Mortmain Hall Read online

  MARTIN EDWARDS:

  WINNER OF THE CWA DIAMOND DAGGER 2020

  ‘Martin knows more about crime fiction than anyone else working in the field today. He’s always been a fan of the genre and his passion shines through in his work: the fiction, the non-fiction and the short stories. In his editing, he’s brought new writers and forgotten favourites to discerning readers. I’m delighted his work is being recognised in this way.’

  Ann Cleeves

  ‘Martin’s fiction alone makes him a truly worthy winner of the Diamond Dagger. His editorial excellence, his erudition, his enthusiasm for and contributions to the genre, his support of other writers, and his warm-hearted friendship are the icing on the cake.’

  Lee Child

  ‘Martin Edwards is a thoroughly deserved winner of this prized award. He has contributed so much to the genre, not only through the impressive canon of his own wonderfully written novels, but through his tireless work for crime writing in the UK.’

  Peter James

  ‘Martin Edwards is a wonderful choice to receive the Diamond Dagger. He’s a very fine writer but has also devoted huge energy to both the CWA and Detection Club – all done quietly and companionably, which is a rare thing. I love a man who takes care of archives. I am delighted for him, but as we always say: it’s for lifetime achievement – but please don’t stop what you do so well!’

  Lindsey Davis

  ‘Martin is not only one of the finest crime writers of his generation. He is the heir to Julian Symons and H.R.F. Keating as the leading authority on our genre, fostering and promoting it with unflagging enthusiasm, to the benefit of us all. I’m delighted that our community can show its gratitude by honouring him in this way.’

  Peter Lovesey

  ‘Martin Edwards is not only a fine writer but he is also ridiculously knowledgeable about the field of crime and suspense fiction. He wears his learning lightly and is always the most congenial company. He is also a great champion of crime writing and crime writers. His novels feature an acute sense of place as well as deep psychological insights. As a solicitor, he knows the legal world more intimately than most of his fellow novelists. He is a fitting winner of the Diamond Dagger.’

  Ian Rankin

  BY MARTIN EDWARDS

  The Lake District Mysteries

  The Coffin Trail

  The Cipher Garden

  The Arsenic Labyrinth

  The Serpent Pool

  The Hanging Wood

  The Frozen Shroud

  The Dungeon House

  The Harry Devlin Series

  All the Lonely People

  Suspicious Minds

  I Remember You

  Yesterday’s Papers

  Eve of Destruction

  The Devil in Disguise

  First Cut is the Deepest

  Waterloo Sunset

  The Rachel Savernake Series

  Gallows Court

  Mortmain Hall

  Fiction

  Take My Breath Away

  Dancing for the Hangman

  Non-Fiction

  Catching Killers

  Truly Criminal

  The Golden Age of Murder

  The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2020 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Martin Edwards, 2020

  The moral right of Martin Edwards to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781788546126

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781788546140

  ISBN (E): 9781788546119

  Cover design and illustration © Edward Bettison

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Dedicated to Ann Cleeves, with thanks for thirty years of friendship

  Contents

  Martin Edwards: Winner of the CWA Diamond Dagger 2020

  By Martin Edwards

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Martha Trueman’s Map

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue (continued)

  Cluefinder

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  MARTHA TRUEMAN’S MAP

  Epilogue

  The man was dying. He knew it, and so did Rachel Savernake.

  “You’ve discovered the truth, haven’t you?” His voice was scratchy.

  “Yes.”

  His hands trembled. “It was the perfect crime.”

  “Is there such a thing?” she asked.

  He sighed, a long, low wheeze of surrender. “We thought so.”

  “Time is short.” Leaning closer, she felt his sour breath on her cheeks. “Tell me what happened at Mortmain Hall.”

  1

  The ghost climbed out of a hackney carriage.

  His head twitched from side to side as he checked to see if anyone was following him. Rachel Savernake was sure he’d failed to spot her. She stood deep in the shadows, on the opposite side of Westminster Bridge Road. A veil masked her face. Like the phantom, she was dressed in black from head to toe. During the half hour she’d waited for him to arrive, not one passer-by had given her a second glance. Women in mourning were a familiar sight outside the private station of the London Necropolis Company. This was the terminus for the funeral train.

  With exaggerated care, the ghost pulled down the brim of his felt hat. During his years away, he’d grown a bushy moustache and beard. His left hand clutched a battered suitcase. As he limped towards the tall station building, Rachel suppressed a groan.

  The ghost’s lameness gave him away. Gilbert Payne was still an amateur in deception.

  Dodging between a double-decker bus and an ancient hearse, Rachel crossed to the station entrance. A curving road ran beneath a granite archway, affording access to the mortuary chambers. The building was fronted with red brick and warm terracotta; the white-glazed walls of the underpass were decorated with bay trees and palms. Behind the facade lurked a spindly pseudo-chimney which vented air to the morgues. Here the coffined corpses became railway freight.

  Ignoring the electric lift, she took long, athletic strides up the wrought-iron staircase. At the top she found herself beneath the glass
roof of the first-class platform. The open doorway to the chapelle ardente revealed an oak catafalque, beige Wilton carpet, and walls treated in green and bronze. She considered the private waiting rooms. The first door bore a card with a name in neat script: Mrs Cecilia Payne deceased. It stood ajar, and Rachel glimpsed chairs upholstered in morocco, light oak panelling, and a shining parquet floor. Watercolour landscapes adorned the wall, as if this was a merchant’s villa in Richmond. A tang of polish sharpened the air.

  The ghost was nowhere to be seen.

  A screen divided the platform. Behind it was the circulating area for third-class passengers. They had their own station entrance, so that those who paid for the privilege of a first-class funeral need not travel cheek-by-jowl with the grieving poor. The Necropolis Company prided itself on sensitivity to the feelings of the bereaved.

  The ticket collector gave a discreet cough. He’d sprung out of his office like a bewhiskered jack-in-the-box. She thrust a small oblong of white card into his nicotine-stained hand.

  “The express is waiting, ma’am.” So it was, resplendent in olive-green livery, and belching steam, impatient as a starving dragon. “I’m afraid the hearse vans are already loaded.”

  While preparing for her journey, Rachel had learned that parties of first-class passengers were permitted to watch the coffin containing their loved one being loaded on to the funeral train. She marvelled at the entrepreneurs’ ingenuity. They had transformed a moment of misery into a bonus for the privileged few.

  “My fault for being late.” She gave a nod of dismissal. “Thank you.”

  On the door of the nearest first-class compartment, a handwritten card matched the one outside the waiting room. A shadow was visible through the window. The ghost had taken his seat. Now he was trapped, as surely as if he’d locked himself in purgatory.

  The air thickened with smoke and the smell of burning coal. The only person on the platform was a stout porter, shepherding an old lady into a third-class compartment at the end of the train. He spotted Rachel, and broke into an unwise trot, puffing and grunting like an ancient locomotive destined for the breaker’s yard.

  “Just made it in time, ma’am,” he wheezed. “We depart at eleven forty, sharp. Which party would you belong to?”

  “The late Mrs Payne’s.” She thrust into his grimy paw a tip so extravagant that it risked making his heart stop. Her raised hand stifled his gasp of gratitude. “May I ask how many of our group are making the journey?”

  He was sweating like a stoker. Rachel doubted his discomfiture was solely due to unaccustomed exercise. “I… well, ma’am, there seems to have been some confusion.”

  “Really?” She waited, confident that two gold sovereigns trumped any bribe paid to secure his silence.

  “We expected six, ma’am, but only three gentlemen turned up. The pair who came early insisted they wouldn’t travel in the compartment reserved for the… um, nearest and dearest. Most irregular. That’s why the Company asks for bookings in advance. We don’t want any mix-ups to spoil such a solemn occasion. Luckily, we only have one first-class funeral today.”

  A loyal servant, he didn’t mention that the slump in trade and rising unemployment had meant business was much less brisk in the aftermath of the Wall Street Crash.

  “You managed to accommodate those two gentlemen elsewhere?”

  A knobbly thumb jerked towards the compartment beyond the one allocated for mourners of the late Mrs Payne. “Right next door.”

  “Can you tell me anything about them?”

  The porter mopped his brow. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We really need to…”

  “Please forgive me. I can’t explain why this is so important to me,” she said, leaning closer so that he could inhale her perfume. “Personal reasons. You do understand?”

  He peered through her veil. Something in her expression made him quail.

  “Well, I’m… I’m sure you have good cause to ask. Quarrels happen in the best families, don’t they? One chap’s a cockney, dressed as a vicar. Surprised me, that did. I thought…”

  “He didn’t seem quite like an ordinary vicar?” Rachel suggested.

  “Funny thing,” the porter said. “I never saw a reverend gentleman with a tattoo on his hand in all my days. Takes all sorts, I suppose, but…”

  “And his companion?”

  The porter frowned. “Big fellow. Beefy. Mitts like coal shovels.”

  “Intimidating?”

  “I really can’t say any more, ma’am.” He took another look at Rachel, and breathed out noisily. “Let’s just say they tried to look posh, but forgot to shine their shoes. Funerals are funny; people aren’t their normal selves. Why say they didn’t want to disturb the rest of the party, when it turns out there’s only one…”

  “Perhaps they just wanted to be considerate.”

  He flinched at her sarcasm. “Now, really, ma’am, please, I must ask you to board. We can’t delay…”

  “Of course not.” Her smile lacked humour. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”

  He lumbered towards the compartment bearing the name of the late Mrs Payne, and opened the door. Ignoring his helping hand, Rachel jumped inside.

  The compartment smelled of leather and tobacco. Seated at the far end, suitcase by his side, the ghost was gazing out of the window, lost in thought. One month short of his fortieth birthday, he seemed ten years older. Exile in north-west Africa’s international zone had browned his cheeks and fattened his frame, but she doubted it was the sybaritic life that had aged him. The real cause was the never-ending dread of a knife thrust between his shoulder blades.

  The porter slammed the door shut, knocking the ghost out of his reverie. Perched on the edge of the seat, Rachel gave a nod of greeting.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  The ghost gave an anxious grunt. Her casual friendliness was all the more disturbing because her presence in the compartment was inexplicable. When he spoke, his voice trembled.

  “Good… good morning.”

  “How pleasant to meet you,” she said, “albeit in such sad circumstances.”

  A whistle sounded, and with a disconcerting jolt, the train began its journey to the cemetery. The ghost shuddered. Rachel pictured the cogwheels of his brain spinning. Who was she? What, if anything, should he say?

  “My name,” he said, “is—”

  “You don’t need to introduce yourself,” Rachel said. “You’re not really a ghost. You’re Gilbert Payne, the missing publisher. Welcome back from the dead.”

  *

  As the train rumbled down the track, the man rocked back and forth on his seat. The beard and moustache were fig leaves for naked vulnerability. His eyelids flickered under her scrutiny. She guessed his despair, but she hadn’t followed him in order to sympathise. Long before his disappearance, he’d been notorious for recklessness. People found it easy to believe that it had cost him his life. He gulped, and she wondered if he was about to be sick.

  “You… you are mistaken, madam,” he muttered. “My name is Bertram Jones.”

  Rachel lifted her veil. His bloodshot eyes widened as he took in her youth, her beauty, and the chill of her smile.

  “Not Bertram Jones, the old drinking chum of Gilbert Payne, who has lived in Tangier these past four years?”

  “That’s right!” He was as hapless as a man tumbling into a ravine, clutching at stubs of vegetation in the hope of salvation. “It’s true… there is a… vague likeness between the two of us. A similarity in the cheekbones, perhaps. Poor Gilbert joked about it more than once before…”

  “Before he feigned death by drowning, fled from London, and sailed under cover of darkness for the Continent?” Rachel asked. “Before he made his way in search of the esoteric delights of Tangier?”

  The ghost slumped back in his seat, as if she’d thrust a hatpin into his heart.

  “Long before he heard the tragic news of the death of the mother he’d adored?” She was relentless. “The wo
man who worshipped him, whose heart finally gave way without her knowing that her only child was still alive?”

  “It’s a lie, a cruel lie!” He stared at her. “In God’s name, who are you?”

  The train was picking up speed. Rachel was in no hurry. They were not at risk of being disturbed. The funeral express made no stops along the way.

  “My name doesn’t matter.”

  “What…” His voice was hoarse and barely audible. “What do you want with me?”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m offering to save you from being murdered.”

  2

  Gilbert Payne said nothing until the train had escaped both slums and suburbs. The June sun had slipped out of sight. Above the open countryside, sprawling clouds were the colour of soot. Daubs of rain streaked the carriage windows.

  Rachel’s eyes never left him. It crossed her mind that he might fling open the far door of the compartment, and jump out. If he did, he’d more than likely break his neck. Terror had made him desperate.

  “What… do you mean?” he said at last.

  “I want to hear the story behind your disappearance. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Tell me who helped you to get away from England, and why.”

  The farmsteads and smallholdings of Surrey slid by. Rachel tapped her heel on the compartment floor.

  “I can’t imagine why you’re poking your nose into – poor Gilbert Payne’s affairs.” He swallowed, as if even he was unconvinced by this show of defiance. “Who in God’s name are you?”

  “Who I am is irrelevant. What concerns you is that I know your true identity, and I am prepared to help rescue you from the consequences of your own folly.”

  “I told you.” He sounded like a child protesting innocence despite the evidence of grubby fingerprints. “I am Bertram Jones, late of Tangier.”

  She shook her head. “Time is precious. Don’t waste it. We are halfway to Brookwood Cemetery. If you persist in your charade, there will be no second chance.”

  “You’ve given me no reason to talk to you on confidential terms,” he said. “Nothing but a baseless slur.”