Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  Leonora nodded. “But how can one disentangle the truth from make-believe?”

  As the grounds broadened out, the main path divided in two, one fork weaving towards the rotunda. Leonora strode out past a small garden of rambling roses. Ahead of them was the old tennis court.

  “Thankfully, I don’t care for tennis, so it doesn’t matter that the court is going to rack and ruin,” Leonora said. “Our head gardener has worked here for fifty years, man and boy. Because he loves the place, he puts up with a rotten wage and the dubious assistance of youths from the village.”

  A branch of the path led through a clump of trees. The shade was so welcome that they paused close to a small stumpery, a tangle of logs and tree roots with ferns growing through the dead wood.

  “I’m curious that you brought three servants with you,” Leonora said. “And startled that they comprise the whole of your staff. Forgive my bluntness, but surely you can’t be feeling the pinch too? With the upkeep of a large house in London to—”

  “Like you,” Rachel interrupted, “I’m wary of servants who can’t be trusted. I grew up with the Trueman family. To me, they are like flesh and blood.”

  “I must apologise. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Leonora pursed her lips. “Or to sound jealous. You can tell how unaccustomed I am to welcoming guests to Mortmain. How easy it is to forget that I’m a lucky woman. At least I can pursue my interests unhindered. Thank you for indulging me.”

  “I’m wondering when you’ll explain precisely why you invited me to join you and three strangers who were accused of committing murder.”

  Leonora considered. “I hoped you would be fascinated by the prospect of meeting them.”

  “And so I am.”

  “Then that is a good enough answer.” Leonora consulted her watch. “Time is moving on. The other guests will arrive soon. Shall we go inside?”

  *

  “Henry Rolland. Charmed to meet you, Miss Savernake.”

  Rolland’s handshake was brisk, his smile practised, his eyes wary. He resembled a politician attempting to gauge a constituent’s allegiance. Rachel thought he’d put on weight since the time of his arrest for the murder of his mistress. In a photograph taken when the Wirral Bungalow Mystery was headline news and reprinted in Leonora’s book, Rolland had a lean and hungry look. In retirement, he’d filled out. Immaculate as he was in a double-breasted suit of black Saxony with white pencil stripes, white shirt, and grey tie, not even Savile Row could quite disguise his corpulence, let alone the fleshiness around his jaw.

  “Rachel’s father was the late Judge Savernake.” Leonora was performing introductions in the front hall. “My husband is resting at present, but will join us for dinner. Two more guests are due shortly, and then our party will be complete. Perhaps you’d like to take a turn around the grounds while I have a word with cook?”

  “Admirable suggestion,” Rolland said. “We must make the most of this glorious weather before it breaks. A breath of air after the drive over the Pennines will do me a power of good. Care to join me, Miss Savernake? Capital!”

  She followed Rolland outside. Squinting into the sun, he said, “This is – ah, a pleasant surprise, Miss Savernake. Mrs Dobell never mentioned that she’d invited you.”

  Rachel indicated the path they should follow. “I was a last-minute addition to the guest list.”

  They walked in silence to the furthest point on the headland and looked out at the sea. The heat was more intense than ever. Rachel’s skin was burning.

  “Have you known Leonora long?” Rolland asked.

  “We met for the first time earlier this week.”

  “So she’s a criminologist, eh? Not surprised she hides behind a pen name. Odd sort of a job for a woman.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sordid occupation, delving into old crimes.” He thought for a moment. “You’re not in the same line?”

  “I don’t expect I’ll ever publish a book,” Rachel said. “As you say, a sordid occupation.”

  He grunted. “She wrote about me, I suppose you know.”

  “About the case you had the misfortune to be caught up in, yes.”

  As he fixed a steely gaze on her, Rachel glimpsed a hint of the single-mindedness that had taken him from poverty to riches.

  “Read it?” he demanded.

  Rachel nodded.

  “One minute I was successful, respected. The next, I’d become a pariah. What happened in that bungalow has overshadowed everything else. My life now seems like… marking time. It’s a hard thing, to see your world turned inside out like that.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “And even harder to lose a loved one, or to be murdered.”

  “Whatever you may think, I cared for the girl,” he snapped. “I wasn’t simply using her. If anything…”

  He broke off, and Rachel finished the sentence for him. “If anything, you cared too much?”

  “Yes,” he muttered.

  Without another word, he marched off in the direction of the house.

  *

  Outside Mortmain Hall, a man and a woman descended from a taxi. A maid consulted with the Dobells’ elderly butler about the destination of their luggage. Clive Danskin was wearing Oxford bags and carrying a straw boater; his gold cufflinks winked in the sun. His demeanour was jaunty, as if he were treating the weekend as a trip to the seaside.

  Sylvia Gorrie cut a striking figure, tall and blonde, with high cheekbones and a regal bearing. Her flowing pastel-green summer dress was the epitome of chic. Rachel detected the stylish hallmarks of Elsa Schiaparelli.

  Leonora emerged from the house as Henry Rolland approached the newcomers, hand outstretched. Rachel joined the group, and the hostess made the introductions.

  “Dinner is at six thirty,” Leonora said. “Quite early, I know, but my husband tires easily. He’s resting at present, but will join us for a sherry before we dine.”

  Rolland was sweating. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “Still damned close to boiling point. Think I’ll have a bath, try and cool down.”

  Leonora smiled. “I’m not surprised your temperature rose, taking a walk with such a beautiful young woman.”

  Rolland gave a curt nod, and excused himself. Leonora and Sylvia Gorrie followed him inside, leaving Clive Danskin to contemplate Rachel with undisguised interest.

  “What brings you to Mortmain Hall, Miss Savernake? Or Rachel, if I may make so bold? We don’t want to stand on formality, do we?”

  “Leonora made this little party sound irresistible,” she said. “I’m no social butterfly, but the guest list is very… select.”

  “I’ll say.” Danskin’s grin made him look like a schoolboy. His technique with women, Rachel observed, was to be disarmingly frank. “Rolland was accused of murder, you know. And Sylvia – Mrs Gorrie – and I both stood trial at the Old Bailey.”

  “I’m unsure about the etiquette. Should I offer congratulations on your acquittal, or commiserate because of the injustice of the charge?”

  “Very good,” Danskin chortled. “You have a pawky sense of humour, Rachel. Admirable. I do appreciate wit in a lady.”

  “You’re not working today, I see.”

  He stroked his chin. “To tell you the truth, I’m a free agent. The company didn’t enjoy the publicity about the trial.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. The change suits me down to the ground.” He beamed. “Time to put down a few roots. I want to set up an outfit of my own.”

  “How brave,” Rachel said. “Every newspaper I read tells me that businesses are collapsing across the civilised world. American tycoons queue up to jump from skyscraper windows.”

  Danskin laughed. “Slump or no slump, ladies will always love silk stockings. Depend upon it. I’m aiming to compete with my old firm. Reckon I can teach them a thing or two about salesmanship. Not that I want to blow my own trumpet.”

  “Of course not.”

  The sundress f
lattered her svelte figure, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. “I’m based in the Smoke. You’re there too, aren’t you? Perhaps we could get together. I’d be glad to offer you a bite of dinner. I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

  “I should have thought you’d had your fill of fires,” Rachel said. “After what happened to your car.”

  Danskin gaped at her for a moment before pulling himself together and bursting into laughter. “A hit, a very palpable hit! My goodness, Rachel, I can see I’m going to have to keep a close watch on you.”

  “Did the police ever discover the identity of the tramp who died in the blaze?”

  “They don’t take me into their confidence, sad to say. If their investigations into my alibi are anything to go by, there’s no chance they’ll discover who he was.” He waved airily. “England is full of chaps without jobs, wandering aimlessly around the countryside. Some of the poor beggars are bound to turn to crime. I only wish the police had taken me at my word. A lot of unpleasantness would have been avoided, and taxpayers’ money saved. Let me assure you, my dear, the Keystone Cops would have shown more acumen.”

  “I suppose their excuse is that Major Whitlow was out of the country.”

  “All I can say is thank the Lord that the blighter turned up in the nick of time.” Danskin went through a pantomime of rubbing his neck. “The judge was itching to put on his black cap and send me to the scaffold.”

  “And now the blighter has turned up in Yorkshire,” Rachel said. “Have you seen the news? A man died yesterday evening. A tragic incident at a private zoo a few miles from here. He played cricket for a team captained by the major.”

  Danskin blinked. “Good Lord. Quite a coincidence.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “Isn’t it?”

  *

  “What news from the servants’ quarters?” Rachel asked when Martha arrived in her room.

  “Hetty’s befriended the cook, who is at least a hundred years old, and rather gaga. I’d watch your hors d’oeuvres, if I were you. Cliff’s tried talking to the butler, but the man’s as deaf as a post. I’ve had better luck, a long conversation with Leonora’s maid. Gladys comes from the village and has worked here since she was fourteen. She’s bursting to ask how my face got scarred, but somehow she’s restrained herself. Thank goodness she loves to natter. I could hardly get a word in edgeways.”

  “Perfect.” Rachel stood at the window, gazing out over the North Sea. “This is the sort of place where anyone not born and bred within five miles is treated as a suspicious alien.”

  “Like Leonora Dobell. She only comes from the West Riding, but if you’ve been stuck in Mortmain all your life, it might as well be Westphalia.”

  “What do they say about her?”

  Martha pondered. “Gladys has a soft spot for her, but even she reckons her mistress has a screw loose.”

  “Because she sells off her husband’s paintings? Or because she’s a criminologist?”

  “A bit of both. At least she isn’t a snob, and doesn’t play the lady of the manor. If anything, she goes too far the other way. She’s unconventional. No respect for protocol, or the done thing.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “Servants like to know where they stand. They feel more at ease with the gentry than with upstarts who aren’t content with their station in life.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Martha stuck out a pink tongue. “Not that any of the gentry ever come near Mortmain. This place has always been stuck out on a limb. Now everyone’s forgotten its existence. Folk in the hamlet call it Morgue Hall.”

  Rachel laughed. “Perfect.”

  “In case it helps, I’ve drawn a map of Mortmain and its surroundings, based on what they have told me.” Shyly, Martha handed over a sheet of paper. “I’ll never get a job with the Ordnance Survey, but you know I love sketching. I’m afraid it’s not to scale and...”

  “It’s marvellous, stop apologising.” Rachel dropped a light kiss on Martha’s cheek. “Thank you, dear. You’ll make an artist yet.”

  The maid glowed with pleasure. “This is the first house party here since the war. Felix never wanted to see anyone from outside. He’s depressed because he’s only half a man, and whiles away his time with jigsaw puzzles.”

  “The Dobells’ marriage wasn’t a love match on either side, that’s as plain as the nose on Leonora’s face. But it’s hardly unique.”

  “Leonora hasn’t told the servants about her guests.”

  “That three of them came close to hanging for murder?”

  Martha nodded. “Even so, Gladys is worried. She recognised Danskin’s photograph from the papers. She doesn’t understand why Leonora has suddenly decided to invite all these people here. Including you. Says it’s like holding a house party in hell.”

  “Uncomfortably close to the mark.” Rachel rubbed her chin. “When Leonora showed me the Dobells’ art collection, I was reminded of a painting I love.”

  Martha raised her eyes to the heavens. “Surrealism and all that jazz? Give me landscapes any day. I may be a Philistine, but I prefer something I can understand.”

  “This is an American drawing, All is Vanity. You see a woman admiring herself in a mirror. Look again from a distance, and you realise you’re gazing at a human skull.”

  “I might have known that would appeal to you.”

  “You sound like Hetty.” Rachel’s smile faded. “The drawing is an optical illusion. Clever artists delight in them. Your eyes are drawn to a picture. But on a second viewing, you realise that you’re looking at something else entirely. That’s the way I feel about this gathering here at Mortmain Hall. We’re seeing one thing, but something very different is going on, without us even realising. Right in front of our eyes.”

  “That’s too deep for me,” Martha said.

  Rachel sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed. “What does Gladys make of Leonora’s passion for criminology?”

  “A silly fad which gives her an excuse to dash off to London whenever she’s fed up with Felix. What sensible woman would be interested in horrid things like murder? Let alone write books on the subject. It’s just not ladylike.”

  “And does anybody here know what Leonora gets up to in London?”

  “There’s idle gossip that she might have a lover down there.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male, of course.” Martha smiled. “It’s beyond Gladys to imagine a romance between two women. Even though she mutters darkly about Leonora making a favourite of one of Felix’s previous nurses. That caused a lot of jealousy. The girl at the Dobell Arms has also caught Leonora’s eye. Some of the lower orders don’t know their place.”

  “How true.” Rachel patted her maid’s hand.

  “People still see her as the nurse who married a crippled soldier when he was still grieving for his first wife. Not that the original Mrs Dobell was popular.”

  “No?”

  “Sounds like a nasty piece of work, a snob and a tyrant. Her father was one of the great and the good in the North Riding. She despised the servants, and even Felix was under her thumb. At least Leonora treats people as human beings.”

  “With the exception of Felix’s nurse?”

  “Gladys loathes Bernice Cope. She puts on airs and graces, and brags endlessly about her young man. Not that Gladys believes he exists. Reckons Bernice is too ugly to attract a lover.”

  Looking at Martha’s scarred cheek, Rachel said, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “So they say.” The maid shrugged. “I wonder how many truly believe it?”

  Rachel recounted Leonora’s remarks about the nurse, and said, “So there is henbane in the house. As well as other poisons.”

  “Another reason to be careful with your hors d’oeuvres.”

  Rachel smiled. “Does Gladys think Bernice is a poisoner?”

  “On the contrary. She grudgingly admits that Nurse Cope is good at her job. Felix always had a
twinkle in his eye, Gladys says. In his younger days, he cut a dashing figure. He’s devoted to Bernice, and the twinkle has been spotted again. She helps him with his jigsaw puzzles. All the signs are that she’s genuinely fond of him.”

  “But not of Leonora?”

  “She can’t bear the woman. And the feeling is mutual. According to Gladys, Leonora would jump at the chance to get rid of her, but Bernice is too canny to give her an excuse.” Martha took a tortoiseshell hairbrush from the dressing table. “Come on, you need to be getting ready for dinner.”

  Rachel pulled off her sundress. Underneath she was wearing a coral step-in chemise of silk crêpe de Chine. Martha sat down beside her on the bed, and began to brush her hair.

  “What are the two men like?”

  “Henry Rolland spent too long with hundreds of employees at his beck and call. Retirement doesn’t suit him. He misses being at the centre of things. Like all businessmen, he’s adept at giving the impression that he’s robust. My guess is that he’s on the brink of a nervous collapse.”

  “Rolland is in a different position from Danskin and Mrs Gorrie,” Martha said. “A court of law found them not guilty. His innocence was never proved.”

  “Danskin is full of himself after his acquittal. For all the talk at his trial about his financial problems, he doesn’t seem short of money now.”

  “Quite miraculous.”

  “No doubt he celebrated his good fortune by practising his charm on Sylvia Gorrie on the way here. Now he’s invited me to dinner in London.”

  “Just the two of you? How cosy. First Louis Morgans, now Danskin. Aren’t you lucky?”

  “I should tell him what happened to Morgans. That would make him think twice.”

  Martha kept brushing. “Don’t be so sure. He’ll find your silky hair irresistible. Not to mention everything else about you. What about Mrs Gorrie? If she’s as glamorous as people make out, you’ll face competition. Have you talked to her yet?”

  “No, she fled to her room at the first opportunity. Escaping Danskin, but also Leonora and me.”

  “Are you still so sure Leonora isn’t plotting to kill you?”

  “The boot’s on the other foot. If I’m not mistaken, she believes that I murdered the Judge.”