Hemlock bay, p.1
Hemlock Bay, page 1
HEMLOCK BAY
MARTIN EDWARDS:
WINNER OF THE CWA DIAMOND DAGGER 2020
Gallows Court and Blackstone Fell Longlisted for the CWA Historical Dagger
‘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 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 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 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
ALSO 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 Crooked Shore
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
Blackstone Fell
Sepulchre Street
Fiction
Take My Breath Away
Dancing for the Hangman
Non-Fiction
Catching Killers
The Golden Age of Murder
The Story of Classic Crime in 100 Books
The Life of Crime
HEMLOCK BAY
MARTIN EDWARDS
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2024 by Head of Zeus,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Martin Edwards, 2024
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): 9781035909803
ISBN (E): 9781035909797
Cover design: Meg Shepherd
Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
Dedicated to Ann Geraghty, Lea Doran, and Jo Wright, with grateful thanks for your friendship, hard work, and support, keeping me going in the ‘day job’ for more years than any of us would have imagined.
Contents
Martin Edwards: Winner of the CWA Diamond Dagger 2020
Also by Martin Edwards
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Martha Trueman’s Sketch map of hemlock bay
Martha Trueman’s Sketch map of hemlock head
Prologue
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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Cluefinder
Author’s Note
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
MARTHA TRUEMAN’S SKETCH MAP OF HEMLOCK BAY (NOT TO SCALE)
MARTHA TRUEMAN’S SKETCH MAP OF HEMLOCK HEAD (NOT TO SCALE)
Prologue
‘I’m frightened,’ she said.
He moved to join her at the window. They had to look up through the grille to see passers-by on the other side of the iron railings. People going about their business in the Temple, unaware of the pair in the basement room, let alone that they were discussing death.
‘Don’t be, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘Haven’t we discussed this endlessly? We reached an agreement.’
A hollow laugh. ‘Always the lawyer, darling! Any minute now you’ll threaten to sue for breach of contract.’
‘Please don’t make a joke of it, not at a moment like this.’ He clasped her arm. ‘Didn’t we explore every avenue? It’s hopeless, we both see that. There simply is no alternative.’
She expelled a long sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Outside, hooves clattered on the cobbles. A man with a braying voice hailed an acquaintance. The sun had slipped out from behind the clouds and in the outside world, life was going on as usual. Although not for everyone. A newspaper vendor repeated his hoarse cry.
‘Death of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!’
He took her in his arms and kissed her. He felt her body trembling, but gradually she became still. When finally he moved away, she dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye and stared through the window at the stone steps leading up to the street.
Facing him on the shelf was a bulky tome. Archbold’s Pleading, Evidence & Practice in Criminal Cases. And now he was about to commit the ultimate crime. He shook his head, scarcely able to believe what he was about to do.
Opening the drawer in his desk, he took out the revolver. A Webley Mk IV, once the property of his father, who had fought in the Boer War. He’d loaded the bullets before her arrival. The bird’s head grip of moulded vulcanite felt comfortable in his hand. The gun was designed for emergency use, at close range.
Well, this was certainly an emergency.
‘You’re not having second thoughts?’ she asked in a small voice.
Fear had paralysed her. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No second thoughts.’
He lifted the revolver and squeezed the trigger.
1
Basil Palmer’s Journal
1 January 1931
My New Year’s resolution is to murder a man I’ve never met.
This is no sudden decision. For almost six months it’s brewed in my mind. Ever since I lost my beloved Alicia.
Since I was a boy of ten, I have celebrated each new year by making a resolution. Reticent by nature, and fearful of failure, I’ve never mentioned this to a soul, but I’ve pursued each aim with a zeal that would startle those around me. Other people see me as meek, mild-mannered, and middle-aged, the very model of a modern chartered accountant. My reputation for reliability and attention to detail has enabled me to make a success of my practice, but nobody would think of me as remorseless. Respectable, yes. To my core.
My previous resolutions have, I must admit, lacked daring. To commit oneself to abstaining from alcohol or losing half a stone in weight is a very different kettle of fish from deciding to murder a fellow human being.
I c annot confide in a living soul. That goes without saying. Yet my private thoughts demand an outlet. I don’t underestimate the obstacles that lie ahead. If not recorded in black and white, my plans might remain pipe dreams. Writing about them somehow brings them alive.
‘You’re a creature of habit,’ Alicia liked to say, tossing her lovely fair curls.
She knew me so well. Whenever I encounter a difficulty, I find it helps to order my thoughts by writing them down. This method suits my temperament and has helped me to unravel knotty problems, typically concerning my clients’ difficulties with the Inland Revenue. My new goal is by far the most ambitious and extraordinary I have ever attempted. Hence the need for this journal. I shall destroy it as soon as the deed is done. In the meantime, the chances of anybody laying their hands on it are nil.
The first challenge is this. The man I wish to kill is called Louis Carson. I do not, however, know where he lives or what he looks like. In truth, I know nothing about him.
Except that he deserves to die.
7 January
I’m a God-fearing man.
By instinct, I am law-abiding. My only experience of criminality is another old habit, of driving at speeds in excess of the pitiful maximum prescribed by the Motor Car Act of 1903. How ironic that the first of this month, which marked my momentous New Year’s resolution, also saw the repeal of that absurd and widely flouted statute. From now on, I am no longer guilty of breaking the law when I drive at more than twenty miles per hour. Before the year is out, however, I shall have committed a premeditated murder.
Is it strange that my conscience scarcely troubles me? I don’t think so. I am filled with a sense of purpose, reinforced by rereading what I wrote on New Year’s Day. I have no doubt that I am doing the right thing. Ridding the world of wickedness.
All I need to do is find Carson and then devise a plan for his elimination that does not expose me to the risk of arrest. A tall order? Perhaps, but there is no stopping me. Losing Alicia numbed me. My life lost any sense of purpose. Now, I detect a glimmer of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. If I can remove Louis Carson, I may be able to move forward. I have no wish to be treated as a common criminal or to finish up on the gallows. True justice doesn’t require my death. It requires the elimination of Louis Carson.
8 January
How to murder a man in such a way that I never become a suspect? I’ve consulted several volumes of Notable British Trials in the British Museum so as to gain an understanding of mistakes commonly made in cases of premeditated homicide. I find it depressing to study the blunders of even the most intelligent of killers. Crippen’s panic, for instance, at a moment when he had come within an ace of persuading the police that his wife was still alive!
I console myself with the reflection that the annals of crime concern cases where the perpetrator was identified and apprehended. I have no known link with Louis Carson and this is a huge advantage which I shall exploit to the full.
Even as I write these words, the blurred outlines of an answer to my question begin to form through the mist in my mind. I must create a false identity. Someone who comes into being solely for the purpose of killing Louis Carson and then disappears without a trace.
I must become someone else.
12 March
My initial preparations are complete. It has taken little more than two months for me to embark upon a double life.
To my surprise, I’ve found the whole business exhilarating. Professional life in Guildford offers little scope for the imagination to roam. I cannot deny there have been occasions when, in a fit of exasperation, even my dear Alicia described me as dull or boring. These characteristics merely reflect the nature of my work. Books need to balance and the demands of double-entry accounting discourage a spirit of adventure. I’m neither as humourless nor as uncultured as Alicia, during our infrequent but dispiriting arguments, was wont to suggest.
In my youth I dabbled in amateur theatricals, receiving considerable encouragement from a kindly teacher. An unfortunate incident involving one of my fellow pupils led to the master’s sudden departure from the school, and thereafter I had few opportunities to develop my thespian talents. My New Year’s resolution allows me to rediscover the pleasures of playing a part.
I have always found the Irish accent mellifluous and easy to imitate. My second Christian name happens to be Seamus, thanks to a flight of fancy on the part of dear Mamma, who once visited the Emerald Isle. I chose the surname Doyle because I’ve always enjoyed the late Sir Arthur’s stories; not so much the detective stories as the novels of long ago, chivalrous times such as The White Company.
The most convincing lies are seasoned with truth. To pose as garage hand or a retired county cricketer, for instance, would be an act of folly. Much as I love cars and the summer game, I would struggle to maintain the charade for any extended period of time. I am a professional man and it makes no sense to pretend otherwise. Given that my history of ill-health has caused me to study innumerable medical dictionaries, pretending to be a doctor, recently retired and back from foreign climes, should present few problems.
So Mr Basil Palmer has become Dr Seamus Doyle, late of South Africa and fifty-five years old. Adding to my age was easier than subtracting a few years; even dear Alicia occasionally accused me of becoming old before my time. Dr Doyle has a mild stoop and is never seen without large tortoiseshell spectacles with round tinted glass and a nose-piece lined with cork for comfort. In a radical departure from a three-piece suit and bowler hat, Dr Doyle dresses nattily – the colonial influence – and has a taste for garish bow ties. His headwear alternates between a tweed trilby and, on sunny days, a panama. He smokes an occasional Havana, even though it makes him cough.
As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Dr Doyle is comfortably off, without being so rich as to attract unwanted attention. He has deposited healthy amounts of cash in his recently opened account with the National Provincial Bank and has taken rooms in Gower Street.
Dr Doyle is, despite his bow ties, inconspicuous and often absent from London. Nobody has taken any notice of him at all while he prepares the ground for committing a perfect murder.
15 March
To find Carson, I need help. Reluctant as I am to involve others in my scheme, I have no choice. The man could be anywhere, doing anything.
The solution is to engage the services of an enquiry agent. In the normal course of events I would give a wide berth to such individuals, who are so often mixed up in the seamy business of procuring evidence for the divorce courts. Luckily, I know just the man.
I came across his name eighteen months ago. One of my clients is a prosperous merchant of timber and building supplies, and in conducting the annual audit of the business, I discovered discrepancies between the figures for incoming and outgoing stock. The scale of losses was putting the future of the business in jeopardy. The managing director, a hard-bitten fellow rather ironically named Cheetham, called in a private investigator from London. The man soon concluded that the thefts were an ‘inside job’ of some sophistication. I never met the detective, but I saw his reports, which were concise yet meticulous in matters of detail.
‘Fellow used to be a copper,’ Cheetham told me when I expressed my approval of the thoroughness of the investigation. ‘Not sure why he left Scotland Yard – some funny business, I heard – but he was recommended to me as the best man for the job.’
McAtee, the man in question, proposed that he should apply for a job with the firm as a store hand. Cheetham duly recruited him and within a fortnight, he had pinpointed the long-serving yard foreman and the company secretary as co-conspirators. His comprehensive dossiers enabled Cheetham to press charges and the business was saved. His fee was hefty, but he more than earned it.
Tracing Louis Carson is unlikely to prove straightforward. In any event, I need to be careful. If people remember me making enquiries about him, it might have serious repercussions. Far better to use an intermediary to discover his present whereabouts. I never met Joseph McAtee, but all the evidence suggests that he is persistent, well organised, and discreet. In other words, the right man for the job.
