‘Are you still there, Mr Flint?’ The woman sounded timid, as if she’d committed an appalling faux pas.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I wasn’t expecting this call.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You must think it dreadfully rude of me, ringing you like this, out of the blue. I’m sure you’re a busy man, with more important things to do than speak to a nobody like me.’

  ‘Please, don’t apologise,’ he gabbled, afraid she’d hang up. ‘I’m glad to hear from you.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t bother you if Levi ha
dn’t insisted.’

  ‘Any friend of Levi’s,’ he said expansively, ‘is a friend of mine.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say, sir.’

  ‘My name’s Jacob, and I’m very glad to hear from you. Was there anything in particular you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘It’s about the dictating machine,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘The last time he was here, he dictated a statement. He wanted you to be the first to hear it.’

  *

  Rachel was drinking coffee with the Truemans and Martha. The housemaid had switched on the wireless, and Jack Hylton and his orchestra were playing ‘The Best Things in Life are Free’. Spread out on one occasional table was a hand-drawn floor plan of a large house; folded on another was a map of London.

  ‘Wednesday is creeping nearer,’ she said. ‘Soon it will be over.’

  Martha was humming along with the music. ‘I can’t believe we’ve come so far.’

  ‘I kept my promise,’ Rachel said. ‘Now, are our young friends ready for what they have to do?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Martha’s voice rose; she was struggling to suppress excitement. ‘They’re fully prepared.’

  ‘No qualms, no second thoughts?’

  ‘We chose them carefully.’ Martha tasted her coffee. ‘They won’t buckle, you can trust me.’

  ‘I trust you with my life,’ Rachel said softly.

  Trueman said, ‘I’ll collect the revolvers this afternoon. Different gunsmith, of course, but he has a good name for keeping his mouth shut.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Rachel turned to the housekeeper. ‘And you’ve paid a visit to the chemist?’

  ‘First thing this morning, while you were pounding away on the treadmill,’ Mrs Trueman said. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’

  ‘You know I like to keep fit. Ready for every eventuality.’ Rachel smiled. ‘You have enough to do what’s necessary?’

  ‘More than enough,’ the older woman said. ‘I just won­- dered…’

  Rachel’s groan was theatrical. ‘You’re always just wond­ering. If you’re worried that Oakes is still a threat, let me set your mind at rest. After the Chadwick business, he’s eating out of my hand.’

  ‘But what about Jacob Flint? He might ruin everything.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Rachel consulted her watch. ‘Soon he’ll be on his way to Cornwall.’

  *

  In halting sentences, Wenna Tilson told Jacob her story. She’d been governess to the children of a Penzance landowner, prior to marrying a man fifteen years her senior, who owned a grocery shop in the town. Five years ago, her husband had died, and in the summer of 1928, Levi Shoemaker had come to Cornwall for a week’s holiday by the sea. The pair had struck up a conversation in Morrab Gardens, while listening to the band play selections from Romberg and Lehar. Their friendship soon ripened, and Shoemaker became a regular visitor. He talked about retiring, and purchased a house in Provence as well as funding the cost of renovating Wenna’s own cottage in the Cornish countryside. There was, she said, an understanding between them. Levi wasn’t getting any younger, and she thought he was ready to leave London and share the rest of his life with her. They would divide their time between Cornwall and France.

  Lately, he’d been working long hours, and though he never discussed his cases, she could see that the investigation he was pursuing was causing him a good deal of worry. On a hastily arranged visit to Cornwall, a few days before his death, he’d brought a Dictaphone, and spent an afternoon locked in his study. Afterwards he said that he’d prepared a statement ‘in case anything happens to me’. Distressed, she’d begged him to give up his job, and he’d said he expected to do so shortly. If the balloon went up, he might need to cross the Channel in haste, and hide away in Provence. If so, he’d send word when it was safe for her to join him there.

  On Wednesday, Levi had telephoned. He was in a tearing hurry, and made her swear to tell Jacob about the dictated statement if for any reason he wasn’t able to do so. It was clear that he’d rung her moments after Jacob had shinned down the fire ladder, and probably just before he lost his life. After barely a couple of minutes, the call was interrupted when Levi heard someone hammering on his door downstairs.

  The next thing Wenna Tilson heard was that the man she loved was dead. A telegram from Levi’s lawyer broke the news. Grief had overwhelmed her. But she needed to honour Levi’s last wish.

  ‘Will you come here, Mr Flint?’ she asked. ‘That is what he wanted.’

  ‘Where is your cottage?’

  ‘Sancreed is a hamlet a few miles west of Penzance. The middle of nowhere, Levi used to say. He loved the seclusion. So very different from the hustle and bustle of London. Or at least so I believe. I’ve never travelled further than Torquay myself.’

  Geography wasn’t Jacob’s strong suit, but Sancreed sounded remote. Not only that, his experience of visits to rural hideaways was deeply discouraging. He recalled the headline in that rotten rag, the Witness.

  Benfleet Bungalow Bloodbath!

  ‘Will you come here, Mr Flint? I’m sure you’re a busy man, but Levi wouldn’t have insisted if it wasn’t important.’

  Would he be walking into another trap? He gazed around the room, searching for inspiration. The ghost of Tom Betts whispered in his ear: ‘When in doubt, flannel.’

  Jacob cleared his throat. ‘Once again, Mrs Tilson, please accept my condolences on your sad loss. I only met Mr Shoemaker once, but his reputation was second to none. I’m so grateful that you’ve called.’

  He paused, making it up as he went along. ‘My diary is crammed to overflowing, but I’d like to visit Sancreed. Let me call you back later today to make arrangements.’

  ‘That’s ever so kind of you, Mr Flint.’ She sounded genuine enough, but so had Stan Thurlow. To say nothing of Elaine and her mother. ‘You have my number. I’m not going out again today. It’s perishing cold down here.’

  After he’d rung off, he set about checking Wenna Tilson’s bona fides. With the help of an obliging soul at the Cornishman, he tracked down a five-year-old announcement of the funeral of her husband, described as a grocery merchant and supplier of comestibles. But it wasn’t impossible that his caller had been hired to impersonate the woman. Sanctuary Cottage sounded idyllic – he pictured a thatched roof, and red roses circling around a brightly painted front door – but might it belong to Pardoe Properties? He begged Poyser to make enquiries of a source at the majestic building housing the Land Registry just around the corner in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ Pop-Eye said. ‘Those new property rules don’t apply to folk who buy houses in Cornwall. I suppose you could go down to Truro to try and find out.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Jacob said wearily. ‘It was a very long shot.’

  If only he’d asked for the name of Levi’s solicitor so that he could try to check the facts. But lawyers were notoriously unwilling to discuss their clients’ affairs, let alone give helpful titbits to journalists. In the end, he decided to trust to instinct. He called Wenna Tilson back, and told her that he’d catch the sleeper train. As he put the telephone down, he asked himself if he’d made a fatal blunder.

  *

  Jacob had never before travelled by sleeper, and the journey on the Great Western Railway proved surprisingly enjoyable. The train was nowhere near full to capacity, and his overnight rest was undisturbed. He went back to Edgar House to pack a light bag, and slipped away by the fire escape, just in case anyone was keeping watch, before hailing a taxi in Farringdon Road to take him to Paddington. As far as he could tell, nobody followed him.

  He’d arranged to call on Wenna Tilson at ten o’clock, and he occupied himself by breakfasting in a small cafe, one of the few that remained open during the winter season. Through a misty window, he watched the boats sailing in and out of the harbour, and could see the distant horizon where a slate-grey sea met the charcoal sky.

  Soon he was
exchanging banter with a cheerful waitress twice his age whose laugh was as loud as her bosom was formidable. Eyeing his damaged face with undisguised curiosity, she wanted to know what brought a young fellow with a Yorkshire accent so far from the Ridings. When he said he hoped to catch up with two old friends, Levi Shoemaker and Wenna Tilson, he was instantly rewarded by a shocked gasp.

  ‘You’ve not heard the news, then?’

  ‘News?’ He was wide-eyed. Just as well he hadn’t made the mistake of admitting he was a journalist.

  ‘Oh dear, it’s ever so sad. I was at school with Wenna’s brother. Lovely lady, very popular in the town. Life can be so cruel. First she lost her husband to a heart attack, and now her gentleman friend has died. Drowned, of all things – his body was found in the Thames. Can you imagine anything more awful?’

  Jacob gathered that only a censored and distorted version of the story of Levi’s death had reached Penzance. The prevailing wisdom was that he must have had too much to drink one night, and fallen into the river. It was out of character, but how else could people explain his death? Nobody had a clue about the torture. Digesting his last slice of pork sausage, he congratulated himself. This time his instinct had not betrayed him. Wenna Tilson was telling the truth.

  The waitress advised him where to find a taxi, and waved as he left the cafeteria. The journey to Sancreed took him along lonely, twisty country lanes that made even rural Yorkshire seem metropolitan. On the way, the driver told him about the ancient holy well and the legends surrounding it. Nowhere, Jacob thought, could be more different from Whitechapel, with its grime, its excitement, and its danger.

  They pulled up outside a whitewashed stone building in its own grounds. There were no roses, and no thatch, but the lawn was well-kept, and the village church was visible through the trees. A smartly painted sign bore the name Sanctuary Cottage. So this was Levi Shoemaker’s home from home. Anywhere less like his seedy office would be hard to imagine. The curtains were drawn at every window as a mark of respect.