Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

Any moment now, a telephone call would be made to Scotland Yard. Daisy, or whatever her real name was, had such a gift for acting. With a tremble in her voice, she’d explain she’d heard terrified cries in this godforsaken mews, and she’d beg the police to take a look at the end terrace house. The police would assume she was a prostitute with public spirit. As soon as a suitable interval had passed to allow Jacob to come round, she’d ring. But not before; it wouldn’t do for him still to be unconscious when the police broke into this shabby hovel.

  When the police did arrive, his head wound would need explaining. Experienced detectives could work out the sequence of events. They’d conclude that during an argument, the other man had struck him a glancing blow with an old domestic hammer. Just hard enough to enrage Jacob, and provoke him to murder.

  What about their clothes? Daisy wouldn’t dare to take them away. If the police burst in and found two naked men, but no clothing, they’d draw the obvious conclusion: a third party had been present.

  Grubbing around under the bed, he discovered his clothes. His fedora was there too. They’d been dumped there with the corpse’s things. Every item stank of gin, even his socks, as if the bottle had been poured all over them. Who cared? Not Jacob. The simple act of getting dressed reminded him that he still belonged to the human race. But time was running out. Daisy was bound to call the police soon. Perhaps she’d already rung them. For all he knew, a car was speeding on its way to the mews at this very moment.

  He took another look through the window. No sign of the watchman, no hint of motion among the shadows. That barber’s shop on the corner had a canopied entrance, didn’t it? The fellow would loiter there, smoking a cigarette to pass the time. In the mews, there was nothing to see.

  Dare he risk smashing the glass? Tempted, he weighed the hammer in his hand. A pity his assailant hadn’t used a spanner. Then he could have tackled the rusted window bolt. But needs must. He couldn’t see that he had any choice but to try to destroy the bolt by brute force, and pray that in the process he didn’t shatter the glass.

  He struck a lusty blow. Nothing. Another blow. The glass rattled, but the bolt held fast. He felt sick, but kept going. Anything was better than sitting here tamely, waiting for his life to be destroyed. Better to end with a bang than a whimper.

  The wooden frame was a wreck of wet rot. He took a breath, and tested it with his index finger. It felt mushy to the touch. Again he lifted the hammer. The sixth blow cracked the bolt. He only needed two more swings to break it apart. His shoulder ached, but he imagined the police car speeding towards Soho, and it gave him the strength to keep battering the window frame. The rotting wood splintered and gave way.

  Nearly there. He grasped the wood with both hands, and gave a ferocious wrench. Window and frame came away together. The glass cracked and broke, but the noise was not as loud as he’d feared. He stood at the hole he’d made in the wall. The night air chilled his face. Below in the mews, there was no sign of life.

  What next? Beneath the window was an external sill. Narrow as it was, he thought he could just about get a foothold there. He’d have to hope that it didn’t crumble under his weight. If it did, he’d be snookered. A drainpipe ran down the side of the property, invitingly within arm’s reach. Suppose he clambered down; perhaps he could make it on to the jutting flat roof of the workshop next door. Get that far, and he’d take his chances.

  Closing his eyes, he uttered a silent prayer. The risk was enormous, but time was short. Anything was better than being accused of stabbing a man he’d never met after some kind of sordid lovers’ tiff. What would happen if he was caught didn’t bear thinking about. Better to gamble. If the man guarding the mews challenged him, he’d fight to the death.

  Time to summon up his last reserves of courage. He wasn’t an athlete or an acrobat, just an awkward young man with too much curiosity for his own good. If he got out of this mess in one piece, he’d… well, time to think about that if he survived.

  Ripping a piece of the dead man’s shirt, he wiped the door handle and hammer, as well as the surfaces he remembered touching. This was no time to be squeamish, and he rubbed the handle of the knife as well. He dared not leave the fedora behind, so he put it on. Next he dragged the bed to the window, so that it made a platform for him to climb out. As the bed shifted, the corpse rolled off the far side, and fell on to the floorboards with a thud. When the police did arrive, they’d find a crime scene of chaos.

  He began to lever himself out through the window space, and tested the sill with a heel. Bits of stone flaked away, but the sill didn’t disintegrate. Clinging on to the uneven wall, he heaved the rest of his body through the opening.

  One, two, three. He grabbed at the drainpipe with his right hand, but his foot slipped, and he almost lost his balance and plunged to his death.

  No time to think. No time to look down at the yard. Have another go. This time he held on tight to the rusting iron, first with one hand, then with the other, as he swung his body away from the window, and began to descend.

  The drainpipe moved under his weight. The bolts fixing it to the wall were coming adrift. Only a madman would linger to see if it would take him crashing down with it. Eyes shut, he twisted his body to his right and jumped down, praying that he’d land with both feet on the workshop roof.

  The prayer was answered. His feet hit the roof hard, and the impact sent a brutal shudder through his spine. He fell to his knees rather than to the ground. And the drainpipe didn’t break off.

  So far, so good. He inched towards another drainpipe, only to put his foot through a patch of rotting felt. Impossible in the darkness to be sure of the safest way ahead. Better get down before he fell through the roof into the jagged teeth of ancient machinery.

  On his haunches at the roof’s edge, he measured the drop. It was far less frightening than the prospect of tumbling all the way down from the attic, but it would still be easy to break a leg, or worse. His luck was in. An old signboard protruded from the front of the ramshackle building. It offered him a fingerhold. Taking infinite care, he eased himself over the side, using the signboard to help his descent. Within a few moments, his feet were touching the ground.

  Where was his fedora? He’d lost it while clambering out of the window. He looked around frantically and spotted it close to the door which led to the attic. Retrieving it, he thrust it back on his head. A show of defiance.

  Someone coughed. Heavy footsteps sounded. The guard was coming to take another look at the mews.

  Jacob picked up two loose cobbles. Like any self-respecting Yorkshireman, he’d played his fair share of cricket. His averages had never been anything to write home about, but he was a good cover fieldsman, with a decent throwing arm.

  He hurled the smaller cobble across the mews. It struck the wooden door to an old garage in the far corner. The clatter echoed in the confined space. To Jacob, it sounded like a fusillade of bullets. After a second’s pause, the guard strode into view. A burly man, with a cosh in one hand and a torch in the other. He moved deliberately, shining a torch in the direction of the noise.

  The guard was twenty yards away, less than the length of a cricket pitch, when Jacob threw the larger cobble at him. It hit the man on the temple as he was turning, and knocked him down like a ninepin. Jacob heard a bellow of shock and pain as the hefty body hit the ground. He began to run.

  Fleeing the mews, he pounded along the pavement. His foot and head hurt and his whole body ached, but his pace was ferocious. He was running for his life. He spun round the next corner into the adjoining street. There was a passageway between two restaurants. Both were closed, and he wondered what time it was. One o’clock? Two? He’d lost track. Gambling that the alleyway wasn’t a dead end, he raced along. Fifty yards later, he reached a main street.

  Wonder of wonders, a taxi was approaching. He flagged it down, and to his astonishment, it pulled up at his side. Nervously, he felt inside his jacket pocket. Daisy and her friend hadn’t stolen his wallet. He a
lmost wept with relief.

  “Where to, governor?”

  Jacob said the first thing that came to him. “Gaunt House.”

  *

  “Can you wait for two minutes?” Jacob handed the taxi driver an extravagant tip. The square was silent, and the house in darkness. “I need to see if my friends are still up.”

  The man peered at him. “You all right, governor?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  The driver made a sceptical noise. Jacob daren’t imagine what he looked like. A bruised parody of a young man-about-town, stinking of gin and with a scalp caked in blood. His body was battered, his brain scrambled. As he rapped on the door, it struck him that he didn’t even know why he’d come here.

  If no one answered, he daren’t go back to Exmouth Market. What if the guard he’d struck with the cobblestone turned up there in search of revenge? What if they knew where he lived? If… well, the what ifs were never-ending. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

  He shifted from one foot to another. The sole which had caught on the nail in the floorboard was stinging. He must get it seen to before it became infected. For the first time, he realised how exhausted he was. He longed to sleep for a week.

  If someone was in the house, there was no hint of it. He couldn’t hear a sound or see a chink of light. But that was to be expected. Gaunt House was remarkably secure. The ground-floor rooms were soundproofed, and the windows had steel shutters. The swindler who had refurbished the building had his own reasons to ensure he was safe from intruders, and Rachel Savernake had turned the place into a fortress.

  A panel in the door slid away to reveal a grille. Trueman’s voice said, “What is it?”

  “I need to talk to Rachel.” Jacob hated sounding so desperate. “I’ve got myself involved in a murder.”

  “Wait there.”

  Jacob gave the taxi driver a nod, and the car moved off into the night. The panel slid back into place, and once again became almost invisible to the naked eye. The door swung open.

  Trueman stood before him, in his shirt sleeves. He considered Jacob rather as he might examine a dog which had disgraced itself.

  “Go through to the kitchen. Hetty will see you presently.”

  Jacob did as he was told, and took a seat at the vast pine table in the centre of the kitchen. It was Rachel he wanted to talk to, but he knew better than to argue with Trueman. A clock on the Welsh dresser said half past two. Rachel was probably in bed, although once, in a rare confidence, she’d hinted that she suffered from insomnia.

  He slumped back in the chair, and closed his eyes. His clothes were grubby from lying on the attic floorboards, but he was too exhausted to care. He was drifting off to sleep when a hand tapped his shoulder.

  “Your head’s cut. Let’s have a proper look at it.”

  Hetty Trueman’s stern voice roused him. She was wearing a pinafore, as if about to cook a meal, but she produced a bottle of iodine and bowl of water together with a towel and dressings, and set to work. When she’d dealt with the wound on his scalp, he told her about having cut his foot on the nail, and she attended to that too. She’d have made a good matron of the gruff, no molly-coddling sort. Once or twice the iodine’s sting made him yelp, but she took no notice until she’d done.

  “There.” She surveyed her handiwork. “You’ll live.”

  “Thanks,” he said without thinking, “you’re an angel.”

  Hetty made a derisive sound. “And you’re a rum one. Not to be trusted out on your own at night, by the look of you. Like something the cat dragged in. Heaven only knows what monkey business you’ve got up to. You need a good bath, and your suit’s ruined. Blood’s dripped on the jacket collar, and everything is sodden with gin. Come to that, your breath smells like you spent the night in a distillery.”

  “Apart from that,” he said, “would you agree I’m fairly presentable?”

  He detected a glimmer of a smile, but it vanished in a flash. “I’ve made the best of a bad job. I’d offer you brandy, but I expect you’d be sick. There’s nothing more for it. You’ll have to do.”

  He took a breath. “Is Rachel up and about?”

  “We don’t encourage callers, as well you know.” Hetty never made anything easy. “Let alone when decent folk are tucked up in bed.”

  “But what about Rachel?” Even after all he’d been through, he couldn’t quite stop himself.

  She scowled. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, you cheeky young devil.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a difficult night. Let me try again. Might she be kind enough to make an exception? Just this once?”

  The kitchen door opened, and Rachel walked in, together with Trueman and Martha. Rachel had a sheaf of papers in her hand. She was wearing a kimono robe in blue silk, decorated with a floral pattern; Martha had on a satin housecoat. Even in his groggy state, he thought they looked ravishing.

  “Good evening, Jacob,” Rachel said, dropping the papers on to the dresser. “I take it your investigations didn’t go to plan?”

  *

  Rachel held up her hand as Jacob tried to explain. “More haste, less speed. This is such a muddle. Someone has been stabbed to death, and you’re mixed up in it? Fleeing from justice?”

  “No!” He was outraged. “I’ve not done anything wrong. I’ve committed no crime.”

  “Now isn’t the time to rehearse the case for your defence.” Martha had made coffee for them all, and Rachel lifted her china cup. “Never mind the lurid headlines, give us the whole story. Every single thing that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. Tiny points may be crucial. You have an excellent memory; don’t leave out a word. Don’t exaggerate, either. You’re not here to sell newspapers.”

  He swallowed some coffee. “There’s a lot to tell. It’ll take ages if I go through every jot and tittle.”

  She glanced at the clock. “We have the rest of the night. Take your time. The floor is yours.”

  “If you insist.”

  Tired and miserable and frustrated as he felt, he must do Rachel’s bidding. Her implacability tormented him, but he needed her on his side. She was his only hope of making sense of what had happened. And of dodging personal disaster.

  “I do.”

  With painstaking attention to detail, and aided by copious quantities of Martha’s excellent coffee, he recounted the sequence of events. His long, rambling conversation with Griselda Farquharson, the meeting with Inspector Oakes, the arrival of the membership card, and his visit to the Clandestine Club. Not until he reached the moment when he spotted Leonora Dobell did anyone else utter a word.

  “How interesting,” Rachel mused. “I did wonder.”

  “Whether Leonora was a member of the club?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What on earth made you think she might be?”

  “It crossed my mind that she’d heard about the place while researching Gilbert Payne. The Clandestine Club is a world away from Mortmain Hall. Curiosity got the better of her.”

  “She’s a married woman.”

  Rachel groaned. “Oh, Jacob, I’ve spent most of my life on a tiny island, but there are times when I wonder if you’ve led a more sheltered existence than me.”

  “I’ve certainly not read half as many books as you,” he snapped.

  She exchanged a smile with Martha, who could scarcely contain her amusement. “It’s good to see you’ve not run out of fighting spirit. Carry on with the story. We’re agog.”

  Jacob scowled but didn’t argue. After the drama and excitement of making his escape from the attic, he felt the clammy grip of depression. Now for the tricky part of his story. In the brightly lit kitchen, his sympathy for the pretty girl with the saucer-like eyes didn’t seem as selfless as he’d thought at the time.

  Rachel listened, expressionless, as he described his conversation with Daisy. When he reached the point where the girl had invited him for a nightcap, Rachel asked a question.

  “Describe her dress.”


  Jacob blinked. “It was revealing, I remember that.”

  “I’m sure you do. Tell me more.”

  “Sorry, I’m not very good with women’s clothes.”

  “Don’t worry if you don’t know your Lanvin from your Florrie Westwood. What colour was it?”

  “A sort of bluey-green, I’d say.”

  Rachel sighed. “Let me help you, then. Was it azure, and made of chiffon? Bare shoulders, and offering a generous glimpse of milky bosom?”

  “I suppose it was.”

  “And did she have blonde hair, bee-stung lips, and nail lacquer the same colour as her gown?” She paused. “Coupled with a faint resemblance to a poor man’s Clara Bow?”

  He stared. “How did you guess?”

  “Put it down to my psychic powers. This colonel, did she tell you anything about him?”

  “Only that he was much older.” He thought for a moment. “She didn’t think he was a real colonel.”

  “Might calling him a colonel have been a slip of the tongue?”

  “I suppose so. Mostly, she called him Tom. Not that it would have been his real name. If he ever existed.”

  “Oh, he exists, all right,” Rachel said. “But I must apologise. You were just about to get to the exciting part of your adventure.”

  He grimaced, but knew he might as well get it over with. Rachel and the Truemans listened in silence as he rattled through the story, explaining how she’d inveigled him to come up with her, and about recovering consciousness only to find himself stark naked and in bed with the body of a dead man.

  “The ruffian who coshed you shouldn’t have locked you in,” Rachel said.

  “I’m so glad you think so,” Jacob said, with a touch of asperity. “If...”

  “I mean, what would the police make of it, if they found you locked up with a corpse? Perhaps he intended to unlock the door before they arrived. But it strikes me as a complication too far.”

  “I dont...”

  “Describe the dead man,” Rachel said.

  Jacob blushed. “Well, as I say, he wasn’t wearing anything apart from lipstick. How much detail do you need?”