“I see the dilemma.”
“And so does old Mulkerrin, the other trustee. As I say to Felix, it’s preferable to allowing a tycoon to bulldoze the Hall and build fifty bungalows. The Dobells have always been determined to make sure the estate remains in their hands.” She smiled at Rachel. “The belief that it’s important for families to endure is common enough. I suppose the Savernakes are the same?”
“I’m the last of the line,” Rachel said. “I feel no sentimental attachment to Gaunt.”
“You’re young. One day you’ll have children.”
“I don’t care to be beholden to others.”
Leonora frowned. “You said you’d introduce me to a murderer.”
Rachel gave a wry smile. “He’s hanging around in the Royal Academy Schools.”
“Aren’t the Schools out of bounds to members of the public?”
“Indeed, but I became a patron of the Academy following the Italian art exhibition.”
“I saw it in January.” Leonora closed her eyes, as if picturing Birth of Venus in her mind. “Botticelli, Raphael…”
“To say nothing of the Old Master of propaganda, Signor Mussolini.” Rachel frowned. “The Academy isn’t a stage for dictators to strut around.”
“Il Duce is not to everyone’s taste, but he gets things done.” Leonora exhaled. “Strong leadership is sadly lacking in this country.”
“In that case,” Rachel said coolly, “let me lead the way.”
*
Jacob’s excitement at having discovered Leonora’s deception evaporated in minutes. When all was said and done, the woman was a writer, and writers commonly hid behind pseudonyms. To falsify an entry in Who’s Who was taking a joke to an extreme, but she was a woman with a peculiar sense of humour.
Flicking again through her books, he noticed that Rachel had underlined the printed words on each of the two dedication pages. Clues to solve a puzzle?
Murder and Mysteries was dedicated simply “In Memory of My Father”. The dedication in Respectable Murders was longer: “To George R. Sims, William Roughead, and other campaigners against injustice.”
Sims and Roughead? Their names rang bells. When he looked them up, he had his answer. Sims was a journalist, Roughead a Scottish criminologist. They had earned respect for their crusades on behalf of two men falsely accused of murder. One was called Adolf Beck, the other Oscar Slater.
Leonora had chosen Slaterbeck as a pen name in tribute to victims of miscarriages of justice.
*
The corpse of an old man, flayed to the muscle with arms outstretched, was nailed to a wooden cross. A creature in torment, laid bare in anatomical detail. A figure too grotesque for sensitive public stomachs.
Leonora gasped.
“A plaster cast, believe it or not,” Rachel said. “I’ve met creatures of flesh and blood who seem less real than James Legg.”
They were in a room reached by way of a corridor for servants rather than students. It was kept locked, but Rachel had collected a key from the porter.
“Most of the écorché figures are kept in the Life Room.” Rachel pointed to a door in the wall opposite the flayed corpse. “We’re forbidden to go in, for reasons of moral propriety. The only women admitted are models willing to strip off their clothes. The artists need to study the finer points of the female form.”
Leonora indicated the crucified man. “And this poor devil?”
“James Legg was in his seventies, a Chelsea pensioner. One day, out of the blue, he shot a fellow resident of the Royal Hospital. Demented as he was, a plea of insanity failed. The judge sentenced him to be hanged and anatomised.”
“There’s nothing new about injustice,” Leonora said in a low voice.
“The execution helped a group of Academicians to settle an argument. They believed that depictions of Christ on the cross misunderstood human anatomy. So they persuaded the authorities to allow an experiment in the interests of authenticity in art. With Legg’s body still warm from the gallows, they nailed it to this cross.”
“Extraordinary,” Leonora breathed.
“The cadaver was flayed by an eminent surgeon. All the skin and fat cut away to expose the inner man. A sculptor made this cast for the Academy, so young artists could see for themselves the precise effect of crucifixion on the human form. During the war, an inconsiderate Zeppelin dropped a bomb on this building, but Legg survived unscathed. He’s led a charmed death.”
Leonora seemed hypnotised by the corpse. “And now he’s achieved a curious form of immortality.”
“Like so many notorious murderers,” Rachel said. “Guilt is so much more memorable than innocence. We all remember George Joseph Smith. How many of us can name those pitiful brides he drowned in the bath?”
“Nobody,” Leonora said. “Like you, I’m a cynic. But let me explain why I wanted us to meet. I am about to hold a little house party at Mortmain Hall. I’d love it if you could join us.”
“I’m notoriously unsociable.”
“This is a very special gathering,” Leonora said.
“Who are the other guests?”
“You’re familiar with their names.” Leonora ticked them off on her bony fingers. “Sylvia Gorrie, Henry Rolland, and Clive Danskin.”
*
“What brings you here, young fellah-me-lad?” Haydn Williams demanded during a rare pause for breath.
Haydn was holding court in the Magpie and Stump, telling anyone who cared to listen that murder wasn’t what it used to be. Even cut-and-dried capital crimes crumbled into anticlimax. Not like the good old days.
Jacob put two foaming tankards on the bar counter, and insinuated himself next to the older man. Haydn’s audience needed no further encouragement to melt away. With no murder trials on at the Old Bailey, Jacob hadn’t needed to be much of a detective to deduce where to find his quarry. He wanted to confirm his theory about Leonora Dobell’s past, and when it came to old murder cases, Haydn was a walking encyclopaedia.
“Cheers. Wanted to pick your brains, actually.”
Haydn took a gulp of beer. “Eyeing up a career as a crime reporter? Think again, my boy. It’s yesterday’s profession. Today’s criminals aren’t a patch on their predecessors. If you fancy a long life in print, you’ll be better off compiling bloody crosswords.”
“It’s crimes of the past I’m interested in. Thought I’d come to the oracle.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” Haydn belched. “Unless you’re hoping to scoop the Witness.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jacob lied. “This isn’t hold-the-front-page stuff. I was thinking of a feature about miscarriages of justice.”
Haydn considered his reply with the help of another swig of bitter. “Careful, boy. Gomersall hates pandering to cranks who want to get rid of the rope.”
“Heaven forbid. I thought I’d research old cases, where the people in question are likely to be dead. The accused, the witnesses.” Jacob paused. “The judges who got things wrong.”
“Tell you what I like about judges, boy. They turn the other cheek. They never sue, whatever you write about them.”
“Not even the fearsome Judge Savernake?”
“Specially not him.” Haydn wrinkled his nose, as if smelling a story. “Didn’t you come across his daughter?”
“She keeps out of the public eye,” Jacob said evasively. “A recluse, almost.”
Haydn jabbed him in the midriff. “Sniffing around, were you, boy? Word is, she’s a stunner. Not exactly a chip off the old block.”
“I don’t think she and her father were close.”
“In his pomp, he was a terror, the Judge.”
Jacob pretended to rack his brains. “What was the name of that chap he condemned, the one who turned out to be innocent?”
Haydn wagged a stubby finger. “Don’t forget, a judge never finds a man guilty. It’s always a jury which returns the verdict.”
“But that’s not the whole truth, is it? Some jurors are li
ke sheep, they take their lead from the summing-up. If the judge is hostile…”
Haydn knocked back the rest of his bitter. “A hard man, Judge Savernake. I felt as guilty as sin whenever he cast his beady eye over me, and I was just a runny-nosed kid in the press gallery. But until his brain turned to mush, he was as sharp as a knife.”
“You don’t recall the case?” Jacob’s show of disappointment was intended to provoke. Haydn prided himself on his formidable memory.
“Wait, wait. Give me a chance.” Haydn banged his tankard on the door, and Jacob signalled to the barman for a refill. “Old Savernake didn’t get much wrong. Except for the Gee trial.”
“That’s the one!” Jacob exclaimed in admiration, as he crossed his fingers behind his back.
Haydn tapped the side of his head. “There’s more stuff up here than in the London Library, boy. Yes, must be Gee you’re thinking of. Sad story.”
“A real tear-jerker,” Jacob agreed. “Remind me, what was it all about?”
“The usual.” Haydn sighed. “Wife murder, of course.”
Haydn’s wife had run off with a tallyman twenty years ago. Haydn often boasted that it was only her desertion that had saved him from the noose, although he’d have had a good case for justifiable homicide. Jacob’s sympathies lay with the former Mrs Williams.
He hazarded a guess. “Suffocated, wasn’t she?”
“Lord, no. Beaten to a pulp with a poker in her own back parlour. Messy, very.” Haydn lifted his replenished tankard. “Here’s to crime. Come on, boy, drink up.”
Jacob took a sip, washing the sour taste from his mouth. “I suppose it looked like an open-and-shut case?”
“Plain as the nose on your face, boy. Gee was a teacher at a school near York. The henpecked type. He’d married an older woman, and she wore the trousers. The police presumed that one day, he finally snapped. His alibi was so feeble it was embarrassing. It was almost an insult to the intelligence to ask people to believe him.”
“Did nobody back it up?”
“Not a soul. Claimed he’d been telephoned by a stranger, who said he was passing on a message. Gee was asked to meet the headmaster urgently at the school one evening. When he showed up, nobody was there. He hung around for a while, then went back home to find his wife murdered. Nobody believed his story. The headmaster denied having sent any message. That was enough for the chief constable. He ordered his men to go in with all guns blazing, and they browbeat Gee into enough contradictions to justify an arrest. Feelings ran high because the killing was so vicious. Gee came up in front of old Savernake. I was sent up to cover the case, and the summing-up froze me to the marrow. To this day, I’ve never heard sarcasm as cruel.”
As Haydn paused for a sup of beer, Jacob said, “He was biased against Gee?”
“It wasn’t personal. The old bastard hated everyone. He was sure Gee was guilty, that was all. The Crown case wasn’t watertight, and he didn’t want the jury to be swayed by sympathy. Gee cut a pathetic figure in the dock. Sounded as though he was making up answers as he went along.”
“And so he was found guilty of killing his wife?”
“Oh yes, he’d have swung if the real killer hadn’t been caught.”
“Who was the murderer?”
Haydn searched his memory, aided by another mouthful of beer. “The school caretaker. Chap called McLean. He’d heard Gee say he’d won a tidy sum of cash on the Grand National sweepstake. Fifty quid, if memory serves. Beginner’s luck: he wasn’t even a betting man. His daughter was away at boarding school, and Mrs Gee was supposed to be visiting an aunt. McLean made the phone call in a disguised voice to lure Gee out of the house. Common or garden burglary. Snag was that Mrs Gee had a migraine, and stayed at home in bed. When she heard McLean breaking in, she went downstairs, and he panicked. The poker was just too tempting.”
“Gee was released from prison?”
“Once the Home Secretary got his skates on. There was a public outcry, questions asked in parliament. The fuss probably tipped the Judge over the edge. Not that it did Gee any good.”
“Why not?”
“The trial made mincemeat of him. He’d lost his wife, then been convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. Unbearable for a fellow with a weak heart. He’d only been home a week when he dropped down dead in his own back parlour. The very spot where his wife was murdered.” He took another swig from the tankard. “You know what I call that?”
“No.”
Haydn stared moodily into the middle distance. “Poetic injustice, that’s what.”
*
“You’ve arranged a very exclusive gathering,” Rachel said. “Three guests who were accused of murder. Each of them narrowly escaped being sentenced to death.”
“Each noted as a victim of a miscarriage of justice,” Leonora said.
There was a challenge in her dark eyes. Once again, the two women were like duellists en garde as they faced each other in the company of the flayed remains of a murderer.
“Surely they’d prefer to bury the past?” Rachel asked.
“I can be very persuasive,” Leonora said softly. “It will be a unique occasion. I do hope you can be tempted.”
“How kind of you to want to include me.” Rachel relaxed into a smile. “You’re right. I simply can’t resist.”
*
Five minutes after leaving the Magpie and Stump, Jacob was back at Clarion House. Haydn had given him plenty of leads to follow up in the archives. On his way into the entrance vestibule, he bumped into George Poyser.
“And where are you off to in such a tearing rush? You were very quiet at the conference this morning. Don’t tell me you’ve come up with a scoop?”
“If only. I want to look up an old trial. You may remember it. A man named Gee was found guilty of battering his wife to death. He was saved from the gallows because the real killer was found.”
“Gee, you say?” A faraway look came into the news editor’s protuberant eyes. Poyser wasn’t a crime specialist, but his powers of recall were phenomenal. “Hmmm, the name rings a bell. Can you give me more to go on?”
“The crime was committed in Yorkshire, about a quarter of a century ago. I’m not sure how the police managed to find the real culprit. Or why they didn’t do so before Gee was tried and convicted.”
“Sorry, I’m not sure I can… oh, wait! Was Gee the chap with the daughter, seventeen or eighteen years old?”
Jacob was taken aback. “Yes, as it happens.”
“That’s the one!” Poyser beamed in self-congratulation. “Yes, it was a nine days’ wonder.”
“Why do you ask about the daughter?”
“Because she played the detective. If not for her, the murder might never have been solved.”
*
“So you got what you wanted,” Clifford Trueman said.
Rachel had joined the three Truemans in the conservatory at Gaunt House. Outside, roses entwined around the redwood pergola had burst into crimson bloom. Through an open window, she caught a scent of damask.
“She always does,” his wife said.
Trueman shrugged. “Better to be born lucky than rich.”
“She’s lucky and rich,” Hetty said. “To prove it, I’ve made her favourite soup. Jerusalem artichoke.”
Hetty was a devotee of Mrs Beeton. Rachel laughed. “I’ve earned it. We’ve been invited to Mortmain Hall.”
“What did you learn from the Dobell woman?” Martha asked.
“First and foremost, Vickers told the truth, what little he knew of it. The house party is going ahead. Danskin has joined Sylvia Gorrie and Rolland on the guest list. As for selling off the Mortmain art treasures, she’s quite brazen about it. Admits her husband is in no position to argue. She reckons she’s got the green light from the solicitor to the family trust. It’s a West End firm, Mulkerrin and Morgans. Said to be highly respectable.”
Hetty sniffed. “A likely story.”
“I believe her. In this day and age, running an es
tate in the country costs a fortune. And there must be some respectable lawyers.”
“It’s not like you to be so trusting. What’s her game?”
“I’m sure she’s hugging herself with delight at the prospect of playing lady of the manor with three people who were tried for murder, and the daughter of a sadistic judge.”
“Just for her own private amusement?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Besides, why am I poking my nose into her affairs? Just because I can, and I’m inquisitive, and there’s a mystery to be solved. At least she can fall back on the author’s excuse for indulging in frivolity. She might get a book out of it.”
“Murder isn’t a game.”
“Games can be deadly serious.”
“There’s something else,” Martha said.
During their years together on the island, she’d rarely spoken up. Even in London, she much preferred to listen, and keep her opinions to herself. The others looked at her.
Rachel said quietly, “What is it?”
“In Leonora Dobell’s eyes, the Judge was your father.”
“She thinks he was, yes. Everyone must think so, forever and a day.”
“Then she believes your father condemned hers to death.”
“Hubert Gee didn’t hang,” Trueman said.
“Martha is right, though,” Rachel said. “The trial destroyed him.”
“Have you considered what that means for you?” Martha folded her arms. “What if Leonora wants to avenge him?”
13
During the afternoon, Jacob trawled through the archives of the Clarion, piecing together a picture of the Gee tragedy. Haydn’s memory hadn’t betrayed him. The murder of Priscilla Gee was bloody and brutal enough to make the story supremely newsworthy. For a schoolteacher to be prime suspect put the icing on the journalists’ cake. The dead woman was a martinet who had led her diffident husband a dog’s life. The police wasted no time in charging him, and very little in pursuing other lines of enquiry.
The couple had one daughter, but no mention was made of her in the press until after her father was sentenced to death. At that point came news of McLean’s arrest. Leonora Gee, horrified by the trial but determined to prove her father’s innocence, had played the amateur detective.
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