Sara gasped in astonishment as the housekeeper squealed: ‘Oh God! I begged her not to do this!’
Jacob called, ‘Wait here!’
He raced down the alleyway, but there was no need to run. There was nothing he could do. Inspector Oakes, the constable, and Trueman were gathered at the end of the passage. The chauffeur’s shovel-like hand covered his eyes. He was making a moaning noise, like a wounded animal.
‘Keep back!’ Oakes shouted.
Jacob glanced over his shoulder. Sara and Mrs Trueman were staring in horror. The housemaid with the disfigured cheek joined them, panting hard. She let out a frantic shriek.
‘No!’
A high brick wall separated the courtyard of Gaunt House from the public right of way. The wall was topped by black steel spikes as sharp as dagger blades.
‘Fetch a sheet,’ Trueman growled to the housemaid. ‘For pity’s sake, Martha, don’t look!’
Who in their right mind, Jacob thought, would want to look?
Impaled upon the spikes was the body of a woman in an ocelot coat. Her head was hanging down, as if her neck had snapped. The lustrous black hair was unmistakable. Before turning his head away, Jacob recognised the blank, staring eyes of Rachel Savernake.
Juliet Brentano’s Journal, 7 February 1919
It’s long after midnight, but I can’t sleep. So much has happened in such a short time. Our world has changed.
It began this afternoon. At last the causeway was passable again, and Harold Brown came back to Savernake Hall. I was talking to Henrietta in the kitchen when we heard him swaggering in.
‘Hide in the pantry!’ she hissed.
I scrambled out of sight just in time. I could tell from his lewd greeting that he was as drunk as a lord.
‘Cliff wants to see you,’ Henrietta said. ‘He’s better now. And he knows what you did to Martha.’
Brown swore furiously. ‘He was at death’s door…’
‘Well, it’s the girl who has died. Young Rachel.’
‘What?’
‘Good riddance, I say. Did she tell you to drug the Captain and Miss Yvette?’
‘For God’s sake!’ I heard him shriek. ‘Put that knife down!’
‘For two pins…’ she muttered.
‘I’m going, you won’t see me again.’ His speech was slurred and jerky. I could tell he was in no state to defend himself.
I jumped out of my hiding place. ‘Use the knife, Hetty. Make him suffer, like Martha suffered!’
He swore at me, but turned on his heel, and stumbled out of the kitchen.
‘Cliff!’ I called. ‘He’s escaping!’
But Cliff was still upstairs in bed. He wasn’t strong enough to seize his chance of revenge. And though I wanted to chase after Brown, and pummel him with my small fists, Henrietta held me back.
Later, she came to my room. Brown had left the island, she said, and she didn’t expect him to return. As for the Judge, he wanted to see me.
I refused, of course. Ever since Mother and I first came here, she made sure I kept my distance from him.
But Henrietta begged me. He was lucid for once, she said, but a broken man.
I was curious. What must be going through his diseased mind? In the end, I relented.
She led me to his study. He’d deserted his daughter’s bedside, and was sitting at his desk. When he looked up, his face was wrinkled with pain. He looked one hundred years old.
‘Rachel,’ he said. ‘How well you look, my dear. Off to bed, now? Goodnight, my sweet.’
With that, he turned back to consider the papers on his desk.
I was lost for words. Henrietta motioned me to leave with her. As soon as we were outside, she shut the door, and put a finger to her lips.
‘Come with me to the kitchen.’
Cliff was waiting for us there. He looked haggard, but mustered a wan smile, and asked if I’d seen the Judge.
‘His mind is wandering. He doesn’t seem to have taken it in about Rachel. He called me by her name.’
Henrietta and Cliff exchanged glances.
‘Why not humour him?’ Cliff asked. ‘What have you got to lose?’
31
‘I ought to file the story,’ Jacob said, half an hour later.
‘The Clarion can wait,’ Sara told him.
Two empty brandy glasses stood in front of them. He and Sara had taken refuge in a pub half a mile from Gaunt House. The cavernous snug was crammed with cheery Irishmen and decorated with chamber pots hanging from oak beams. Inspector Oakes hadn’t allowed Sara to look at the corpse, but her pallor testified to the shock of watching another woman die. She’d prescribed a cognac for each of them, and he hadn’t argued.
‘Rachel had everything to live for,’ he said, not for the first time. ‘Young and beautiful and fabulously rich. Why throw everything away on a whim?’
‘Was it a whim?’ Sara asked gently. ‘She invited you and Inspector Oakes to be her witnesses. It was like an actress’s finale, an unforgettable last performance.’
His head hurt as if he’d been coshed. ‘But why?’
‘Guilt, remorse, who knows?’
Not wanting to give too much away, he said carefully, ‘Her housekeeper once hinted to me that she had suicidal tendencies. I paid no attention at the time. But perhaps… Yet why would she feel guilty? She brought Linacre to justice, she…’
‘Oh, Jacob.’ Sara squeezed his cold hand. ‘Don’t you see? She inherited Judge Savernake’s madness. And not only that.’
He looked up sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘William spoke about her, that last night at the Inanity. He came down to the dressing room after having a conversation with her up in the private guests’ lounge. He was unusually subdued, and so I asked what was wrong. All he said was that her father – a man he admired, don’t forget – had scared him, and yet he found Rachel even more terrifying. Implacable, he said. Unforgiving. It made no sense to me, but now I wonder…’
‘Wonder what?’
She bit her lip. ‘If Rachel persuaded George Barnes to murder William.’
‘You can’t believe that!’
‘Why not?’ She crumpled up a beer mat. ‘Who paid for the car he drove into a tree?’
Jacob closed his eyes. ‘Would you like another brandy?’
One of the Irishmen at the bar launched into a song, tuneless and very loud. She gave a little shudder. ‘Remember what Levi Shoemaker told you. As a child, Rachel incited her father to have that man Brentano and his mistress killed. Suppose she set out to eliminate – one way or another – everyone who knew the truth? Not only Pardoe, but Linacre, the Hannaways – and William. Perhaps even your colleague, Betts. Suppose Harold Coleman tried to blackmail her. She could easily have arranged for his old associates to catch up with him. Levi Shoemaker himself…’
Appalled, he gazed into her sorrowful eyes. ‘How could she manage it all?’
‘With enough money, you can manage anything. I can’t guess the details, but I’m sure she chose her time with care. You see, today is the fiftieth anniversary of the Damnation Society’s foundation.’
‘What?’
‘The Judge founded the association on 29 January 1880, and William told me that each year its birthday is celebrated with a ghastly ceremony.’
‘A ceremony?’
‘A select group of members assemble at Gallows Court. William didn’t tell me the details, the celebrations were too depraved to bear description. He hinted that… each year, they would kill someone for their sport.’
Jacob felt his pulse racing. ‘Charles Brentano and Yvette Viviers died on 29 January, eleven years ago.’
‘The date tells us everything,’ Sara whispered. ‘Rachel Savernake offered them up to her father’s clique for sacrifice?’
‘She was only fourteen!’
‘She was her father’s daughter.’
‘So that is why she chose today to – end it all?’
‘I suppose she thoug
ht it somehow fitting.’
He let out a low groan. ‘Heaven only knows the truth.’
‘Frankly,’ Sara said, ‘we may never know the precise truth. Unless Oakes can bully her chauffeur into spilling the beans.’
Jacob thought back to the night of the murders at Benfleet, and felt his gorge rise. He was desperate for his part in the events at the bungalow to remain his secret. Although innocent of murder, he’d misled the police. Rachel was dead, but the Truemans were accomplished liars. Might he yet be at risk?
‘He doesn’t strike me as that sort of man.’
‘What sort of man is he?’ Her expression was unexpectedly fierce. ‘How can we ever be sure what sort of person we’re talking to? You’re a journalist, you must know people are never quite what they seem. Even if they don’t earn their living on the stage.’
*
He knew he ought to return to the office, and tell the sensational story of Rachel Savernake’s suicide, but he felt too weary and deflated to string a coherent paragraph together. At least for Sara, that morning had brought good news. The Widow Bianchi was back from Milan, and had offered her temporary refuge in the house she’d shared with Keary in Carey Street.
‘Is that what you want?’ he asked, as they stood on the street corner, waiting for a taxi.
‘Any port in a storm.’ She smiled. ‘It’s a very luxurious port. I count myself fortunate.’
‘You’re sure you’ll be safe?’
‘Don’t you see?’ she asked. ‘It’s over. The madness has been purged. Chiara Bianchi has always been generous to me. The Continentals are so civilised. It’s a big house. There’s even a self-contained flat.’
‘Lovely,’ he said, but his heart wasn’t in it. Rachel’s death had left him cold and empty.
‘It’s large enough for two,’ she said.
He stared at her. ‘Are you…?’
‘It’s an improper suggestion, forgive me.’ She permitted herself a glimmer of a smile. ‘I’m older than you, a woman with a past. You’re a clever young chap determined to make your own way in the world. Please forget I ever mentioned it.’
He caught hold of her hand, and only released his grip when the headlamps of a taxi cab sliced through the fog.
*
Sara rang the bell of the double-fronted Georgian house in Carey Street, and the door swung open. A tiny Chinese woman in a blue tunic bowed in greeting, and then stood aside to allow them to escape from the cold and the fog.
‘Good evening, ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Mei. This is my guest, Mr Flint. He will send for his things later. In the meantime, please show him into the sitting room.’ She turned to Jacob. ‘I need to make myself presentable. I won’t be five minutes. The Widow Bianchi will be here shortly. In the meantime, Mei will pour you a drink to warm you up again. I recommend the Vecchia Romagna.’
Mei ushered Jacob along the spacious hallway lined with framed paintings. To his untutored eye, they looked like Old Masters: Raphael, Bellini, Titian perhaps. Before he could peer closely, the little woman directed him into an opulent rectangular room with frescoes on the walls, velvet cushions scattered across a sumptuous settee, and an intricately patterned Persian rug covering the floor. The decoration had a flavour of Italian nobility. After filling a crystal tumbler with a generous measure, the little, bird-like woman left, closing the door behind him. Jacob settled back on the settee, savouring the drink’s tang. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself reclining in a Tuscan palazzo.
Rachel’s death was such a stunning blow, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to write about it. How far he’d travelled, and so fast. The callow reporter who had lurked outside Gaunt House on the evening of Pardoe’s death had grown up.
What did the future hold? Sara was utterly different from Rachel Savernake. She had a knack of conveying vulnerability, appealing to his protective instincts, yet there was no doubting her strength of mind. Even Rachel’s suicide, which had turned his bones to blancmange, had caused her amazement rather than paralysing horror. For all her candour, there were surely many dark tales about the Damnation Society she was yet to tell.
A brisk tapping roused him. The door at the far end of the room opened, and a woman stepped inside. Silky black hair reached down towards her tiny waist. Slung over her shoulders was a cape of almost transparent velvet, unbuttoned to reveal an evening gown of apple-green chiffon. Tall in her high heels, wearing white glacé gloves, and carrying a silk bag embroidered with coral and pearls in one hand and with a long cigarette holder in the other, she seemed to Jacob to epitomise Continental chic. She was followed into the room by a swarthy, muscular manservant.
‘Buonasera, Signor Flint.’
Jacob’s knowledge of the Italian language was almost as limited as his experience of conversing with smart and sophisticated ladies from Milan. Did they shake hands while wearing gloves? Having no idea of what constituted the done thing, he gave a stiff little bow.
‘Buonasera, Signora Bianchi.’
To his astonishment, the woman beamed and mimed applause. ‘Bravo! You are nearly as fluent as a native!’
She was teasing him, of course, but he found himself returning her smile.
‘You are very kind, Signora Bianchi.’
‘Think nothing of it, Jacob.’
He goggled. In an instant, her voice had changed. The smooth Italian pronunciation had given way to straightforward English, with the faintest inflection of cockney. He couldn’t be mistaken.
The Widow Bianchi was Sara Delamere.
Juliet Brentano’s Journal
30 June 1919
I can scarcely believe it, but still nobody is any the wiser.
We’ve been lucky, yes, but boldness has its rewards. Today came the sternest test, a visit from the Judge’s oldest friend. (Of course, I always refer to him as the Judge. To call him ‘Father’ would choke me.) The friend is his solicitor, old Gabriel Hannaway.
He was clearly shocked by the Judge’s appearance and behaviour. It’s barely a fortnight since the old tyrant threw himself down the stairs in his latest ham-fisted attempt to end it all, and fractured a rib. Most of the time, he’s heavily sedated. I asked Henrietta if it was wise to allow Hannaway to visit, but she said he’d become suspicious if she kept putting him off. Once he saw the state the Judge was in, he’d understand in future if he was told not to come. Probably he’d be relieved.
I was introduced to him, and though he is plainly unaccustomed to talking to a girl of fourteen, he mustered a few pleasantries about how much I’d grown since he’d last seen me, on the occasion of my mother’s funeral. Rachel’s mother, that is. I’m sure he did not think anything was amiss.
I hate to say it, but perhaps my physical resemblance to Rachel is closer than I thought. She was shorter than me, and plumper, because she was so idle, but at this age, a girl’s appearance changes rapidly. I’ve let my hair grow, tinted it under Henrietta’s guidance, and copied her style. I shall change it again before long. We had dark eyes and high cheekbones in common, and though her complexion was pastier, and her nose beaky, such details make little impression on people. On my rare forays into the village, everyone takes it for granted that I am who I’m supposed to be. I even overheard the seamstress telling her neighbour that I’ve lost my puppy fat. One incredulous woman muttered that I’m turning into quite the young lady.
The years of isolation have worked to our advantage. We’ve had little to do with the outside world, and it’s had little to do with us. I’m so grateful that my mother kept me safe from the Judge, in the days when he was capable of making a nuisance of himself. Despite her own lack of education, the way she encouraged me to read and study was her most precious gift. Of course, some books in the library aren’t suitable reading for a girl of my age, or perhaps any age. But I have learned a great deal. Henrietta says I’m old beyond my years.
How much does the Judge understand? Has he deceived himself so completely that he genuinely believes Rachel is a
live? Or is he pretending, well aware that the girl buried with scant ceremony as Juliet Brentano is in fact his own daughter? The funeral was excruciating, but thankfully the service was brief, and hardly anyone attended. When so many people have died of influenza, the death of a girl whom few people had met gave rise to little comment, from the senile village doctor, the doltish vicar, or anyone else in the parish.
For all the Judge’s professed devotion to Rachel, he had little to do with her, even after he returned from London to live out his days on Gaunt. She was just one more prized possession, like the rare first editions in his library.
Cliff convinced me that this course offered hope for all of us. If the Judge wished to treat me as his daughter, where was the harm in humouring him? It could hardly be worse than the alternative.
He was right. What would happen if the Judge was confined to an asylum doesn’t bear thinking about. As the illegitimate daughter of his nephew and a prostitute, I have no claim on him, or even to a roof over my head.
As Rachel Savernake, on the other hand, one day I might inherit a fortune.
32
‘Sara! Is it really you?’ Jacob’s voice was hoarse with shock.
Laughing, she pulled off her white gloves, and handed them to the manservant, together with the cigarette holder. ‘Yes, Jacob, you have penetrated my disguise. I’ve been living a double life. I found myself limited by the role of orphan made good. William was a fantasist, like so many of us in the theatre. He hankered for a beautiful foreign mistress, so I supplied the deficiency in his life. It suited me to inhabit a glamorous new personality. Sara had few inhibitions, but Chiara had none whatsoever.’
She shrugged off the cape, and the manservant folded it over his arm. ‘Do I puzzle you, Jacob?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he muttered.
She smiled. ‘The Widow Bianchi and Sara Delamere were never seen together, of course, but that surprised nobody. A mistress and her predecessor are seldom soulmates – although each of them separately seized any chance to mention how famously they got along together in private. Meat and drink to someone who loves acting. The noble art of deception, my dear Jacob.’
Gallows Court Page 29