Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  She’d befriended a burly young police officer who resented the way the chief constable had bullied his subordinates into making a quick arrest. In the hope of making a name for himself, he’d asked around, and discovered that ever since the murder, McLean had been splashing money as if there were no tomorrow. Leonora telephoned the caretaker, giving a false name, and claiming to have seen him leaving the Gees’ house after the crime. She demanded ten pounds in return for her silence.

  Deceiving him by telephone, just as he’d deceived her father, appealed to her sense of justice. Once again, a simple ruse worked a treat. McLean turned up at the rendezvous point, an empty warehouse in York, but instead of an envelope stuffed with banknotes, he brought along a ball-peen hammer. She’d talked the young constable into joining her in the warehouse, and he gave McLean a taste of his truncheon before any more harm could be done.

  Leonora Gee shrank from the public gaze. The story cried out for a heroine with fair curls, dimples, and rosy cheeks, not a plain young woman with an abrupt manner who hated the press for presuming her father’s guilt. The newspapermen’s dismay was compounded when their hopes of a burgeoning romance were stillborn. The young constable earned a commendation and lapped up the publicity, but he’d served his purpose. Leonora never saw him again.

  When her father died, she suffered an emotional collapse. The last information Jacob could find was that after spending a fortnight in hospital, she’d gone to live with an elderly aunt. All requests for interviews were refused. The old lady regarded journalists as spawn of the devil. They’d hounded Gee, and they wouldn’t be allowed to torment his ailing daughter.

  The press was even deprived of an execution when McLean strangled himself with a bootlace in his prison cell. There was nothing left to say. Hardly anyone mourned Priscilla Gee, and her husband had few friends. Today’s sensation became yesterday’s news, and Leonora Gee disappeared from public view. Jacob could trace no further mention of the name.

  Only in 1918 did she resurface, with the announcement of her engagement. Miss Leonora Slaterbeck was to marry Mr Felix Dobell of Mortmain Hall. There was no hint of a connection to a pre-war cause célèbre. Priscilla and Hubert Gee were dead, buried, and forgotten.

  *

  “Bryce, a word in your ear.”

  A firm hand grasped the bony shoulder of Wesley Bryce, Assistant Commissioner (Crime) in the Metropolitan Police. He’d just slipped into Lord’s for half an hour’s cricket in between business engagements at the Yard. A chap needed a break; he compared it to cleansing the palate. Just a pity that England’s bowlers were being put to the sword by the Aussies.

  Looking up into the cold blue eyes of Colonel Hemmings, he felt like a schoolboy caught playing truant. Was it absurd to suspect the colonel of turning up in the Long Room precisely because he expected to find him here?

  “Afternoon, Colonel.” He gestured towards the field of play. “Damn good game.”

  “We let them off the hook.” The colonel was not to be sidetracked. “There’s a newspaper reporter, name of Flint.”

  “Writes for the Clarion.” Wesley Bryce liked to be regarded as well informed, up to date, on top of his job. He was hopeful about his prospects when the present commissioner retired. “We know of him at the Yard. Inspector Oakes…”

  “Yes, there was that business earlier in the year.”

  Bryce frowned. “You’re aware of that?”

  “We like to keep tabs on things.” The colonel’s face never gave anything away. It was one of the reasons why Bryce disliked him. “Flint is making a nuisance of himself.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Bryce said, not sounding in the least apologetic. “Asking questions, is he? Writing articles? I suppose reporters have to do something to occupy their time.”

  Sarcasm bounced off the colonel like pellets off a tank. “He’s raking over old coals. Unwise. People can still get burned.”

  “Any particular coals?”

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “No names, no pack drill.”

  “It’s rather difficult, if you won’t…”

  “He’s a crime correspondent. Plenty of crime for him to report in this city, as you’re well aware. People are saying the streets of London aren’t safe to walk down.”

  Bryce gritted his teeth. “Our manpower…”

  “Put a stop to it, will you, before any harm is done? There’s a good chap.”

  The colonel’s tone was casual; he might have been commenting on the state of the wicket. For all the warmth of the Long Room on the last day of June, however, Bryce felt a sudden chill.

  “It’s a free country.” It was time to make a stand. “We can’t control the press.”

  “It’s a free country because we take pains to guard the national interest,” the colonel said softly. “Have Oakes speak to him.”

  “Flint’s a journalist. He doesn’t…”

  “I’ll leave it in your capable hands.” Resigned applause rippled around them as a batsman in a baggy green cap crashed another boundary to the boards. “I’ll be getting back to the office. You might do the same. Plenty in your in-tray, I’ll be bound. And this match is a lost cause.”

  “It’s too soon to write the game off,” Bryce retorted. “We shouldn’t give up.”

  “Sometimes,” the colonel said, “one needs to realise when one is beaten.”

  *

  “I made enquiries at the Law Society,” Trueman said on rejoining the others in the conservatory.

  “Any luck?” Rachel asked.

  “More than I expected. I spoke to a very helpful young lady.”

  Hetty grunted. “You meet a lot of very helpful young ladies, Cliff Trueman.”

  “True enough,” Rachel said. “That rugged exterior is deceptive. He can turn on the charm like a tap.”

  “Are you going to let me get a word in?” he demanded.

  Rachel took a swig of lemonade. “I’m all ears.”

  “There are two partners in the firm. Mulkerrin runs the show. Famously discreet; you’ll not get much change out of him. His partner Morgans died a year back, shortly after his son came into the firm. Morgans junior is a different kettle of fish. At first he refused to follow family tradition and go into legal practice. Effete type, by the sound of him. Fancies himself as a writer.”

  “How dreadful,” Rachel said. “What does he write?”

  “Poetry or some such.” Cliff’s taste in verse didn’t extend beyond “Vitaï Lampada”. “It was only when his father took ill that he was forced to buckle down and go into the business. Mulkerrin has no time for his dilettante ways. Or his tendency to gossip.”

  “It’s a truth universally acknowledged,” Rachel said, “that a single woman in possession of a good fortune must be in want of legal advice. I think I should call on young Morgans. We can have a good gossip.”

  The telephone rang and Hetty answered. After listening for a moment, she mouthed “Jacob Flint”.

  “Let me talk to him.” Rachel took the receiver. “Hello, Jacob. Done your homework?”

  “I’ve made enquiries about Gilbert Payne.” He sounded breathless, excited.

  “And the Clandestine Club?”

  “I’ll pay it a visit as soon as I can. As for Henry Rolland, reading between the lines, Leonora Dobell suspects that he murdered Phoebe Evison. Just as she hinted that Sylvia Gorrie wasn’t innocent of her husband’s death.”

  “Leonora likes playing with fire.”

  “What’s more, I’ve discovered that her maiden name wasn’t Slaterbeck but Gee.”

  “Good work,” Rachel said. “Congratulations.”

  “You knew already, I suppose?” He couldn’t quite squeeze the disappointment out of his voice. “And that her own father was convicted of murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I can tell you anything you don’t know,” he said sulkily.

  “I had a head start,” she said. “When I lived on the island, Foyles delivered a fat parcel of books eve
ry month. The Judge kept abreast of everything that dealt with crime and the law. He also kept detailed papers of his own. When he was too gaga to care, I carried on reading. His library was his one gift to me. No university could have offered me a better education. Years ago, I learned about the Gee case. It’s only lately that I’ve made the connection with Leonora Slaterbeck.”

  “Why did she change her name? It doesn’t make sense. Thanks to her, Hubert Gee was vindicated. He was as much a victim as his wife.”

  “A victim of the Judge, you mean. But can’t you see? Leonora was desperate to put the murder and the trial behind her. No wonder her health collapsed after her father’s death. Who could bear to be haunted by those memories? In her shoes, I’d have changed my name as well.”

  Trueman flashed a warning look, and Hetty put her hand to her mouth. Rachel stuck out the tip of her tongue.

  “And then,” Jacob said, “she married into the Dobell family.”

  “In the war, Mortmain Hall was transformed into a military hospital. Leonora worked there as a VAD. Felix Dobell was badly injured in France and came home as a patient. After his wife’s death, he turned to Leonora.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Yes, but she’s going back up to Yorkshire for the weekend. She’s invited me to a house party.”

  “At Mortmain Hall?”

  “Yes. The guest list is small and select, if I say so myself. The other names you know. Sylvia Gorrie, Henry Rolland, Clive Danskin.”

  He exhaled. “What’s she playing at?”

  “All may be revealed over the weekend.”

  “Be careful. Judge Savernake’s summing-up condemned her father.”

  “You believe I’m in danger?” Rachel laughed. “Great minds think alike. Martha has already warned me to watch my step.”

  “Have you accepted this invitation?”

  “How could I refuse?”

  “But…”

  “I can take care of myself. My main concern is you.”

  “Me?”

  “Especially if you go to the Clandestine Club.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Not enough. But I know what happened to Gilbert Payne.”

  *

  “Seen anything of Flint lately?” Wesley Bryce asked as Inspector Philip Oakes was about to leave his room.

  Oakes stopped by the door. He’d been called in ostensibly to give Bryce an update on an investigation into dope smuggling from France. Oakes was that rarity among police officers, a graduate of Caius rather than the university of life. His prosperous background, good looks, and intellectual agility hadn’t made him popular among his fellow officers, but his thirst for hard work and an ability to get results had earned a grudging respect from all but the chronically prejudiced.

  “Not for some time. He covered the Danskin trial. I read his reports. He was obviously as surprised at the outcome as we all were.”

  “You read the Clarion?” Bryce believed that a touch of levity with one’s subordinates worked wonders when a difficult conversation loomed. As long as people didn’t become too familiar. “I’d have put you down as a Times man.”

  “That too, sir. I like to keep in touch.”

  “Excellent.” Bryce’s smile of encouragement faded. “The devil of it is, Flint is putting one or two Very Important Noses out of joint. Raking over old coals, that’s all I’ve been told. I wonder if you could give him a nudge?”

  “A nudge, sir?” Oakes was impassive.

  “All right, I won’t make any bones about it,” Bryce said. “I’ve been asked to make sure that he’s warned off.”

  “Although we don’t know what we’re warning him about?”

  It didn’t take much to rub away Bryce’s veneer of good humour. His thin lips almost disappeared as he pressed them together. “Damn it, I’ve told you all that I know. See to it, will you?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  *

  No sooner had Jacob finished speaking to Rachel than a call came through from Scotland Yard. After the routine pleasantries, Oakes said it would be grand to catch up; they could have a bite, his treat. Jacob wondered what he was after. High-flying detectives didn’t stand crime reporters lunch for the fun of it.

  Come to that, what was Leonora Dobell playing at? A house party for acquitted murder suspects at Mortmain Hall? He’d love to be a fly on the wall. There was much more to that woman than met the eye. And what about the Clandestine Club? Rachel’s warning only spurred him on.

  Returning to the reference room, he picked up Who’s Who and looked up Leonora’s husband. His entry was brief:

  Dobell, Felix, landowner, b. Mortmain, 1879, o.surv.s. of the late Oswyn Dobell, 1 s. (dec’d), m. Elspeth Barnes (dec’d), 1906, Leonora Slaterbeck, 1918, Educ: Giggleswick School. Recreations: jigsaw puzzles. Address: Mortmain Hall, Yorkshire.

  Jigsaws! A means for an invalid to pass the time, Jacob supposed. It couldn’t be much of a life, stuck in a draughty old mansion, especially if you were old and frail and your only child was dead. No wonder Leonora escaped to London. He wondered about their marriage. A decision to spend the rest of your life with another person struck him as an extraordinary gamble. His own parents had enjoyed a blissful union until his father’s death during the war, but few couples lived in such harmony. Jacob loved the company of women, but he’d not come close to finding anyone he wanted to live with forever.

  There was scant information about the Dobells in the books. Time to take another tack. He’d consult the Clarion’s expert on tittle-tattle about the gentry, Griselda Farquharson. A conversation with a woman so overpowering and loquacious was not for the faint-hearted, but a lifetime in the social whirl had given Griselda an unrivalled knowledge of the upper echelons of society. Most of the Clarion’s staff gave her a wide berth, but Jacob rather liked her. Her snobbishness and vanity had a satiric edge.

  After signing his correspondence for the day, he wandered out to the lobby. The Clarion had a pretty new girl on the main desk, a Scot whose curly hair, cherubic features and cheeky sense of humour reminded him of Renée Houston. He enjoyed flirting with her, and it had crossed his mind to invite her out for a drink. She was already putting on her hat and coat, and he realised with a start that it was half past five.

  “I don’t want to keep you, Maggie, but one last thing before you go, if you don’t mind.”

  “For you, Mr Flint, anything.” She arched her eyebrows. “And I wouldn’t say that to everyone. Specially not when I’m in a tearing hurry.”

  “You’re very kind. And how many times do I need to tell you, my name’s Jacob.” He grinned. “Do you have a number for Griselda Farquharson?”

  She giggled. “Biting off more than you can chew there, aren’t you? She may be a hundred years old, but they say she’s still a man-eater.”

  “Don’t worry, I can look after myself.”

  “Brave words, Jacob.” She checked her notepad and scrawled down a number in a large, unformed hand. “There you are. Now, I’d love to stop and chat, but I mustn’t be late.”

  “Thanks, Maggie. And where are you off to in such a rush?”

  “My young man’s taking me out for dinner, and then to the Lyceum.” Another giggle. “Guess which show he’s chosen?”

  “I’m hopeless at guessing.”

  “A likely story! You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Anyway, it’s Here Comes the Bride. Ever so popular. You must know the songs?” She warbled a few bars that Jacob found hopelessly unrecognisable. “Swear not to tell a soul, but I think he’s going to pop the question.”

  He forced a smile. Anyway, she wasn’t really his type. “Have a marvellous time.”

  “You bet I will!”

  With that, Maggie was gone, leaving Jacob to spend another night on his own in Exmouth Market.

  14

  Mulkerrin and Morgans had guarded the secrets of the wealthy for generations. Their inconspicuous offices were in keeping with the discretion for which the firm w
as noted. The entrance was tucked away in a passage off Albemarle Street, and the lettering of the ancient brass plate on the wall was faded almost to illegibility. The door was painted grey, the step that led up to it well worn. There was no bell-push, only a venerable cast-iron knocker decorated with the face of a disapproving owl.

  It took fully one minute for the door to open in response to Rachel’s knock. A wizened face peered out. It belonged to an aged, Tiresias-like figure whose inscrutability made the Sphinx seem rubber-faced.

  “My name is Rachel Savernake. I have an appointment at noon.”

  Tiresias indicated with an age-spotted paw that she should go into a waiting room. The austere decor was confined to yellowing professional certificates of long-dead partners in the firm. The Times was on the table; a wall shelf was occupied by Who’s Who, Debrett’s, Crockford’s, and the Law List.

  The door opened, and a sonorous voice enquired, “Miss Savernake?”

  A portly man in his fifties, with wispy sandy hair combed in a doomed attempt to conceal a bald patch, considered her through gold-rimmed pince-nez, like a country doctor examining a patient for symptoms. Rachel returned his gaze, unblinking. He gave a cough which sounded like an admission of defeat.

  “Permit me to introduce myself.” Beaming, he slipped into his best bedside manner. “Angus Mulkerrin, senior partner. Delighted to meet you.”

  Rachel stood up. As they shook hands, he winced at the firmness of her grip.

  “I was expecting to see Mr Morgans.”

  “Ah yes.” He coughed again. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to spare me a moment?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he waddled down a short corridor into a large room, his personal fiefdom. A wall of shelves held a row of law reports arranged in date order. The furniture was in the style of Sheraton, the carpet was Persian.

  Mulkerrin ushered her into a chair and took a seat at his desk. Behind him hung an oil painting of a bald man with an extravagant sandy moustache and gold pince-nez. A nineteenth-century ancestor; the pince-nez must be a Mulkerrin family heirloom.