Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  Pennington patted his stomach. “Don’t tell me a maniac has set about ridding the world of old Harrovians.”

  “You were at Harrow, Turner?” Reggie asked.

  The little man nodded. “You weren’t, though?”

  “No, no, it’s just that… I know one or two chaps who were at Harrow.”

  “Mixing with your betters, eh?” said Pennington, an old Etonian.

  Turner’s pallor was natural, but there was no mistaking the tremor in his voice. “It’s no laughing matter, Pennington. A man, butchered in the middle of London. In some disreputable haunt in Soho. Makes you wonder what the world is coming to.”

  “What was his name?” Reggie asked.

  Turner sighed. “Louis Morgans.”

  *

  “Mortmain?” the taxi driver at Scarborough station repeated. His bushy eyebrows beetled. “Dobell Arms?”

  His tone implied that Jacob wished to be conveyed to a distant and inhospitable planet.

  “Got it in one,” Jacob said cheerfully, climbing into the back.

  Following his misadventures of the previous evening, he’d recovered his sangfroid. He’d fled from a waking nightmare to find himself safe and sound, with only a few scratches and bruises to show for it. The weather was warm, he was back in his home county, and he’d caught up with some sleep on the journey.

  Best of all, he’d just picked up a copy of a late edition of the Clarion, hot off the presses. Before dashing to King’s Cross for his train, he’d rattled off a dozen crisp paragraphs in record time. Knowing more than the police made his job so much easier. The only concern was to avoid giving too much away. His handiwork filled the front page. It was a good splash.

  Soho Murder Victim Identified as Prominent Solicitor

  Admittedly prominent stretched the truth, but it made for a sharper hook than odious. A head-and-shoulders photograph of Louis Morgans smirked from beneath the headline, barely recognisable as the corpse Jacob had seen in that hellhole of an attic. The picture editor had laid his hands on a studio portrait. At first glance, Morgans did bear a passing resemblance to a respectable professional man.

  “Not a lot of call for rides to Mortmain, then?” Jacob asked, as they headed out on to the coast road.

  The man gave a catarrhal sniff. “It’s the back of beyond. Nothing to see, nothing to do. Just a few cliffs and a load of birds making a nuisance of themselves.”

  “Isn’t there a big house? Mortmain Hall?”

  “Old mausoleum,” the driver said. “Been in the same family for donkey’s years, but they’ve never done owt with it.”

  “The Dobells, isn’t that right? I hear they own a lot of famous paintings.”

  The driver dismissed the collection of treasures with another sniff. “I don’t know owt about art.”

  “Do you know the Dobell Arms, by any chance? This is my first visit.”

  The local inn was the one place in the vicinity of Mortmain Hall where you could put up for the night. Martha had telephoned to book him in. She’d amused herself by pretending to be his sister.

  “Never set foot in the place.” An emphatic sniff. “You’re not from these parts, then?”

  “Actually, I’m a Yorkshireman myself.” Jacob was irked by the implication that he hailed from the soft south. “West Riding, not North. Born and bred in Armley.”

  “Leeds, is that?”

  The driver made it sound as remote as Vladivostok, and as unknowable. He lapsed into silence, and Jacob didn’t disturb him again.

  *

  For Reggie Vickers, the rest of the match passed in a blur. The scoreboard ticked over, but he paid it no heed. He was even oblivious to the occasional roar from the unseen ravine on the far side of the pavilion when the lions felt the need to remind everyone of their presence.

  Sir Samuel’s team relied on the aggressive batting of a gardener who was built like a blacksmith. He smote the bowling to all four corners of the ground, and although wickets fell regularly at the other end, he was carrying his side to victory. Reggie drifted around the outfield, allowing one fierce shot to pass through his legs to the boundary, to Major Whitlow’s displeasure.

  Lulu Morgans’ death had shaken him to the core. They’d met through the Clan, and their last encounter had ended on bad terms. Lulu was as louche as Doodle was faithless, and they’d quarrelled over the transfer of Doodle’s affections to Reggie. Morgans’ murder might be a matter of chance. Had he simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Soho was full of bad hats, and it was easy to fall foul of them. But Reggie feared there was something more to the crime, something he didn’t understand. He only knew enough to make him afraid.

  “Catch!”

  Turner, whose bowling had taken fearful punishment, had lobbed up an inviting slow ball which the gardener thrashed at with his customary vigour. The ball caught the top edge of his bat and instead of sailing over the boundary, looped up invitingly towards midwicket.

  The Masqueraders’ fielders had scattered, and Reggie was best placed to take the catch. Pennington’s bellow jerked him out of his reverie. He circled beneath the red ball. It took an age to fall from the sky. He cupped his hands in the approved fashion, only for the ball to smack them with such force that he spilled it to the ground. The gasp of dismay from his teammates spoke louder than words. His palm stung as he picked the ball up and hurled it back to the wicketkeeper. The wildness of his throw cost two additional runs.

  “Sorry,” he called. “Sun in my eyes.”

  “Bad luck,” Turner said stoically. “Catch the next one.”

  They both knew there wouldn’t be another chance. Reggie had not only dropped the catch. He’d let the game slip through his fingers.

  He dared not glance at his captain. Major Whitlow was not the forgiving kind.

  *

  A narrow lane led from the coast road through fields and woodland to Mortmain. The hamlet amounted to a scattering of cottages, a small post office, and a shop. The Dobell Arms was the last building before the lane curved behind a coppice and out of sight, towards the Hall. The inn had a painted signboard battered by the elements and displaying a barely distinguishable coat of arms. Jacob tipped the driver, advised him to take a sightseeing trip to Armley, and strode inside, clutching his suitcase and the Clarion.

  The inn only had one bar. The ceiling was low, and the floor flagged. There was an inglenook with an unlit log fire. The place was deserted except for a customer who was ringing a bell on the counter. He had a trunk at his feet, a camera case in one hand, and a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. An Ordnance Survey map peeped out of his coat pocket.

  Jacob had decided not to use a false name. He’d tell any casual enquirer that he was taking a short break from the pressures of work. If need be, he’d drop a hint that he suffered from bad nerves, and craved peace and quiet. Given that Mortmain was devoid of tourist attractions, he’d decided to say he was birdwatching. There’d be no shortage of feathered friends in the area. Gulls and suchlike. He’d brought a notebook, pen, and camera to lend credence to his story, but had failed to bargain for bumping into a genuine ornithologist. The sight of the binoculars halted him in his tracks. He’d forgotten to bring any; not that he had a pair of his own.

  The man turned and peered suspiciously at him through horn-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses. Jacob’s cheeks felt hot. His plumage and colouring were under scrutiny, and had been found wanting. He was too commonplace, he thought glumly. The lesser spotted London journalist.

  “Good afternoon,” the man said.

  His voice was reedy, his accent Scottish. His hair had an indeterminate sandy tint, as did his goatee beard. Jacob would have pigeonholed him as a holidaying schoolmaster but for the fact that it was still term time.

  “Afternoon.” Jacob joined him at the counter and dropped his suitcase down by his feet. “Waiting long?”

  “Four and a half minutes.” He rang the bell again.

  This prissy and precise fellow looke
d like one of those pedants who delight in catching other people out. Jacob resolved to claim no expertise whatsoever in the field of ornithology. What else did you look for on the Yorkshire coast? He racked his brains. The landscape was ancient. Jurassic, perhaps? He’d pretend to be interested in fossils.

  An elderly man in shirtsleeves emerged from a door at the back of the bar, and scowled at them. “All right, all right. Who’s first?”

  “Mr Hepton?” the man with the binoculars said.

  “Aye.”

  “Remember me?”

  “Happen,” the landlord said.

  “My name is Siddons, from Inverness. I’ve stayed here before, as you may recall. Are your sister-in-law and your charming niece well?”

  “Happen.”

  “I’ve booked the room in the annexe for two nights.”

  The landlord pushed a dog-eared guestbook across the counter. As Siddons signed his name, Jacob wondered why anyone would want to come back here. Conditions for birdwatching must be more hospitable than those inside the Dobell Arms. Perhaps the real attraction was the charming niece.

  He yawned. Fatigue was catching up with him. Placing his copy of the Clarion on the bar counter, he sneaked another look at his story on the front page. Did the likes of Renoir feel this satisfaction of a job well done when admiring their latest masterpiece?

  The landlord handed a large key to Siddons and said that the door to the inn was locked at a quarter to eleven, sharp. Glancing at the Clarion headline, Siddons exclaimed in shock.

  “Murder! My goodness.” He coughed. “A solicitor, too! What is the world coming to?”

  Jacob only just managed to suppress a low groan. He’d committed a cardinal error. The story about Morgans carried his own byline.

  As soon as he signed in, it would be obvious that he’d written the story that very day. The landlord’s indifference to customers might cause him to ignore it, but Siddons looked like the sort who couldn’t mind his own business. So much for the tale about escaping to Mortmain for rest and relaxation.

  Muttering vaguely about having left something outside, he fled from the bar, leaving Siddons to stare after him with ill-concealed suspicion. The landlord remained stubbornly indifferent.

  Banging the door of the inn behind him, Jacob cursed himself for his carelessness. Last night, overconfidence had come close to costing him his life, but he’d still not learned the lesson. He’d only been here five minutes, and already complacency had caused him to stick out like a sore thumb. A birdwatcher who didn’t know the first thing about birds, a man seeking to recuperate but still hard at work.

  Thank goodness Rachel Savernake wasn’t here to see him squirming with self-abasement. If he were to make sense of what Leonora Dobell was up to, he’d better shape up. He stomped up and down until he was sure that Siddons had departed for his room. The last thing he wanted was to be identified as a crime reporter and trapped in conversation about Louis Morgans’ murder by a pernickety nosey parker.

  This was the problem with human interest stories, he told himself miserably. They provoked human interest.

  When he felt sure the coast must be clear, he went back inside. His suitcase was where he’d left it, but the Clarion had vanished, and so had Siddons and Hepton. Jacob rang the bell, but this time more than four and a half minutes passed before mine host deigned to return.

  20

  “What brings you to Mortmain, then?”

  Lucy Hepton, the landlord’s niece, had lingered after serving Jacob his tea. He was her only customer. Sturdily built, fair-haired, and vivacious, Lucy had a winning smile and a weakness for cheap scent. It was soon clear that she liked a gossip, especially with a young man. The Dobell Arms never got passing trade, she said, because nobody ever passed through it on their way somewhere. The lane came to a dead end at Mortmain Head, and there was only the gloomy old Hall, perched on the clifftops.

  “I wanted to relax for a few days. Whitby and Scarborough are too busy. I fancied a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “You’ll get that here, all right. Another birdwatcher, are you?”

  “No,” he said hastily. “Mr Siddons is the expert.”

  He was relieved that the ornithologist hadn’t put in an appearance. The last thing he wanted was a chat about birdlife.

  Lucy sighed. “He’s potty about our feathered friends. They’re all he really cares about. Goes into raptures if he sees a stonechat perched on a bit of gorse. Their mating call sounds like two pebbles being knocked together, he told me. Takes all sorts, I told him.”

  She gave him a suggestive wink. Jacob deduced that Siddons hadn’t paid her as much attention as she hoped for. He murmured in sympathy.

  “He should watch where he’s putting his feet, instead of looking up at the sky all the time. He came back an hour ago, limping and moaning like billy-o, and took himself off to bed. He tripped over the cliff edge at Mortmain Head, and sprained his ankle. Mr Dobell’s nurse was out, and she bandaged it. He should thank his lucky stars. He could have broken his neck, or drowned, or both. It’s a long way down to the sea.”

  “The cliffs are dangerous?”

  “If you don’t keep your eye on where you’re going. There are paths, but you need to pick your way down like a mountain goat.”

  “I thought I might look for fossils.”

  Lucy laughed. “You can start with my old uncle.”

  *

  Beer flowed freely in the cruck barn as Sir Samuel’s men celebrated their glorious triumph, and the Masqueraders drowned their sorrows. Reggie drank as if there were no tomorrow. People clapped him on the back, and told him to cheer up. Everyone dropped catches; it was part of the game. None of them realised that the cause of his misery wasn’t the mistake that had cost the Masqueraders dear.

  Confused and out of his depth, he didn’t have a clue what to do next. Two men he knew had been murdered in the space of a week. How could their deaths be a coincidence? He’d known Gilbert Payne’s life was in jeopardy; that was why he’d enlisted the aid of the Savernake woman. This second killing, out of the blue, had shredded his nerves. Since Doodle had walked out on him, he had nobody to confide in. He dare not utter a peep to any of his colleagues. Let alone the police. Had he blundered in refusing to talk to Rachel Savernake?

  The trouble was that the woman was a mystery. Her name had cropped up at a dinner party. A pal of his godfather, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had gossiped about a judge’s daughter with remarkable detective skills. Not that Sir Godfrey approved of outsiders interfering with a police investigation into murder, dear me no. But Rachel Savernake was no shabby inquiry agent, but a judge’s daughter with untold wealth and an obsession about murder.

  He remembered her name after discovering that Gilbert Payne was still alive but in mortal danger. Consulting the official police was too dangerous – for him, as well as for Gilbert. He’d sought out the Savernake woman and told her as much as he dared. Her coolness as she’d listened to his extraordinary story had impressed and repelled him at one and the same time, but she’d asked enough questions for him to believe she would try to save Gilbert’s life.

  Knocking back the rest of his pint, he wondered if he’d been too hasty in turning his back on her. Malign and powerful forces were at work. Could Rachel Savernake cast light on the darkness?

  And could he trust her?

  “Penny for ’em,” a voice said.

  “Just remembered I’ve forgotten something.”

  Pennington chortled. “Contradiction in terms, old man.”

  “Back in a minute.” Reggie got up from his chair. “Call of nature.”

  “Return fixture is on Saturday, don’t forget. Better nip off for some catching practice.” Pennington was still braying with laughter as Reggie pushed his way through the crowd.

  *

  “Funny woman, Mrs Dobell.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  After Lucy had cleared the crockery away, she’d come back and pulled
up a chair. Jacob had steered the conversation towards Mortmain Hall and its occupants.

  “It’s not that,” Lucy said. “She goes out of her way to make a fuss of me.”

  Jacob remembered Leonora in the Clandestine Club, singing “Ain’t She Sweet?”. “Does she really?”

  “You’d be surprised.” Lucy appeared to be about to share a confidence, before thinking better of it. “And all the time the Hall is going to rack and ruin. Anyhow, she spends a lot of her time down in London.”

  “What does she get up to there?”

  “They say she writes books,” Lucy said darkly.

  “Goodness,” Jacob said. “What about?”

  “Murder trials, of all things. Mother says it’s nasty. Uncle Bob can’t be doing with it, either. Reckons that Mr Dobell ought to put his foot down.” She gave a cheeky grin. “Even if he only has one foot.”

  “Do you see much of him?”

  She shook her head. “He was crippled in the war, poor soul. They say he’s not really much of a man, if you catch my meaning. He has a nurse to look after him. Not that the nurses last long. There’s nothing to keep anyone in Mortmain.”

  “You’ve stayed here.”

  “Twenty-two years,” she said dreamily. “A whole lifetime. Not that I could ever leave Mother. So I have to amuse myself as best I can.”

  She shifted her chair close to his. Acutely conscious of her physical presence, as well as the suffocating perfume, he said, “Do the Dobells…?”

  “You don’t want to hear me gassing away about the Dobells,” she said, placing a hand on his knee. “The gentry aren’t like you and me, Jacob.”

  The door of the inn swung open. Jacob glanced up and saw two old men hobbling towards the bar. He stifled a sigh of relief.

  “You’ve got some customers,” he said.

  “Two more fossils for your collection,” she muttered.

  Laughing, he said, “It’s been a long day. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  Getting to her feet, she shot him a quizzical look. “Fit young chap like you? It’s the fresh air, that’s all. A quick nap, and then you’ll be ready for anything.”