Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  To this day, the authorities had never identified the corpse. The dead man was presumed to be a passing tramp whom Danskin had picked up on the pretext of offering a lift, before bludgeoning him to death, and then dressing him in his second-best suit, his coat, and his trilby. According to the Crown’s scientific expert, the fire was no act of God. Someone had deliberately set the car alight.

  Danskin’s private affairs were in disarray. The cost of maintaining an estranged wife and mistresses scattered around the country was crippling. He had a compelling motive to fake his own death by killing the tramp and pretending the corpse was his. The crime gave him the chance to break free of his responsibilities, and start a new life on the Continent, while his supposed widow benefited from the life insurance he’d taken out six months earlier.

  He claimed that a tramp had stolen his car and possessions, but this seemed like an inept fabrication. The police had made strenuous efforts to trace the mysterious limousine in which he claimed to have hitched a lift from north-west England to London, or its driver. The case had been widely publicised in the press and on the wireless, but no one had come forward. If the Good Samaritan existed, where was he?

  “Thank you, Miss Brown,” Sir Edgar said after testing the judge’s patience as far as he dared. “Please remain where you are. My learned friend may wish to cross-examine you.”

  Minnie Brown trembled as Percival Lang KC rose slowly to his feet. Squat and sleepy-eyed, counsel for the defence never did anything in a hurry. His ponderous movements contrasted with his opponent’s energy. Certainly there was no sign that he was capable of taking a sledgehammer to the case that Jackson had built.

  “I have no questions for this witness, m’lud.”

  Next to Jacob, Haydn Williams scratched on his pad: Hope abandoned: official.

  “Very well,” Mr Justice Cairney said. “Sir Edgar?”

  Learned counsel for the Crown jumped up, and treated the jury to a smirk of satisfaction. “That concludes the case for the prosecution, my lord.”

  The judge announced that it would be convenient to adjourn for luncheon, and the journalists scrambled to their feet. Two warders escorted the prisoner from the dock. Clive Danskin walked briskly, as if eager to tuck in to lunch. If he felt the noose tightening around his throat, he gave no sign of it. His sangfroid was remarkable. He looked as if for two pins, he’d whistle a happy tune.

  *

  “Nothing beats a good murder, my boy,” Haydn Williams assured Jacob in the press room. They’d telephoned their offices with an update on the morning’s developments, but there was no cause to hold the front page. The fireworks would come this afternoon, if Clive Danskin dared to take the stand.

  Haydn was the doyen of Fleet Street’s crime correspondents, and his cynicism was as devout as the Presbyterian faith of his forebears in Merionethshire. He boasted that he’d seen all the great murderers in the dock, from that wretched pair Crippen and Le Neve to George Joseph Smith, the Brides in the Bath killer, and those poisonous lawyers Armstrong and Greenwood. If some wet-behind-the-ears newcomer to the press gallery fell into the trap, pointing out that Ethel Le Neve had been acquitted, and so had Harold Greenwood, Haydn would tap the side of his nose in a knowing manner before roaring with laughter at the tyro’s naïveté.

  “You’re sure that Sir Edgar has proved it was murder?” Jacob kept a straight face as he pointed to the black huddle of lawyers in the well of the court. “Danskin’s counsel did his utmost to drill a hole in the engineer’s expert evidence.”

  Haydn snorted. His trial reports were lurid confections of sex, scandal, and sensation. The wags among his rival journalists reckoned that if he turned his hand to fiction, he’d outsell Sapper and Sax Rohmer combined. For Haydn, what mattered was atmosphere. The smell of fear as a prisoner collapsed and sobbed for mercy, the deafening cheers as a jury set an accused woman free. Facts were an optional seasoning, a garnish reserved for cases where truth proved stranger than fiction, or as a last resort to deter a claim of libel.

  “Desperation, my boy, pure desperation.”

  Haydn pushed a hand through his shock of white hair. Fifty-five years old, he could pass for seventy. The lines of his face were as deep as trenches, his eyes were bleary, and his paunch meant nobody could squeeze past him on the press bench. His clothing smelled of mothballs and stale beer. Jacob had seldom seen him drunk, and never completely sober.

  “Faced with such an overwhelming case for the Crown, what jury could hesitate? They’ll not need half an hour. Crippen was condemned within twenty minutes, did I ever tell you that tale? This business is done and dusted. A saint would be condemned to swing on what we’ve heard. Mark my words, Danskin will be six feet under in an unmarked grave before the summer’s over.”

  Jacob felt nauseous. “The whole case is circumstantial.”

  “What more do you want?” Haydn’s tufted eyebrows wiggled in mock astonishment. “A photograph of Danskin standing over the car with a lit match in his grubby paw? Really, boy, the only innocent round here is you.”

  Jacob had been promoted less than six months ago, following his predecessor’s untimely death. Haydn maintained to all and sundry that he’d taken the lad under his wing and taught him everything he knew. Jacob enjoyed his tall tales and his company, but couldn’t help wondering if the older man’s jeering betrayed a pang of jealousy. Not of his job, but of his youth.

  “Danskin is an unsavoury rascal,” Jacob said. “He uses his charm to exploit the needy and naive. He’s a liar and a cheat, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “For a bright young spark, you can be as obstinate as a donkey. Old Edgar has shown he had means and opportunity. He’s even gone to great pains to establish motive, though the jury could convict without it. What more can twelve good men and true dream of?”

  Haydn’s declamatory style was worthy of an old ham at the Hippodrome. Perhaps he was a barrister manqué. Stick a wig and gown on him, and the illusion would be complete.

  “If the question is whether a man lives or dies,” Jacob said, “shouldn’t we give him the benefit of any doubt?”

  “Never took you for a bleeding heart, boy. Next thing, you’ll be telling me you don’t believe in the noose.”

  “I’m no more a Bolshie than Baldwin,” Jacob snapped. “All I’m saying is that under cross-examination, the expert seemed vague. Can we be sure the tramp didn’t die by accident? Even if he was murdered, how can we know Danskin set his own car on fire with this unknown man’s body inside? What if he’s telling the truth?”

  “Pigs might fly, my boy.”

  “Suppose his car was stolen, and a stranger gave him a lift to London out of the goodness of his heart. Does it matter that no one has come forward to back up his alibi? That almost gives it the ring of truth. His story is so unlikely, why on earth would he make it up?”

  “Load of cobblers, if you’ll pardon the professional jargon. If you ask me, Danskin panicked, and came up with that tosh when the police first questioned him. Afterwards, he was stuck with it. Terrified that if he changed his statement, his credibility was shot.”

  Jacob gave a shrug of resignation. Haydn clapped him on the shoulder, and gestured to the door.

  “Come on, boy, you’re obviously under the weather if you think a fraud like Danskin deserves to walk out from here scot free. Your imagination’s got the better of you. Shove some proper sustenance into that skinny frame of yours. What do you say to washing a chop and chips down with a pint of Guinness at the Magpie?”

  The Magpie and Stump, across the road from the Bailey, was Haydn’s second home. When presiding at the bar, he loved to regale his listeners with his favourite story of Victorian enterprise. In the nineteenth century, the landlord rented out the room upstairs to wealthy peeping Toms who enjoyed a bird’s-eye view of the public executions at Newgate Prison. If that wasn’t enough to satisfy their appetite, they could devour a hanging breakfast of steak, devilled kidneys, and as much ale or porter as they
could put away. Jacob had a queasy feeling that their descendants salivated over the trial reports in the Clarion and the Witness.

  “No, thanks. I want to listen to the defence case with a clear head.”

  “It’ll make more sense if you’re three sheets to the wind. The minute Danskin starts answering questions about this mythical bloke who drove him to London, old Edgar will tie him up in knots.”

  “You think Danskin will give evidence?”

  “Truth is, he’s damned if he does, and damned if he doesn’t. Some judge once talked about the cruel kindness of letting accused murderers testify on their own behalf. They usually end up hanging themselves. Danskin’s got the gift of the gab when it comes to talking a shop girl into bed. Telling a cock-and-bull story to judge and jury in a murder trial is a different kettle of fish. But if Lang decides not to call him, the jury will presume that Danskin is afraid of getting caught out. Either way, his goose is cooked. Trust Uncle Haydn.”

  “I still need to work on my report,” Jacob muttered.

  “Mine’s typed up already.”

  Haydn gave his belly a congratulatory pat. They joined the mass of people making their way outside. Jacob couldn’t help scratching the itch of doubt.

  “And if he’s acquitted?”

  “Same story, more or less. Only half as many column inches, tucked away on an inside page.” Haydn’s grin showed the gaps in his yellow front teeth. “But the question’s academic; it doesn’t arise. Trust me, boy. Clive Danskin is as guilty as sin. And may the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

  4

  As Haydn Williams stomped off in search of liquid refreshment, Jacob settled for a breath of damp air. The Old Bailey was no longer plagued by the stench of the old Newgate days, when judges carried posies of flowers to ward off gaol fever and the whiff of unwashed prisoners, but the ventilation was still hopelessly inadequate. He was glad to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

  His thoughts far away, he lost his footing on a rain-slicked cobblestone, and collided with a solidly built woman who had halted right in front of him. She was gazing up at the bronze statue on the dome at the top of the building. Jacob recognised her as the witch who had caught the courtroom artist’s eye.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “No harm done, young man.”

  There wasn’t a hint of a witch’s cackle; he even detected a comfortingly familiar Yorkshire accent. At a distance, he’d guessed she was a spinster of sixty. On closer inspection, she might be fifteen or twenty years younger. He’d also misjudged her marital status; the only jewellery she wore was a gold wedding ring. Swan-necked and formidably bosomed, she wore a garish mauve cape over an unflattering tweed suit that might have suited a portly gentleman farmer.

  “Once again, my apologies.”

  “Nonsense, my fault for standing in your way.” She waved her umbrella towards the figure on the dome. Justitia wielded a sword in her right hand and the scales of justice in her left. “According to the old legends, Lady Justice despaired of the evils of earth and retired to the heavens so as not to be sullied. Each time I come here, I pay my respects.”

  Jacob peered at the statue. “She isn’t wearing her blindfold.”

  The woman snorted. “She never has. Not at the Old Bailey. In classical times, her dignity and maidenly form sufficed to inspire fear in the wicked and courage in the good. The notion of justice being blind came later, a wrong turning taken in mediaeval times. A judge needs clear sight, especially in a case as complicated as this Danskin business.”

  “You don’t regard it as open and shut?”

  “Far from it. The evidence against Danskin seems compelling. But who knows? Sir Edgar is always so cocksure. Perhaps he’s swaggering too soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if his carefully constructed case turns out to be founded on sand.”

  This was a woman who liked to swim against the tide, Jacob thought. Eccentric, possibly, but intelligent. He wondered if she was a campaigner against capital punishment, the sort who conducted a lonely vigil of protest outside the prison gates each time a convicted murderer took the eight o’clock walk.

  “You’re a sceptic, Mrs…?”

  “Dobell is the name. And I prefer to describe myself as a realist, Mr Flint.”

  He was taken aback. “You know who I am?”

  “I’ve a pair of eyes in my head, young man. You sit with the other journalists, and each morning you leaf through the Clarion before proceedings begin.”

  His interest quickened. “Do you have an interest in the case? Are you related to Danskin, by any chance?”

  “Dear me, no.” She paused. “Thank goodness.”

  “So you think he may be found guilty?”

  “No, no, you must break with professional habit, and not put words in my mouth. I meant simply this. To be personally connected to a man on trial for his life is ghastly. It isn’t only the prisoner who suffers, but those around him. Friends and family are tainted by association. Their lives are destroyed.” Her voice trembled with emotion. “Danskin is an odious man, but does that make him a murderer?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “Besides, we haven’t heard the case for the defence. How can one possibly tell at this stage whether or not he committed the crime? Or does the Clarion prefer to prejudge?” Her gaze was piercing, accusatory.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that.”

  “A principle that newspapers seldom remember,” she said. “I can only hope that as the years pass, you don’t forget it.”

  “What do you make of the evidence we’ve heard so far?”

  She shook her head. “The Crown has assembled a formidable case. But one should always expect the unexpected.”

  “You think Danskin’s not as black as he’s painted?”

  “Who knows? Mud sticks, and there’s plenty of mud to be thrown. And yet…” She waved her umbrella in the direction of the bronze lady on the dome. “Justice moves in mysterious ways, Mr Flint. Therein lies its eternal fascination.”

  And with a curt nod, she marched off down the road.

  *

  “Your name is Grenville Fitzroy Whitlow?”

  “Correct.”

  Jacob’s nickname for Percival Lang KC was the Tortoise. Counsel for the defence exuded caution, and his deliberate manner verged on lethargy. Sir Edgar, in contrast, was a born Hare. Even on the rare occasions when he raised an objection, the Tortoise’s diffidence implied regret at interrupting his opponent’s rhetoric. He wasn’t noted as an advocate in capital cases; he usually specialised in advising government officers about the dusty by-ways of constitutional law. His opening remarks had struck Jacob as deplorably lacking in histrionics. More-in-sorrow-than-in-anger surely wasn’t enough, when Danskin’s life was at stake.

  The Tortoise had chided Sir Edgar for his inability to establish that the man in the burned-out car had fallen victim to murder rather than a terrible accident, as well as for failing to show that his client’s alibi was a dishonest charade. These shortcomings, he said, explained why he would not ask his client to testify. It was for the Crown to prove his guilt, not for him to disprove it. A bold strategy, but a sign of desperation.

  The Tortoise took an age shuffling the papers in his brief. He never did anything in a hurry. Was his sluggishness calculated to provoke his opponent into an impatient outburst? As everyone waited, Sir Edgar muttered under his breath.

  “I must apologise,” the Tortoise said unexpectedly. “I should have said, you are Major Grenville Fitzroy Whitlow, DSO?”

  The witness was lean and hawk-nosed, with short black hair. His movements were stiff and abrupt, and so was his manner. He kept his right hand inside a well-cut blazer.

  “Yes.”

  “You were awarded the Distinguished Service Order for gallantry under fire in the autumn of 1917?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, Major Whitlow, but am I right
in understanding that you suffered grievous wounds in the action?”

  The witness’s grey eyes never flickered as he withdrew his right hand from his jacket. Except that it wasn’t a hand, but a steel claw.

  A low gasp from those sitting in the public gallery was quickly hushed into an embarrassed silence.

  “I was blown up during an advance,” he said. “We gained a good fifty yards that day.”

  “And your current occupation, Major Whitlow?”

  “I work in Whitehall. My duties involve liaison between the Home Office and the FO.” In the clipped tone of the Oxford common room, he said, “I gained a smattering of languages while operating behind enemy lines, so the authorities allowed me to make myself useful.”

  “I’m sure you do,” the Tortoise said. “I have no wish to trespass on any area of national security, but would it be fair to say that you have recently been engaged on business of great urgency?”

  “It would.”

  “Thank you.” Having made clear why he’d called this witness first, the Tortoise indulged in a little page-shuffling. “Could you tell the court what you did on the evening of 3 February this year?”

  Major Whitlow straightened his shoulders, and Jacob pictured him striding across a parade ground. No troops would wish to earn this man’s displeasure.

  “I was driving home from my mother’s home. She lives in Kirkby Lonsdale in Westmorland.”

  “You’re sure of the date? There is no possibility that you might be mistaken?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Really? Why is that?”