Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  He scribbled a few anodyne comments on a report about proposed amendments to the Defence of the Realm Act before deciding that he’d done enough for the time being. DORA always sapped his morale. He tidied up his desk, collected his hat, coat, briefcase, and umbrella, and hurried down the stairs.

  Outside in Whitehall, the sky was blue, the sun high. A taxi approached. He was seized by a sudden urge to tell the driver to take him to Hoxton. If only he could make Doodle see sense! Of course it was hopeless. Even if he got down on bended knee, it would make no difference. Doodle was unfathomable, but also implacable. There was no hope of a change of heart. No hope at all…

  “Afternoon, Vickers.”

  He started. A long-forgotten phrase from a poem he’d been taught at school sprang into his mind: Like a guilty thing surprised. The only line of Wordsworth he could remember. Ridiculous, what did he have to feel guilty about? If he was on edge, it was only natural after what he’d been through. He’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Major Whitlow coming out of the building.

  “Oh, good afternoon, sir.”

  “Off somewhere?”

  Reggie felt his cheeks burning. His thoughts jolted back to his schooldays. Pongo Yearsley, his house master, had caught him playing truant one afternoon, when the other lads were in the gymnasium. The occasion was etched on his memory. Pongo had exacted a high price for that misdemeanour.

  He forced a little laugh. Even to his own ears, his attempt at hilarity sounded counterfeit. “Been working like billy-o this morning, sir. Rather fancied a break.”

  “Oh yes?”

  The sight of the major’s egg-and-bacon tie gave him a sudden inspiration. The tie betokened membership of the exclusive Marylebone Cricket Club. Reggie was also a member, and the second Test match had started today. England against Australia, battling for the Ashes.

  “Actually, I was hoping to catch the afternoon session at Lord’s.”

  Other than work, the major’s abiding passion in life was cricket. He pursed thin lips. “Two minds with but a single thought, eh? My destination, too. Let’s share a cab.”

  Reggie breathed out. At last on this dreadful day, he’d managed to get something right. It never did any harm to chew the fat with the department’s big white chiefs. Especially with the major.

  “Grand idea, sir.”

  “Taxi!”

  The major lifted his arm, and within moments a taxi pulled up beside them. No cabbie could miss an upraised claw.

  *

  Munching a cheese-and-pickle sandwich over his desk, Jacob wondered what to do next. He’d devoted the morning to a series of futile attempts to learn more about Bertram Jones and his death. His contacts within the Metropolitan Police were no help. They were satisfied that Jones had suffered a regrettable accident. The London Necropolis Company was determined to say as little as possible, just in case a member of Jones’ family appeared and made a song and dance about safety on the railway line. So far he’d learned nothing about Jones, other than the fact that he’d only been in the country for twenty-four hours prior to his death. He’d stayed at a guest house in Pimlico and kept himself to himself.

  Why was he travelling on the funeral train? Had he come to England to say farewell to a loved one? The snag was that nobody called Jones had been buried at Brookwood yesterday. Had he mourned the death of a friend?

  It was an odd business, but Jacob supposed Gomersall was right: he’d be better employed in finding a fresh angle to the Danskin case. Mrs Dobell was worth following up. Why did she haunt the Old Bailey, and how had she foreseen that Danskin might be acquitted?

  And why did she want to talk to Rachel Savernake about murder?

  Washing down his sandwich with a cup of milky tea, Jacob allowed his thoughts to stray to the young woman he’d met six months earlier. Rachel had arrived in the capital last year. She’d grown up on Gaunt, a tiny island off the coast of Cumberland, in the ancestral home of the Savernake family. After the death of Judge Savernake, she’d inherited a fortune. Notorious as a hanging judge, the old man had retired from the bench after his mind had begun to fail and he’d attempted suicide. His remaining years had been spent on the island as a recluse, descending deeper and deeper into a dark pit of madness.

  Jacob’s imagination was vivid, but even he found it impossible to comprehend how Rachel had endured life in that bleak and remote spot with a demented and dissolute old reprobate. The Trueman family supported her with extraordinary devotion; she said that without them, she’d never have survived. It must have been like serving a prison sentence. No wonder she never talked about it.

  Even in London, she led a solitary life. She loved music, but her taste was for popular songs rather than the classics; she adored art, but spent eye-watering sums on surrealist pictures that struck Jacob as meaningless scrawls and splashes. When she’d involved herself in a sequence of bizarre killings, Jacob became convinced there was a story to be told about her, and that he was the man to tell it. The investigation had almost cost him his life. Her ruthlessness horrified him. He also found it strangely exciting.

  To his dismay, he’d learned he was no match for Rachel Savernake. Never had he met a woman so formidable; never had he been so desperate to understand what was going on inside another person’s head. Murder obsessed her, but her passion for justice had nothing to do with the niceties of the legal system. She danced to her own tune. He admired her, but he was afraid of her.

  Jacob fancied himself as an amateur psychologist. He was convinced that her coldness was a form of disguise, a means of coping with the cruelty she’d suffered on the island of Gaunt. One day, he dreamed, she’d take him into her confidence. He’d sworn to her that he’d never publish a word about her unless she gave her consent.

  Her mask never slipped. Like a fencing master, she parried every inquisitive thrust with ease. The last time he’d visited Gaunt House, frustration had overcome him. Emboldened by one glass too many of vintage claret, he complained that she treated him like a fool. With a shrug, she said that if he felt unwelcome, he was free to leave. Provoked, he grabbed his hat and coat. She watched him go without a word.

  Since then, they’d had no contact, yet not a day passed without his thinking about her. Now the Dobell woman had given him a chance to speak to her again. He reached for the telephone.

  *

  “Everything all right, Vickers?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Sure about that? You look… peaky.”

  What lay behind the question? The major wasn’t given to displays of care for the welfare of his subordinates. Reggie eyed his companion warily, but as usual the major’s face was emotionless as a statue on Easter Island.

  Reggie had learned long ago that when you didn’t want to give an honest answer, the safest course was to fall back on an edited version of the truth.

  Venturing a confidential smile, he said, “After-effects of a vinous slumber, sir. I may have had one too many last night. It’s made up my mind for me. I’m getting too long in the tooth to be letting my hair down and staying up till all hours.”

  The older man replied with a grunt. Did it imply displeasure? Reggie ground his teeth. His tongue was too loose. Better clarify, to avoid any misunderstanding.

  “Not that I ever talk out of turn, even when I’m a bit the worse for wear.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The major looked him straight in the eye, and Reggie shivered under the stony gaze. “Our work seems mundane, but society depends upon our rectitude. We are privy to many secrets.”

  “Absolutely, sir. I’d never…”

  “Lives are at risk. Can’t be too careful. Beware the enemy within.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir,” Reggie blurted out. “The drinking happens only once in a blue moon. Perhaps that’s why the alcohol rather went to my head. I’m simply not used to it.”

  He stole a sideways glance, but the major had turned his head to stare out of the cab window. Reggie w
asn’t even sure he was listening.

  *

  “You were right,” Hetty Trueman said. “Jacob Flint is on the telephone for you.”

  “Tail between his legs,” her husband said.

  Rachel turned the page of her book. “I suppose it would be petty to say I’m busy.”

  They were in the roof garden on the top of Gaunt House, where they’d taken a leisurely lunch. Rachel had worked up an appetite by swimming thirty lengths in the pool. Now she was relaxing on a sun chair in her green silk swimsuit.

  “It’d serve him right.” Hetty eyed the telephone extension. “Shall I take a message? Or suggest that he calls later?”

  “No.” Rachel placed the book on the small wooden table by her side. “For once, his timing is impeccable.”

  *

  In the heart of St John’s Wood, thirty thousand people soaked up the sunshine as they absorbed the latest skirmish between sport’s oldest rivals. Lord’s cricket ground was packed to the rafters, but the privileges of MCC membership allowed Reggie and the major to make straight for the pavilion to find a vantage point in the Long Room.

  Reggie loved this historic sanctum, an exclusive masculine preserve reeking of tobacco and history. In his dreams he often came here as a Test cricketer, padded up and bat under arm, on his way out to play the innings of his life for his country. He pictured himself jogging down the stairs, entering this packed room, striding past the paintings of famous players of yore, breathing in the thick fug of cigars, hearing the buzz of conversation, marching out into the fresh air, down the steps past the benches of spectators, and through the gate in the white picket fence, onto the hallowed turf.

  A glance at the scoreboard revealed that on a benign pitch, England’s batsmen had squandered their wickets. Only Duleepsinhji’s flair had kept the Australian bowlers at bay, and now his innings almost died in inglorious fashion. He offered the Australian captain a simple catch, but the ball slipped through Woodfull’s hands. The crowd gasped as it hit the ground.

  “Butterfingers!” Reggie exclaimed, unable to contain his glee at the sight of the opposition skipper dropping a dolly. “That could be an expensive fluff. Young Duleep scored three hundred in a day down at Brighton the other week.”

  “It’s a rule in life,” the major murmured. “When you’re given a chance, you need to take it. Opportunity never knocks twice.”

  Not like the major to wax philosophical, but Reggie thought he had a point. Cricket was a great leveller. One minute you were thrashing the bowlers to all corners of the ground, the next you were trudging back to the pavilion after throwing your wicket away with a wild slog. This contest was absorbing. Nothing like a cricket match for taking your mind off the cares of the world. Gilbert was dead and gone. At least he’d done his best for his old friend, although the Savernake woman had failed to save him. And even if he never saw Doodle again… no, he wouldn’t think about that. Let the future take care of itself.

  Within minutes, the enormity of Woodfull’s howler became apparent, as the Indian kept driving ball after ball to the boundary. The applause became rapturous. Duleep was fast becoming not only an honorary Englishman but a national hero. Educated at Cheltenham and Cambridge, Duleep possessed all the attributes of an English gentleman, not least being connected to all the right people. His uncle was the great Ranji, one of England’s finest cricketers prior to becoming the Jam Sahib of Nawanagar. Nobody cared about the colour of his skin when his royal pedigree was unquestionable, and his batsmanship divine.

  *

  Like a penitent seeking absolution, Jacob tried to explain to Rachel why he’d called. Why on earth hadn’t he rehearsed what he wanted to say? Her ironic amusement was painful on the ear.

  “It was at the Old Bailey. Towards the end of the Danskin trial. I… met a woman.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “No, I mean… that is, she’s certainly not our age. Much older. Looks like a witch. Just when Danskin looked to be in for the high jump, she said he might still get off. An oddball. But clever.”

  “For a woman?”

  “Sorry. I’m not making myself clear. She knows you. Or rather, about you.”

  Silence.

  “She wants to talk to you about murder.”

  “Does she, now?”

  Her indifference made him feel like a conjuror who saws his assistant in half with a flourish, only to discover his audience is fast asleep.

  “Yes.” He added feebly, “She seemed… interesting.”

  “What’s she called?”

  Why did he sense that she’d already guessed the answer?

  “Dobell. Mrs Dobell,” he gabbled. “Sorry, I didn’t get her first name.”

  “Don’t worry, I know it,” Rachel said. “Come to the house for a drink at nine this evening. You can tell me about her.”

  *

  “Well played, sir!” Reggie cried, as Duleep crashed a poor delivery away for four more runs. At this rate, his hands would soon be sore from clapping. Beside him, the major was motionless. Hard to clap with a claw, of course. Funny cove, never seemed to get excited by anything. Perhaps after all he’d been through…

  The Boche had tortured the major after capturing him behind enemy lines. It was said that even in extremis, he never let anything slip that might endanger the Tommies. Rumours abounded about the circumstances in which he’d lost his hand. Some of the stories were grisly; many were wild inventions. Nobody knew the details. The major never spoke about his wartime experiences. His personal life was as much a closed book as his precise role in the civil service.

  Two spectators in the front row reminisced about the airship that had flown over the ground during the morning’s play. Like watching a giant whale swim across the sky, they said. Reggie was sorry he’d missed such a marvel. The Imperial Airship Scheme was the pride and joy of British aviation, coupling technological wonders with the last word in luxurious travel. A pal in the Air Ministry often boasted of his chief’s ambition. An airship with no need to refuel could knit together the scattered dominions of the British Empire.

  Leaning towards the major, he said in a confidential tone, “Powerful beast, the R101. I hear the Air Minister reckons that Duleep could get to India in a fraction of the time it would take by sea or plane.”

  “The miracle of the socialist airship.” The major’s lip curled. “Time will tell if it flies or falls.”

  Deflated, Reggie kept his counsel until the tea interval. They made their way in silence across the Long Room’s uncarpeted floor to the adjacent bar. When the major bought him a scotch, Reggie stammered with gratitude. Thank the Lord he’d been forgiven for over-indulging the previous night.

  “To cricket,” the major said, raising his glass. “The Masqueraders have a match coming up, with a return game thrown in. It will mean a few days in the wilds of Yorkshire. I trust you’ll be available?”

  “Rather!”

  Reggie could barely restrain his jubilation. His nook in Whitehall offered little in the way of social activity other than occasional invitations to play cricket. The Masqueraders were a wandering team, like I Zingari or the Free Foresters. They had no ground of their own, and an irregular fixture list. They usually played in out-of-the-way parts of the country, sometimes in inhospitable conditions and outside the usual cricket season. The side was organised by senior members of the department. The major himself captained the eleven, when his commitments allowed. With his left arm, he could bowl a useful wrong’un.

  “I’ll ask Pennington to pass you the details.” The major swallowed his whisky and checked his watch. “He’ll give you a lift up there if you can cope with his driving. Now I have a meeting to attend. I’ll leave you to it.”

  With that, he was gone. Reggie finished his drink, and ordered another. For a few moments during the taxi ride, he’d felt frightened. Had he been rumbled, despite all the care he’d taken? The major’s inscrutability made him all the more menacing.

  The invitation – command,
almost – to turn out again for the Masqueraders was doubly precious. Taking part in a cricket tour, however brief, was far more enjoyable than slaving over a hot desk. Thank goodness, they still trusted him. Reggie felt comforted. His mistakes hadn’t proved fatal. He squared his shoulders. The major had offered him a chance, and he meant to grab it.

  Calmer now, he followed the ebb and flow of the teams’ fortunes during the final session of play. Duleep was in sight of a brilliant double century when he suffered a rush of blood to the head. Having caressed a couple of boundaries off the bowling of the tireless Grimmett, he essayed a needless swipe, and found himself caught by Bradman.

  Joining the crowd spilling out of the ground, Reggie told himself that anyone might get carried away. To err was human. If a sublimely talented prince could make a crass blunder, so could any ordinary mortal. The major had made himself clear. He’d take heed and become more circumspect. Why stick his neck out? Forget the doubts and questions, forget Doodle’s desertion and the dreadful death of Gilbert Payne. It was time to look after number one.

  He knew where his loyalties lay.

  Damned shame about Doodle, but such was life. It had been fun while it lasted. As for Gilbert Payne, he’d done his utmost; his conscience was clear. Rachel Savernake could go to hell.

  Glancing up, he saw a dark figure outlined against the brightness of the sky. The weather vane on top of the Grand Stand, tall as a man, was Father Time, complete with sickle. Despite the warm glow of early-evening sunshine, Reggie’s spine felt a chill.

  The Grim Reaper stared down at him.

  7

  Reggie’s resolve not to answer the telephone was tested within minutes of his return to the Albany. Twice the bell rang, and twice he ignored the imperious summons. He guessed who was calling. Rachel Savernake’s brute, wanting to know why he’d failed to turn up at Gaunt House. Well, let him ring, let him ring, let him ring.