Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  “The man is a journalist,” the major said. “I don’t trust him an inch.”

  “Just as you didn’t trust Reggie Vickers?” Rachel’s smile vanished. “I’ll speak to Jacob Flint, and I’ll answer for him. He won’t print a word if he knows what is good for him.”

  “I don’t…”

  “If he lets me down, you know what to do. Find a lion hungry for the latest scoop.”

  “Intolerable!” The major pointed at her with his claw. “You don’t understand…”

  “Don’t patronise me, Major.” Her tone cut like a blade. “I’ve explained my terms. They are perfectly reasonable.”

  “Miss Savernake!” Major Whitlow banged his claw on the table. “This isn’t a game.”

  “It’s certainly not cricket,” she said.

  “You might as well insist that your servants be allowed to join us.”

  “I’m sorely tempted.” Rachel threw a contemptuous glance at the mark the claw had scored on the varnished table surface. “At least I trust them.”

  There was a long silence. Rachel turned her back on him and lifted a copy of Respectable Murders from the shelf. She leafed through the pages as Oakes addressed Whitlow.

  “Major?”

  The claw was clenched. “Very well, Miss Savernake. Against my better judgement, I agree.”

  *

  Seven people assembled in the library: Oakes, Major Whitlow, Sylvia Gorrie, Henry Rolland, Clive Danskin, Rachel, and Jacob. Rachel had changed into a dress of orange and yellow brocade. Jacob thought she looked more like a hostess at a pleasant soirée than an expert in murder.

  Rolland and Danskin were smoking. The salesman fidgeted incessantly and kept checking his pocket watch. Sylvia had accepted a cigarette. Jacob wondered if she was calming her nerves, but on the surface she remained her usual assured self.

  Outside, a storm raged. They heard the crash of a slate tile from the roof as it hit the ground. Oakes had sent his sergeant off to the Dobell Arms, but even such a short drive would be testing in this weather.

  “I’d like to tell you a story,” Rachel said. “A moral fable, if you like.”

  Sylvia addressed the inspector. “Is this in order? I know we’re in the frozen north, where anything might happen, but Miss Savernake has no official standing here. Or have I overlooked something?”

  Oakes glanced at Whitlow. “I have agreed, as has the major, to listen to what Miss Savernake has to say.”

  As Whitlow inclined his head, Rolland said smoothly, “I don’t object. It will kill time until the storm abates, and we can all be on our way.”

  Danskin was restive. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  “This all begins with a man called Reginald Vickers,” Rachel said. “He was killed by a lion the night before last. Vickers was a fool, but stupidity isn’t a capital offence, and he didn’t deserve to die. Recently, he contacted me. He was in a blue funk. Said he was desperate, with nowhere else to turn. Certainly not to the police. He’d heard a whisper about my interest in crime, and that whatever my faults, a loose tongue wasn’t among them.

  “The gist was this. He worked in Whitehall, in an obscure off-shoot of the Home Department. The chain of command is unclear to me. I suppose it’s an official secret. The major was one of his superiors, and he in turn reports to a colonel whose name I have promised not to mention.”

  Sylvia Gorrie glanced at Whitlow, who gave a brisk nod of confirmation.

  “Reggie was, so to speak, a useful idiot. He was employed because of his stupidity rather than in spite of it. A recruitment policy as daring as it was unwise. However, in the aftermath of the war, those charged with safeguarding this country subordinated everything to a single stark priority. To make sure that Britain did not travel the same path as Russia, with social unrest gathering momentum until the inevitable result was bloody revolution.”

  “A popular uprising?” Sylvia was derisive. “The term is a misnomer. Ordinary people are duped by demagogues. They always end up worse off. Look at France, look at Russia…”

  “Spare us the homily,” Rachel said. “The risk was real. After the war came a wave of strikes. Even the police showed signs of insurrection against the establishment. People were angry, making trouble. They believed something must be done to build that land fit for heroes. Equally, the authorities feared the enemy within.”

  “In the national interest,” Sylvia said.

  Danskin and Rolland exchanged looks, but said nothing.

  “The enemy within,” Rachel repeated. “How does one keep an eye on that enemy, and make sure that it fails to thrive? By recruiting ordinary people to help with the task, that’s how. Reggie Vickers, an instinctive loyalist, was just a messenger. He was never on the front line. He agreed with the end, but latterly, as he learned more, he began to have qualms about the means.”

  “Weakness,” the major said.

  “Human nature,” Rachel said. “But you’re right. Reggie had weaknesses, plenty of them. It’s the main reason he got the job. As for personal matters, his destiny was mapped out from his early days. He was to marry a nice young lady of the same class, and produce nice children to carry on the family name. The trouble was, Reggie yearned for excitement, something different. He was introduced to a club in Soho, and became a member. The Clandestine Club’s name spoke for itself. It catered for exotic tastes, forbidden pleasures. And it enjoyed remarkable longevity. Dens of vice usually last only a few months before they are closed down. The Clan escaped a similar fate. Thanks, no doubt, to friends in high places.”

  The major shook his head. “Wild speculation.”

  Oakes said, “I told Mr Flint, the Yard could never get the evidence needed to intervene.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Yes, the Clan is a model of efficiency. Despite not making a profit. Its main raison d’être is to make sure that certain individuals are susceptible to blackmail should they behave in a way that the major and his colleagues regard as disobliging. Not that I expect him to admit that.”

  The major’s thin mouth was clamped shut.

  “At the Clandestine Club, Reggie met Gilbert Payne. Payne was one of those people who had been recruited to the cause. Reggie was devoted to him, despite realising that Payne was promiscuous and unreliable. He was a publisher, you know. His authors included your husband, Mrs Gorrie, and a poet known for his close ties to the Leninists.”

  “Rabble rousers,” Rolland said.

  “Payne’s job was to act as a spy. An informer, if you prefer. Passing on any information that might help to defeat the enemy within. But his behaviour became erratic. He talked too much, especially when he was drunk and in the company of a young man. This compromised his usefulness. His masters worried that he risked destroying everything they were trying to do.”

  “Understandable, surely,” Sylvia Gorrie said. “If what you say is correct.”

  “Four years ago, shortly before this country came close to collapse during a general strike, matters reached a head. Payne was a loose cannon. Although his superiors were ruthless, they preferred to avoid killing their own hirelings if possible. But they feared he would betray himself and the network of informers at a time when Britain was on the brink. It was necessary to stamp out a threat, and send a message to others at one and the same time. Pour encourager les autres.”

  Lightning flashed. Jacob counted five before the rumble came.

  “Payne was given an ultimatum. Leave Britain or face the consequences. He knew enough about his masters to know that defiance was suicidal. He agreed to leave for Tangier, and was given enough money to keep him quiet there. His drowning in the Thames was faked. The body they dredged up belonged, I suppose, to some unfortunate who had got on the wrong side of… well, let’s call them the Masqueraders. That’s the name of the cricket team they formed to give them an excuse to wander the country unsuspected, when there was dirty work to be done which couldn’t be delegated.”

  Jacob’s mouth was dry. He was almost glad he’d sworn
never to reveal anything he was told within these four walls. If he was taking notes, he’d already have writer’s cramp.

  “Reggie wasn’t let into the secret, because of his association with Payne. He was only told much later, to make him understand the importance of absolute discretion. Anybody who failed to toe the line faced dire consequences. Unfortunately, Payne’s mother died. He’d cut off all contact with her and she went to her grave thinking her son was dead. In his distress, he vowed that, come what may, he’d pay his last respects at her funeral. He was bored with Tangier, and I suspect he longed to return to Britain and start a new life under a false identity.

  “The Masqueraders warned that he’d pay the price if he broke his word, but he defied them. They had to act. There was no telling what he might say or do, once back in England.

  “To make matters worse, Leonora Dobell started making a nuisance of herself. Not only had she joined the Clandestine Club, her researches led her to stumble upon the Masqueraders’ secrets. Or rather, those involving the three of you.”

  Rachel gestured towards Sylvia, Rolland, and Danskin. They remained motionless. Listening, watching, waiting.

  “Leonora had written about the mystery of Payne’s supposed death, and also the cases of Sylvia Gorrie and Henry Rolland. Then out of the blue, she invited Sylvia and Henry to Mortmain Hall. She also sat through Clive Danskin’s trial. The Masqueraders didn’t know what game she was playing, but she made them nervous. Gilbert Payne’s return to Britain was an act of naked provocation. It couldn’t pass unpunished.

  “Reggie knew enough by this time to believe that Payne would be murdered. He dare not speak to Scotland Yard. The Masqueraders operate in a murky neverland. They have no official status, and few senior politicians are even aware of their existence.”

  Rachel glanced at Oakes, who was stony-faced. “The Masqueraders are a law unto themselves. They represent the entrepreneurial spirit of a small band of diehard patriots. The government’s duty to protect its people from mischief at home has been taken into private hands.”

  Jacob looked at the major. His expression was impassive. The three other guests were giving nothing away. Rolland blew a smoke ring.

  “Calling on my help was an act of desperation. Reggie poured his heart out to me, but soon had second thoughts. Unfortunately, what he’d said about Payne and the guests at the proposed house party at Mortmain Hall piqued my curiosity. I joined Payne on the funeral train, but he refused to admit to his true identity. Or to do anything to save himself from his fate. He finished up on the railway track, sliced into pieces by the Waterloo express.

  “Reggie Vickers was appalled and terrified. He’d blabbed too often to be relied upon any longer. The same was true of an acquaintance of his, a solicitor called Louis Morgans. He was another habitué of the Clandestine Club whose tastes ran to both men and women. His nickname there was Lulu. I suspect he’d performed an occasional service for the Masqueraders, but they quickly lost trust in him. They kept a close eye on Reggie, and discovered that he’d spoken to me. When Morgans invited me to dinner, that was enough to convince them that I was a threat, and Morgans a liability.”

  “Where on earth is this taradiddle taking us?” Sylvia demanded.

  “Think of it as a morality tale,” Rachel said. “Or rather, a lack-of-morality tale. Reggie Vickers met a ghastly end in a private zoo, and the Masqueraders also dealt with Morgans. They knew of my friendship with Jacob Flint and that he was poking his nose into their business. The possibility of a journalist getting wind of their activities appalled them. So they decided to kill two birds with one stone. Murder Morgans and offer up Jacob as the culprit.”

  Oakes stared at Jacob; she hadn’t mentioned this before. Jacob mustered a sheepish grin.

  “Jacob was resourceful enough to dig himself out of the hole he’d tumbled into, but he’d received a savage warning.” Rachel gave Jacob a stern glance. “And he’ll take heed.”

  The other heads turned towards him. Jacob toyed with bravado, but thought better of it. He gave a reluctant nod of assent. Everyone looked back at Rachel.

  Another flash of lightning, another roar from the heavens.

  “I thought I understood why Leonora invited Sylvia, Henry, and Clive to Mortmain Hall. What baffled me was why they agreed to come.”

  Henry Rolland stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “She’d written about me. I was curious. It seemed—”

  Rachel put up a hand to silence him. “Forgive me, but that simply won’t do. There had to be a more compelling explanation.”

  “Such as?” Danskin demanded.

  “I believe you were instructed to come to Mortmain Hall.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. Nobody tells me what to do.”

  Rachel exhaled. “Leonora was a troubled woman, but she understood the murderous mind. She saw parallels between the killing of Phoebe Evison and the blazing car case.”

  “Absurd.” Rolland guffawed, a burst of noise that seemed strange and contrived in the still of the library. “The strangling of a young woman and the accidental death of a thieving tramp? The cases are chalk and cheese.”

  “I disagree,” Rachel said. “Forget Phoebe’s husband for a moment. Forget the alibi conveniently supplied by the major. What are you left with? Two desperate men driven to extremes. Henry and Clive.”

  “Desperate?” asked Rolland scornfully.

  “Bear with my hypothesis. Your lover is pregnant, and argumentative. In the first flush of romance, you promised marriage. Now you’re unsure whether she’s worth it. You arrive at the bungalow, and you and Phoebe argue. You’re under pressure at work, your home life has fallen apart. It all becomes too much to bear. The red mist descends, as Jacob might say, and you strangle her. Your mistress is dead. The respectable businessman has become a killer. Panic-stricken, you run for your life. To London, to find someone who can rescue you from a mess of your own creation.”

  “A fairy godfather?” Rolland scoffed.

  Rachel smiled. “I’m sure the major has been called worse names than that.”

  “The major?” Rolland paled. “You’re… a fantasist, Miss Savernake.”

  “A fabulist.” She took a breath. “You’d worked for the Masqueraders since the end of the war. You were a businessman in Liverpool, a hotbed of unrest. You loathed trade unions, and did your utmost to crush them. That made you invaluable to the major. Evison was a troublemaker who loved fomenting discord. When his wife applied for a job with your firm, the chance to create ructions in Evison’s household was too good to miss. Alas for poor Phoebe. You set out to use her, and you succeeded. When she became a nuisance, you killed her.

  “My guess is that you’d been promised that if your work for the Masqueraders ever landed you in trouble, they’d bail you out of it. You fled to London, where the major saw a chance to destroy Evison and bind you to him. He seized the moment. Evison was killed, and the death made to look like suicide. A confession was forged. You were off the hook. Never even charged. A perfect outcome, except that Leonora Dobell smelled a rat. But our laws of libel gagged her. She could barely hint at the rat’s existence.”

  Rolland puffed out his cheeks. For a moment, Jacob thought he was about to explode with fury.

  Nothing happened. Rachel turned to Danskin.

  “You were equally useful to the Masqueraders, moving from town to town, keeping an eye on troublemakers in the poorer quarters under your guise as a lecherous stocking salesman with a taste for low life. Effective, since you were simply playing yourself. But you’re easily bored, and you wearied of the game. Because you were so useful to them, you were afraid the Masqueraders wouldn’t allow you to resign and lead a normal life. You certainly didn’t want to be exiled like Payne. Worse still, you’d racked up debts, and your mistresses were becoming fractious as well as expensive. You yearned for escape, and an idea sprang to mind. Why not pretend to be dead and start all over again?

  “You’re forgetting that this case was put before a c
ourt of law. I was tried and declared innocent,” Danskin snapped.

  “Not guilty, rather than innocent. But you’re right, this is only a fable in which you pick up a tramp on the road, kill the poor wretch, and then set his body alight in the car. Then you assume a disguise, and catch a train to London. But your plan unravels quickly. You’ve made too many blunders, and the police get on to your trail. Like Henry, you turn to the Masqueraders for help. They make you suffer, to teach you a lesson. You are forced to go through the ordeal of a trial represented by the Masqueraders’ pet lawyer rather than a specialist in criminal advocacy. But they are determined to save you, for fear of what you might say if you were sentenced to death, and had nothing left to lose. Hence the major’s last-minute intervention. Your alibi was cast iron, the rescue mission complete.

  “It was all too good to be true, and Leonora’s instincts told her so. Your complacency in the dock made perfect sense if you knew salvation was at hand. Once again, the rat stank to high heaven. Meanwhile, you were in hock to the Masqueraders. They paid off your debts and looked forward to years of faithful service before you were finally put out to pasture.

  “Which brings me to you, Sylvia.” She turned to the other woman. “I doubt that Clive has many convictions of any kind. Henry’s an old-fashioned capitalist, no more, no less. You strike me as a zealot. Your father was ruined by a labour dispute and you never forgave the agitators whose warped ideals were responsible.”

  “You seem to forget,” Sylvia said, “that I married a distinguished man of the left.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Rachel said. “It’s a mark of your single-mindedness.”

  Sylvia Gorrie gave a mock bow. Her smile was grim. They could hear the rain pounding the house as if it were a punchbag.

  “After moving to London, you worked in a government office, and there I suppose you caught the major’s eye. He recruited you and found you a job which brought you into contact with one of the most influential political thinkers of his age. Gorrie’s personality was as anaemic as his ideals were red-blooded. He was bad-tempered and excitable, and he was certainly not a man’s man. Yet it suited his purpose to have a good-looking young wife.”