Mortmain Hall

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by Martin Edwards

Major Whitlow’s frown suggested that he was unaccustomed to having his bare word questioned. “I have good reason to be certain. The following day, I was due to travel to Europe on urgent business for an indefinite period. My mother has a weak heart and had been suffering from poor health. I was concerned to see her before I flew out.”

  “You did not know,” the Tortoise asked in a hushed and sympathetic tone, “whether you would have the chance to see her again once your… mission was complete?”

  Major Whitlow bowed his head, but his voice remained steady. “Correct.”

  “Please describe what happened as you were driving back.”

  “I gave a man a lift.”

  “In what circumstances?”

  “I spotted him standing by the roadside in north Lancashire. It was dark, and he was waving his hat to flag me down. He was respectably dressed, but wore no jacket. On a cold winter’s night, with rain in the air, this struck me as extraordinary. Nor was he carrying any bags. He appeared to be agitated. I felt obliged to pull up and ask if I could be of assistance.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he’d been driving along when he stopped for a man who was hitching a lift. A tramp.”

  “A tramp?”

  “Yes, it was bitterly cold, and the tramp claimed that he’d been walking all day. The fellow took pity on him, and said he could hop in. He offered to take the tramp to Lancaster.”

  “Why Lancaster?”

  “He was a salesman and he’d been on the road most of the day. Said he was tired. He planned to get up early and drive back to London the next morning.”

  “What did he say occurred after he picked up the tramp?”

  “His car started giving trouble. He jumped out to look under the bonnet, and the next thing he knew, someone hit him on the head.”

  “Someone?”

  “He presumed it was the tramp, but since he’d lost consciousness, he never saw what happened. When he came round, the car had disappeared, and so had his jacket. The tramp had gone, and so had his wallet and an overnight case stowed in the trunk of the car.”

  “What did you make of that account?”

  “It sounded odd,” Major Whitlow said. “For what it is worth, my impression was that he was telling me the truth, and that he’d suffered a dreadful experience as a result of an act of kindness.”

  Sir Edgar muttered grumpily to his junior, but kept his powder dry. Jacob glanced at the judge. The Tortoise was pushing his luck as regards the rules of evidence. If challenged, the Tortoise might argue that the vital question was not whether Danskin had actually been attacked, but what he’d told his rescuer. At all events, it was academic. Major Whitlow’s air of authority was hypnotic.

  “When did you form that opinion?”

  “As soon as he told me what had happened.”

  “So quickly?”

  “Making rapid judgements is a necessary part of my present duties.” The witness looked up at the judge. Under his gaze, even the solemn, bewigged old man blinked. “It’s a habit I developed during the war.”

  “One’s very survival may depend on the accuracy of such judgements?”

  The Tortoise glanced at his opponent, as if expecting an objection. The Hare remained in his seat. The witness was a war hero, a patriot whose personal sacrifice in the line of duty was plain to see.

  “Indeed.”

  “Can you tell the court why you believed this man?”

  “I have seen at first hand the effects of concussion on the battlefield. His manner was consistent with his story. He seemed disorientated although, as far as I could tell, there were no signs of obvious physical damage.”

  “Any other reason?”

  “Five minutes before I spotted the man by the roadside, I’d passed a bullnose Morris Oxford.”

  “A bullnose Morris Oxford,” the Tortoise repeated, on the off-chance that there was a soul in the courtroom who failed to understand the significance of the make of car.

  “Correct. The vehicle was travelling in the opposite direction, and I noticed it because of the erratic manner of driving. I needed to apply my brake to avoid a collision. The driver may have been under the influence of alcohol, but candidly, I took no notice of him. I was more concerned to preserve my safety, and that of my own car.”

  “I understand. What could you see of the driver?”

  “Nothing. When the man I’d stopped for told me that his car was a bullnose Morris, I drew the obvious conclusion, that he was telling me the truth.”

  “So you agreed to take him – where?”

  “He asked me about my own destination. I said I was returning directly to London. That suited him perfectly, he said. After the incident with the tramp, he didn’t want to be stranded in Lancaster. If I didn’t object, he would come back with me.”

  “What did you make of that?”

  “I advised him to consult a doctor, as well as the police, at the earliest opportunity. Experience of combat has taught me that one can never be too careful with head injuries. He said he just wanted to get back home.”

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I agreed to drive him to London.”

  “Did anything else happen on the journey?”

  “No. He said he was exhausted, after such an upsetting incident. I suggested that he sit in the back of my car, and see if he could get forty winks.”

  “And did he?”

  “He slept like a baby until we were almost there.”

  “Where did you drop him?”

  “On the North Circular Road, some time after midnight. He said that was close enough to his home. Of course, he had no possessions. They’d been stolen along with his car. I offered to take him to his front door, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said I’d done more than my bit. I tried to insist, but he saw I was weary, and he said that driving with a… handicap such as mine must be exhausting.”

  “Indeed.” The Tortoise pursed his lips. “Did the man give you his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “Danskin.”

  “And do you recognise the person to whom you offered that lift in this courtroom today?”

  For the first time, Major Whitlow turned towards the dock. Throughout the course of the trial, Clive Danskin had remained calm. Now, for the first time in the proceedings, a crack appeared in the smooth veneer. Eyes fixed on Major Whitlow, he gave a faint nod.

  “That is the man.” The claw pointed at the dock. “The prisoner.”

  *

  “Well, blow me down with a feather,” Haydn Williams said, diving into his bottomless well of clichés. “Game, set, and match. What a turn-up for the books!”

  Clive Danskin’s acquittal, and the judge’s assurance, half drowned by cheers from the public gallery, that he left court without a blemish on his character, had become inevitable the moment Major Whitlow identified him in court. If Whitlow had passed the tramp driving the bullnose Morris minutes before picking up Danskin, the case for the Crown collapsed like a house of cards.

  “The major was the perfect witness,” Jacob said, as they headed towards the exit. “The fact he only arrived back in Britain last night explains why he didn’t come forward earlier.”

  “Covert operations, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Haydn sighed. “I bet there’s a story there, but we’ll never prise it out of that oyster.”

  “No harm in trying. I thought I’d call his office, see if he’d like to say a few words.”

  “Good luck,” Haydn said. “I’m telling you now, he won’t play ball.”

  Jacob knew that such pessimism wouldn’t deter the Witness from trying every trick in the book to steal a march on their rivals, but he simply said that he supposed Haydn was right.

  “As always, my boy,” the older man said complacently. “Trust Uncle Haydn. Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t like to bump into the major in a dark alley. Slit your throat without a second thought, a fellow like that. No compunction, no moral qua
lms.”

  “Not like a journalist, eh?”

  Haydn cringed at this low blow. “Where’s your pride in your profession you young whippersnapper? Anyhow, I don’t have time to stand around gossiping with the likes of you. I need to fiddle about with my report. Don’t want it to be an anticlimax. Nothing tops an eleventh-hour confession from a chap who has protested his innocence for months before being sentenced to hang. That’s human interest for you. But there’s some consolation. A mystery witness always sets the reader’s pulse racing.”

  In the street outside, Jacob saw Clive Danskin pumping the Tortoise’s hand. They were surrounded by gleeful female well-wishers heedless of the persistent drizzle. Several women looked quite adoring, as though they’d mistaken Danskin for a heartthrob of stage or screen.

  “I should like to thank my legal representatives for their sterling efforts to secure my release,” Danskin announced. “The last few months have been a ghastly ordeal. Forgive me if I don’t make a speech. I certainly won’t be selling my story to the press. Cruel things have been written about me, and the scars won’t heal quickly. But I never lost my faith in British justice.”

  A handful of journalists lurking in the hope of an exclusive turned away in disgust. As the crowd thinned, Jacob spotted a familiar mauve cape, a flash of colour on a grey afternoon. Mrs Dobell was muttering in Clive Danskin’s ear. Jacob moved closer, and watched Danskin consider for a moment before giving a quick nod. As a plump and adoring young woman seized Danskin’s hand to give it a congratulatory shake, Mrs Dobell stepped away.

  “You were right,” Jacob said to her. “Justice does move in mysterious ways. I was wondering if you’d spare me a minute. I’m sure the Clarion’s readers would greatly value any insight…”

  Her nose quivered, like a bloodhound picking up a suspicious scent. “I value my privacy, Mr Flint, and I never give interviews. All I will say is this. At the first trial I ever attended, long before your time, a judge’s hostile summing-up caused a jury to find an innocent man guilty of murder. That same judge later cut his own wrists in the very same courtroom. His mind was warped. But the truth came out too late for the man he condemned.”

  “Judge Savernake.” Jacob spoke before he could stop himself.

  “I believe you are acquainted with the late Judge’s daughter.” The woman’s sharp chin lifted. “Rachel Savernake.”

  He stared. How did Mrs Dobell know of his connection with Rachel?

  He cleared his throat. “That’s right.”

  She relaxed into a mischievous smile. “Next time you speak to Miss Savernake, please tell her to get in touch with me at the Circe Club. I should like to talk to her about murder.”

  5

  “Gilbert Payne is dead,” Trueman announced as he marched into the elegant glass conservatory that served as the breakfast room of Gaunt House.

  The air was spiced with kedgeree. Rachel buttered a thick slab of toast, smeared it with Hybla honey, and sliced it with a clean stroke of the knife. She was sitting at the table opposite her cook-housekeeper, Trueman’s wife, looking out through the window on to a walled courtyard and garden. Putting down the knife, she arched her eyebrows. “Surely you mean Bertram Jones, late of Tangier?”

  Trueman flourished a copy of the Times. Half a dozen other newspapers were tucked under his arm. “So the press call him, thanks to the false passport in his jacket pocket. Otherwise, the police would have struggled to identify him. His body was found on the railway line. The train that ran over him made a mess.”

  “Where was he found?”

  “Three quarters of the way from Brookwood to London. According to the reports, he fell from the carriage just in time to be hit by the Waterloo express.”

  Hetty Trueman said, “If the body’s unrecognisable, perhaps it isn’t Payne.”

  Rachel drained her orange juice. “You think he faked his death again?”

  “Why not? If he’s done it before…”

  Rachel shook her head. “An ingenious theory. If only it were true. But history hasn’t repeated itself. Payne didn’t have time to conjure up a substitute corpse.”

  “What do the reports say?” Hetty asked.

  Her husband tossed the newspapers on to the table. “When they checked at the terminus, the door to Payne’s compartment wasn’t properly closed. His suitcase was still on the seat.”

  “There’s no hint that it contained anything important?”

  “None. Payne liked taking risks, but he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to carry around anything revealing his true identity. Even if he had, the men who killed him would have removed it before they got off the train.”

  “The newspapers say the deceased was alone in the compartment, of course?” Rachel asked.

  “Naturally. A witness did come forward, a vicar who said he occupied the adjoining compartment. He reported to a porter on arrival at Westminster Bridge Road that he’d seen something blow out from the train during the journey back to London. He said he was dozing, and the other person in his compartment was fast asleep, so couldn’t be of any assistance. The reverend even wondered if he’d imagined it.”

  “Conveniently vague.” Rachel chewed on her toast. “I don’t suppose he left a name?”

  “If he did, none of the accounts mention it. A clergyman from the colonies, according to the porter. Said he was on his way back to Canada.”

  “And therefore out of reach if the authorities wish to make further enquiries?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So he won’t attend the inquest. Which will duly return a verdict of misadventure. No nearest and dearest to bother about. Case closed.”

  Rachel gazed out through the window. The garden wall was topped with spikes. Gaunt House was situated on one of London’s quietest and most select squares. The building had been refurbished at enormous expense by a millionaire swindler with his own reasons for craving privacy. After the police had finally caught up with him, Rachel had bought the house from his trustee in bankruptcy, renamed it after the island where she’d grown up, and installed herself and her tiny entourage. Despite the size of the property, the only servants were the three Truemans: Hetty, Clifford, and his sister Martha.

  “A neat trick,” Trueman said with grudging admiration. “That pair of villains made a song and dance about travelling in the next-door compartment on their way to the cemetery. If any member of the railway staff says he saw them getting into the dead man’s compartment on the way back, the retort is obvious. They’ve got confused, simple as that. Impossible to prove otherwise.”

  “And how do the gentlemen of Fleet Street believe that Bertram Jones died?” Rachel asked. “Suicide or a freakish accident?”

  “A bright spark from the London Necropolis Company has already come up with an explanation. He reckons Bertram Jones must have fallen asleep, then woken up in a dazed state. He opened the compartment door in the belief the carriage had a corridor, and fell out before he realised his mistake. A similar mishap befell some poor confused wretch a few years ago. An unspeakable tragedy, but hardly the fault of the company.”

  “Perish the thought.” Rachel poured herself another cup of coffee. “The bright spark gets full marks for speed off the mark. It’s worse for business if passengers on the railway kill themselves deliberately rather than succumbing to a misfortune in a million. The company doesn’t want to be drumming up custom for the Suicide Train.”

  Trueman grunted. “Bad enough being known as the Stiffs’ Express.”

  “He wasn’t killed until late on in the journey,” Rachel mused. “They must have questioned him to satisfy themselves that he gave nothing away to me.”

  “You didn’t tell him your name?”

  She gave him an old-fashioned look, but the housekeeper broke in. “Even if you wore a veil and widow’s weeds, how long will it be before someone discovers you’re poking your nose into affairs that don’t concern you?”

  Trueman said, “I hate to say it, but Hetty’s right. You
’re playing a dangerous game. How many young women in London entertain themselves with strange cases of murder?”

  “Gambling for high stakes is in my blood. You both know that.”

  “It’s only a question of time before you’re found out,” Hetty said.

  Rachel shrugged. “We’ve taken risks for as long as I can remember. All four of us. We’re doing what we waited for all those years. It makes our lives worth living.”

  “Payne will have blabbed about his conversation with you,” Trueman said.

  “I didn’t give anything away.”

  “I’m not saying you did, but what if…?”

  “I don’t care about what ifs.” Rachel lowered her voice. “These men were crude thugs, hired to kill a man. They interrogated him at the point of a gun or knife and then stunned him before throwing him on to the track. They chose their moment carefully, timing things to perfection so that Payne’s body would be torn to pieces by a fast train. They’d earned their pay. Why bother with an inconvenient complication like me? For all they know, I was a grieving relative of the late Mrs Payne.”

  “They’d already made sure the two women closest to Payne’s mother didn’t attend the funeral.”

  “I could have been a distant cousin or niece. That’s what they will have told themselves. It’s a simple explanation. Everybody loves an easy way out.”

  “Except you,” Trueman said.

  She gave a cool smile. “You know me too well.”

  Hetty Trueman could contain herself no longer. “Payne lived a lie, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. Was there nothing more you could do to make him see sense?”

  Rachel rested her hand on the older woman’s. “Other than kidnapping him in full view of the other mourners?”

  “We’d have done that,” Trueman said, “if we’d thought it would work.”

  “Payne abandoned hope,” Rachel said. “Despair was written across his face. I wasn’t surprised. In the fullness of time, even the charms of Tangier wear thin. Remember, he was living a lie long before he feigned death and fled this country. At least his love for his mother was genuine. Once he’d attended the funeral service, he didn’t care what happened. He was living on borrowed time, and he was sick of hiding in fear. As soon as he realised his disguise had failed, he made up his mind. The end might as well come sooner rather than later.”

 

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