Sepulchre Street, page 25
Hetty opened her mouth and, remembering their telephone conversation the previous afternoon, he expected her to say, ‘I told you so,’ but she simply asked if he liked the gravy, an experiment with a new recipe. His mouth was full but he nodded vigorously.
But he felt a jolt of dismay. If Hetty was being kind to him, things really must be serious.
That alarming conversation with Gomersall had left him flailing around, unable to decide what to do for the best. Should he confess all and risk dismissal or worse? Or was it smarter to brazen things out and wait for the hue and cry to die down?
He felt like a miserable sinner in need of a father confessor, but absolution wouldn’t suffice. He was in a deep hole and needed help in digging himself out of it. When in doubt, swallow your pride. He’d come here to seek Rachel’s wise counsel.
On arrival, he’d spilled out a garbled version of the previous evening’s events before a restorative glass of sherry improved his coherence and he gratefully accepted an invitation to stay for lunch. Hetty was a generous cook and there was plenty of food to go round, especially once Rachel whispered something to Trueman and sent him out on an errand.
As he helped to take the dirty plates into the kitchen, he asked, ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘They say Benedict Rhodes-Denton is a hotshot lawyer,’ Martha whispered in his ear. ‘With any luck, he’ll make sure you don’t swing for your crime.’
Rachel said briskly, ‘First things first. You need a new set of clothes. A cheap trilby, shoes, and a suit from Petticoat Lane market. Thankfully, it’s open on Sundays, so I asked Trueman to pop over there before the market closes. After your trip to Savile Row he’s got an idea of your measurements.’
Jacob blinked. ‘Thanks, it’s very good of you.’
She waved his gratitude away. ‘The least I could do in return after listening to such a bizarre story. I must be honest with you, Jacob. You never cease to amaze me.’
He doubted this was a compliment, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.
Rachel loaded some cutlery into a basket and placed it inside her new dishwasher. This was a strange and gimmicky contraption, in Jacob’s opinion, powered by an electric motor and made by a German company called Miele. Rachel must be their best customer in London. Gadgets of all types fascinated her and Gaunt House was full of them. But given that most of her crockery was too fine and fragile to be entrusted to the machine, Jacob couldn’t see how it would catch on.
‘I need to talk to Inspector Oakes,’ she said.
‘If his superiors have muzzled him, he won’t be able to help.’
‘Since you spoke to him, Ambrose has died, Mrs de Villiers’ housemaid had her head blown off, and the lady herself has vanished. The tectonic plates have shifted. If Oakes is the man I think he is, he won’t allow himself to be bullied into inaction.’
‘What if his idea of action involves locking up a mysterious stranger with a gammy leg and a fedora?’ Jacob rubbed his knee by way of emphasis. ‘I’ve got a strong preference for any plan that keeps me out of jail.’
Rachel switched on the dishwasher, which rumbled furiously as the propeller began to swirl water around the tub. Jacob stared at the machine. He half expected to hear the sound of crockery being smashed to smithereens.
‘One thing at a time,’ she said. ‘You’re always in a rush. The first rule of strategy is to gather information.’
‘Did Machiavelli say that?’ he asked grumpily. ‘Or was it Sun Tzu?’
‘Rachel Savernake,’ Martha said.
Jacob sighed. ‘I can’t imagine who killed the maid, or why. All I know is that it wasn’t me.’
‘Think about the context. The police were persuaded to postpone any attempt to protect Kiki de Villiers from an urgent threat posed by Ambrose. Your editor was prevailed upon to stop you from investigating her. The way was left clear for her to be murdered.’
‘Except that she wasn’t murdered.’
‘True. It’s possible that the maid was the assassin’s intended target all along, although I find that hard to believe. What is certain is that whoever was responsible – the killer or whoever instructed him – has a remarkable amount of power and influence. To cause both Scotland Yard and the Clarion to turn a blind eye to murder – and that’s what it adds up to – requires an astonishing reach.’
‘A criminal gang? Rivals to Ambrose and his henchmen?’
‘I was thinking of a different kind of gang. Not so much criminal as people who consider themselves above the law.’
‘Members of Parliament?’
Rachel smiled. ‘Not quite, but you’re getting warmer. I’d hazard a guess that the truth may lie somewhere in Whitehall.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember our old friend Major Whitlow?’
Jacob clenched his fists involuntarily. ‘Whitlow? He’s no pal of mine but I certainly won’t forget him in a hurry. I thought we’d seen the last of that fellow.’
‘His survival skills are formidable. Inspector Oakes told me that after the debacle at Mortmain Hall, he was shifted to another highly secret government office. Something about this business in Rye reminds me of him. A formidable combination of menace and extreme ruthlessness. Who else, other than Whitlow and his crowd, could intimidate the Yard as well as your employers?’
Was that a note of admiration in her voice? Jacob had seen Rachel act ruthlessly herself when the need arose.
‘So I can’t help wondering if the woman’s murder bears his fingerprints,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, the mark of his claw?’
*
Trueman returned with an assortment of cheap clothes which he presented to Jacob with a dour grin.
‘Too good to last, eh? Leastways when you wear this lot, you won’t stand out in a crowd. Go into any pub or football ground, and nobody will give you a second glance. Not if they’re hunting for a crazed killer who shares a tailor with the Prince of Wales.’
Jacob managed a weak smile and adjourned with the others to wash the meal down with coffee in the drawing room. As he made himself comfortable in the luxurious armchair, he thought it was a supremely conventional English scene: the well-to-do family and friends relaxing after a sumptuous Sunday lunch. Hetty was knitting a muffler, while her husband studied the latest issue of The Autocar and Martha leafed through the News of the World.
Jacob said in a low voice to Rachel, ‘Can I ask you about Captain Malam?’
‘Feel free.’
‘To be honest, I never understood your relationship with him.’
‘It’s quite simple. He was only a name in the newspapers until we bumped into each other one day at the Royal Academy. Once he realised who I was, he became desperate to further the acquaintance. Unfortunately, my bank balance was more attractive to him than my womanly charms.’
Jacob tutted. ‘Incredible.’
She stirred cream into her drink. ‘Please don’t try to be gallant, Jacob. It doesn’t suit you.’
He looked down at the carpet. ‘Sorry.’
‘When I made enquiries, I discovered that Malam was quite hard up.’
‘Surely he has money to burn?’
‘You’re a journalist; you should know better than to believe what you read in the papers. Especially when it concerns people in the public eye. Roddy is a spendthrift. Racing cars don’t come cheap and playing cricket pays no bills – he takes the field as a gentleman and amateur, of course, not a professional. What’s more, although he claims to have a shrewd financial brain, he’s drawn to bad investments like a bee to honey. He doesn’t come from the landed gentry. So how does he finance his extravagance?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘He’s as patient as an angler, fishing for wealthy admirers. Men and women alike rise to the lure. That is, a veneer of sophistication, chiselled good looks, and man-of-action charm. That’s why he frequents galleries, even though he knows no more about art than you do. He goes there to hook rich collectors.’
‘Hence his stake in the Hades Gallery?’
‘Precisely – and when he ran short of funds, he baled out at a loss. Typical. His modus operandi is simple. Once someone takes his bait, he persuades them to invest in some dubious business venture. He pockets an outrageous commission and usually ends up shedding crocodile tears when the whole pack of cards falls apart.’
‘Did he try to tempt you to speculate?’
‘In some gold mine in East Africa, yes. Almost certainly it doesn’t exist and even if it does, it probably contains as much gold as a coal cellar in Croydon. I prevaricated and eventually he gave up. I suppose he set out to land a more gullible catch.’
‘So you were the one who got away?’
She smiled. ‘My taste in crime is exotic. I crave mystery. Common or garden swindles leave me cold.’
‘But?’
‘I always knew that Malam lacked a moral compass. Now I wonder if I underestimated the lengths he’d go to in order to get what he wants.’
‘Any news about who planted the bomb in his car?’ She shook her head. ‘Or about what drove Damaris Gethin to kill herself?’
‘That mystery we did solve.’ Rachel lifted her cup. The rich aroma of the coffee filled the room. ‘Or so I believe. The challenge is – what to do next?’
‘Blimey, that was quick. Come on, don’t leave me in suspense. How on earth did you make sense of it?’
‘I asked myself what could possibly drive a successful woman with a long life ahead of her to take such a terrible decision. She made it very clear to me that she regarded herself as a victim of murder.’
‘Her motive must have been very powerful.’
Rachel nodded. ‘She wasn’t simply taking a quick way out when diagnosed with terminal illness and facing the prospect of a long and painful decline. She was specific – I was to do justice on her behalf by discovering the person or people she held responsible for her death. What horror could she have experienced?’
‘Hard to imagine.’
‘At first I wondered if she’d been a victim of some form of shocking sexual assault.’
Jacob blinked. ‘You did?’
‘If so, Captain Malam was the likeliest suspect. I knew he’d had a fling with her. As far as I was aware, she’d not been involved with anyone else since that affair ended. On the contrary, she shut herself away from the world for more than a year. I wondered why. Was it possible he’d forced himself on her?’
‘And?’
She shook her head. ‘Malam has plenty of vices but he doesn’t strike me as a likely rapist.’
‘How can you be sure? I mean, in some respects you’ve led a sheltered life…’
She turned on him, her voice icy. ‘Do you really think so? You don’t know everything about my years on Gaunt, not by a long chalk, but you should have learned enough to realise that is far from the truth.’
Jacob was ashen-faced and contrite. ‘Sorry, Rachel. That was a stupid thing to say.’
‘Yes.’ Her tone softened slightly. ‘It’s true that one can never say never where dark impulses are concerned. An apparently pleasant individual may lose all self-control and behave like a beast in the wild. But Roddy Malam is vain and manipulative, rather than obsessed with exploiting his crude physical strength. If he couldn’t persuade a woman to join him in bed of her own free will, he’d regard it as a personal failure.’
‘So he’s the sort who prefers volunteers to conscripts?’
‘I asked myself what was known about Damaris Gethin during the time she cut herself off from the outside world. It was clear she’d sunk into a deep depression, but what caused it?’
‘If she pined for Malam after they broke up…’
‘Damaris was made of strong stuff. Men meant nothing to her in comparison to her artistic vocation. Yes, she had affairs over the years but her one true passion was her work. She was obsessed with art as performance. The act of creation. Yet she’d produced nothing for a long time. I couldn’t find out much, but it was clear that towards the end of her relationship with Roddy Malam, she’d suffered headaches and nausea and that her moods had been hopelessly unpredictable.’
‘The artistic temperament?’
Rachel sighed. ‘Those symptoms can have several different causes.’
‘Such as?’
‘Pregnancy.’
He stared at her. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘If she’d miscarried, that might explain her mood of despair. Such an experience is deeply painful and can overwhelm a woman. Society tells her it’s nothing out of the ordinary and she needs to get over it, but that’s easier said than done. The sense of loss is appalling, it can feel too much to bear.’
‘How do you know?’ he blurted out.
From her chair on the other side of the room, Hetty put aside her knitting and said quietly, ‘I had a miscarriage.’
He stared at her.
‘Four, as a matter of fact. Did you never wonder why Cliff and I don’t have children?’
There was a brief silence. Jacob wished the floor would open and swallow him up.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
‘You weren’t to know. I don’t care to speak about it, some things are too… difficult. But Rachel understands the ordeal I went through.’
‘If Damaris had miscarried,’ Rachel said calmly, ‘that was unlikely to explain why she accused someone of murder. So what were the other possibilities? It occurred to me that she might have had an abortion.’
‘But that’s a crime!’
Rachel let out a moan of exasperation. ‘For goodness sake, Jacob, don’t be so naïve. Whatever you may think about the legal and moral rights and wrongs, you should understand one thing. Women will always demand to have control over their own bodies. Especially when their lives have been turned upside down. If a woman wants rid of an unborn baby, she will usually be in a wretched state of conflicting emotions.’
Jacob kept quiet.
‘When I considered the guests who attended Damaris Gethin’s exhibition at the Hades,’ Rachel said, ‘I asked myself if it was significant that they included a trained nurse.’
‘Malam’s sister-in-law,’ he said.
‘Ah, light is dawning.’ Rachel’s eyes glittered. ‘Do you recall telling me what she said? That she’d once done Damaris a good turn.’
‘She could have meant anything.’
‘Agreed. Realistically, though, a good turn from a nurse would often involve her medical know-how. Given that Phoebe Wardle lives out in Romney Marsh, I found it hard to picture the two of them spending much time in each other’s company, let alone becoming friends. They had little in common.’
‘Go on.’
‘Stray bits of information began to come together and form a pattern in my mind. Captain Malam is charming and well-connected, very much a ladies’ man. Yet he’s often in need of cash to meet his considerable expenses. Evan Tucker used to host glamorous parties, but he ran short of money too once his songs fell out of fashion. He lived close to the clinic set up by Malam’s brother, and run after his death by Phoebe Wardle. I knew that Giles Malam’s medical career had suffered a major setback when a young woman patient died during an operation. The clinic catered for female patients, and in recent years they were only admitted one at a time.’
‘My God,’ Jacob said. ‘I see what you’re driving at.’
‘Martha spoke to an eminent surgeon who knew Giles Malam’s father. He said the scandal broke the old man’s heart. There was a rumour that Malam had carried out an illegal abortion in return for a handsome fee, but it went badly wrong. Malam senior managed to get everything hushed up, but the price Giles paid was to give up on surgery and ply his trade as a doctor a long way from London.’
‘Romney Marsh.’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, he remained chronically short of money. After his father’s death, he went back to his bad old ways. Illegal abortion is a trade that thrives in the back streets of every town in our supposedly green and pleasant land. But it’s a deadly business, often conducted in appallingly unsanitary conditions by women whose methods are crude and dangerous. The brutal truth is that a lot of their patients die. Others are permanently damaged. Inevitably, there is an opportunity for the unscrupulous to target women who are wealthy and can afford to pay whatever it takes in order to terminate their pregnancies safely and discreetly.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘Unfortunately, Giles Malam wasn’t a skilled doctor. He drank too much and his practice was in an impoverished part of the country. I wondered if he’d seen the chance to make money out of the misery of others.’
‘He’d have been struck off the medical register if the authorities found out. And that’s only the half of it. He’d finish up in prison.’
‘Like his brother, he was a born risk-taker.’
‘Giles Malam died before Damaris Gethin…’
‘Yes, but he set up the lucrative trade that his widow continued. My suspicion is that there was a conspiracy between the two Malams, the nurse, and Evan Tucker – who hero-worships the captain. I saw how it could work, how everyone had a part to play in the scheme.’
‘Namely?’
‘Roddy Malam’s social connections were a vital asset. So was his gift of the gab. If he or Evan Tucker learned on the grapevine that a rich woman was pregnant and unhappy about it, she’d be invited to a party at The Risings in Romney Marsh. There she would be introduced to the Malams…’
‘And a deal would be done?’
‘Including the opportunity to spend as long as she needed in recuperation at Orgarswick.’
‘Orgarswick?’
‘Nurse Wardle’s clinic. Yesterday, while you were on the trail of Kiki de Villiers, we paid Evan Tucker and Phoebe Wardle a visit, out in the wilds of Romney Marsh.’
‘You did?’
‘The back of beyond,’ Martha said.
‘Compared to the island of Gaunt,’ Rachel said, ‘the Marsh is positively suburban. However, it’s ideal for hiding away from the prying eyes and loose tongues of London society. The price of staying at Orgarswick is bound to be extortionate. Enough to give each of the conspirators a fat profit. However, these patients were women for whom money was no object.’
