ALSO BY KAREN CHARLTON
The Detective Lavender Mysteries
The Heiress of Linn Hagh
The Sans Pareil Mystery
The Sculthorpe Murder
Plague Pits & River Bones
Individual Works
Catching the Eagle
Seeking Our Eagle (non-fiction)
The Mystery of the Skelton Diamonds (short story)
The Piccadilly Pickpocket (short story)
Life After Men (short story)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Karen Charlton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503955622
ISBN-10: 1503955621
Cover design and illustration by Lisa Horton
Dedicated to my good friends,
Kath Thomas and Eirwen Appleby.
Enjoy your book, ladies. xxx
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
About the Author
Chapter One
Monday 21st September, 1812
Bow Street Magistrates Court & Police Office, London
The tall, athletic figure of Detective Stephen Lavender, a Principal Officer with the Bow Street Police Office, strode across the cobbled yard towards the stables, where his constable, Ned Woods, waited with their saddled horses. Woods was chatting with his fourteen-year-old son, Eddie, Bow Street’s newest stable hand. Lavender had left father and son together while he sought out Magistrate Read for new instructions.
Woods must have noticed the spring in Lavender’s step and the gleam in his eyes, because a wide grin spread across his broad moon of a face. ‘Do we have a new case?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we have a suspected murder in Mayfair.’
Lavender took a set of reins from Woods’ hand, pulled his black hat firmly down over his dark, wavy hair, then swung himself up on to the back of his mare.
Woods’ greying eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Mayfair, eh? This seems a funny place for a suspicious death. We’re used to the ragtag and scum of the Seven Dials murderin’ each other but don’t often find the toffs doin’ it.’
‘Sir Richard Allison, the surgeon, has requested our assistance,’ Lavender explained. ‘He’s been called out to a dead body in a house on Park Lane. He believes the circumstances of the man’s sudden death are suspicious.’
Woods’ broad face contorted into an uncharacteristic frown. ‘Huh! That’s what the wheedlin’ sawbones would have us believe.’ He yanked the girth of his saddle a little too tight. His horse snorted in protest and stepped away from him.
Eddie frowned. ‘Careful, Da.’
The experienced patrol officer ignored his son, raised his big hand and stroked the animal’s neck in a soothing gesture.
Lavender fought back the urge to smile. ‘I see your prejudice against Sir Richard hasn’t abated with time, Ned.’
Sir Richard Allison expected to be treated like royalty whenever he deigned to assist the Bow Street constables with their investigations and his condescending arrogance made him unpopular with most of the officers. But with Woods it went deeper; he disliked Sir Richard with a vengeance and always had. Earlier that year, Sir Richard had removed a pistol shot from Woods’ shoulder and saved his arm from amputation but the incident had done little to soften Woods’ attitude towards the surgeon. In fact, it seemed to have made things worse; Woods hated to be beholden to anyone or anything.
For his own part, Lavender tried to remain professional in the surgeon’s presence and recognised the man’s brilliant medical expertise. But Allison had a vigorous enthusiasm for carving up dead bodies that even Lavender found slightly repulsive.
‘He’s probably killed one of his patients in a vile experiment and now he looks to us to cover up his mistake,’ Woods grumbled as he heaved himself up into the saddle.
Lavender noticed the difficulty his constable had mounting the horse. Woods’ shoulder injury made riding difficult and had meant the end of his distinguished career with the horse patrol. Following this, Magistrate Read had assigned Woods as Lavender’s permanent assistant. The crime rate in the capital had grown alarmingly in recent years and Lavender was relieved and grateful for the extra help; besides which, there was no other man in the country whom Lavender trusted as much as Ned Woods.
Lavender gathered up his reins in his gloved hands and dug his heels into his horse’s flank but Woods was already ahead of him.
‘Park Lane, you said?’ Woods asked as he led the way across the dung-strewn stable yard.
‘Yes, number ninety-three.’
‘I suppose we’d better go and see what that sly fox of a surgeon wants. See you later, son.’ Woods’ broad shoulders were rigid with disapproval beneath the blue greatcoat of his uniform. As they rode out of the stable yard beneath the arched entrance, he turned and added to Lavender: ‘Sir Richard were probably extractin’ the poor fellah’s organs while he were still breathin’.’
Lavender grinned and followed him out into the heaving streets of Covent Garden.
They made slow progress through the heavy traffic. Hackney carriages were nose to tail, with a long, rumbling line of empty wagons returning from Covent Garden’s fruit and vegetable market. Stalls blocked the pavements on both sides of the Strand, selling everything from ladies’ bonnets to quack cures for arthritis, dropsy and gout. The shoppers jostled for space and were forced out on to the road by the stalls, further slowing the traffic. The rumble and clatter of wheels over the stones and cobbles and the shouts of the traders, hawkers and frustrated wagon drivers filled the air.
The roads were wider in the quieter, leafier streets of the burgeoning West End of London, and better maintained. Hyde Park, too, was quiet this morning. A few liveried grooms on thoroughbreds thundered up and down the loose gravel bridle path known as Rotten Row but it was still too early in the day for the promenading gentry in their gleaming carriages and
elegant finery.
The houses on Park Lane were mostly five or six storeys high, colonnaded and topped with ornate and exaggerated chimneys, displaying the wealth of their owners. A plain, flat-fronted house in a short, narrow terrace, number ninety-three was modest in comparison with its elaborate and stuccoed neighbours.
Lavender and Woods dismounted and tied their horses to the park railings opposite the property.
A small, grubby boy with a broom was sweeping away the horse dung from the paved street. Woods beckoned him over. The boy scowled with distrust at the sight of Woods’ distinctive uniform but his eyes widened with delight when he saw the penny in the officer’s palm.
‘What’s your name, son?’
‘It’s Will, guvnor.’
‘It looks like you do a good job on the road with your broom, Will.’
The boy was undernourished and dressed in rags but he pulled himself up to his full height and bristled with pride. ‘I’m paid by the Kensington Turnpike Trust to sweep ’er clean every day.’
Woods glanced up and down the street and nodded approvingly. ‘I can see you keep her very clean, son.’
The dirty little face below the greasy fringe beamed. ‘I do me best. It’s the ’aycarts that’s the worst. Wisps of the stuff just float down everywhere. And what wi’ the black dust from them coal carts and trails o’ gravel from the stone wagons, it can be an ’ard job sometimes.’
Woods wiggled the penny. ‘It sounds like a hard job, but do you think you can work and keep an eye on our horses at the same time, son?’
‘I can, guvnor.’
‘Good lad,’ Woods said. ‘You keep them safe and I’ll give you this penny when we come back.’
The boy beamed and touched the ragged brim of his filthy cap.
Lavender smiled. This was why he and Woods worked so well together. Ned had the common touch, a quality Lavender knew he lacked himself. His constable’s help was invaluable whenever they had to seek the trust or support of ordinary working folks.
Not that there would be many working men and women involved in this case. Park Lane was one of London’s most desirable areas and the houses tended to be inhabited by wealthy aristocrats and ambassadors. Sir Richard’s involvement in the case also suggested the dead man wasn’t an ordinary citizen of London; the surgeon charged a hefty fee for private medical treatment.
Beside him, Woods shook his head gently and said again: ‘This seems an odd place for a suspicious death.’
The maid showed them into the parlour on the ground floor. The narrow room was modestly furnished, with just a hint of old-fashioned grandeur. The wood-panelled walls had been painted white to reflect back the weak light filtering through the heavy drapes around the window. The floral upholstery, cushion covers and Meissen ornaments on the mantelpiece softened the starkness of the room.
Sir Richard Allison and a pale but dignified woman aged about fifty sat by the fireplace in a pair of faded Queen Anne armchairs. The woman wore a long-sleeved, high-necked black dress with a woollen shawl draped over her narrow shoulders and a simple white lace cap on her silver hair.
Sir Richard was leaning forward, holding the woman’s hand, his face etched with concern above his spotless cravat. He sat back hastily when the maid announced their arrival. ‘Lavender! Woods! Thank goodness you were able to get here so promptly!’ He brushed back his thick mop of grey, curly hair from his face and rose to his feet. His cheeks were flushed and matched the dark red damask of the silk waistcoat he wore beneath his beige cut-away coat. ‘This is Mrs Palmer, the owner of the property. The deceased is Mr David MacAdam. Come! Let me take you straight to the body.’
Lavender and Woods nodded politely to Mrs Palmer while Sir Richard ushered them out of the room.
‘This is your kind of case, Lavender – a mystery of the greatest magnitude,’ Sir Richard said over his shoulder as they mounted the stairs. ‘A man stabbed to death in a locked bedchamber, with no murder weapon or murderer to be found! Come! The body is on the top floor.’
Lavender was about to protest that no such thing was possible but decided to save his breath for the climb up the stairs. The surgeon was right; Lavender’s interest was piqued. This was exactly the kind of mystery he most enjoyed.
‘MacAdam was a businessman and a lodger in this house. When he didn’t come downstairs for breakfast, Mrs Palmer came up here and found the door locked from the inside.’
‘But if he were found dead inside a locked room, it must be a case of suicide, surely?’ Woods said.
‘Those were my first thoughts, too, Constable. But how is a man to stab himself to death when he has no sharp implement?’
Woods frowned. ‘How did Mrs Palmer gain entry if the room were locked?’
Sir Richard paused for a moment on one of the landings. Unlike many of London’s lodging houses, which stank of kippers and boiled cabbage, this establishment smelt pleasantly of beeswax polish. ‘When Mrs Palmer received no response to her calls, she used her spare key to force the other key from the lock inside the room. She found MacAdam on the bed in a pool of blood. She’s very distressed, the poor woman – this is a respectable house – but she’d the presence of mind to send for me immediately. I found him dead on my arrival – quite dead. In fact, I suspect he’d been dead for some hours. Rigor mortis has already set in on the corpse.’
Lavender’s eyebrow twitched with surprise at the surgeon’s uncharacteristic display of empathy for the woman. ‘Was there . . .’ He broke off when a door opened on to the landing and a pale-faced young man appeared. He had fine, chiselled features and vivid blue eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. Alarm flashed in those eyes.
‘Sir Richard.’
‘Mr Bentley.’
The surgeon and the stranger nodded politely to each other before the younger man moved past them to descend the stairs.
‘How many people live here?’ Lavender asked.
‘I knew you would be interested in the household, Lavender, so I took the time to acquaint myself with the occupants before you arrived. There’s Mrs Palmer, her maid and three lodgers: Messrs Bentley, MacAdam and Collins. Mr Collins is away on business in Yorkshire and Mr Alfred Bentley, whom you’ve just seen, is a clerk at the Grosvenor Estate office.’
‘Why isn’t he at work now?’ Woods asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘You can’t expect me to do all of your job for you, Constable. You’ll have to ask him yourself if you think it’s pertinent to the case.’
‘Does Bentley know MacAdam is dead?’ Lavender asked.
Sir Richard nodded. ‘Mrs Palmer’s cries of horror brought Bentley and the maid running when she discovered the body. Mrs Palmer is the widow of Colonel Palmer of the 53rd. Sadly, he left her in straitened circumstances when he died. She takes in lodgers to make ends meet. This . . . this incident is a great blow to her; she’s always run a respectable house and is fearful of the scandal it might invoke.’
‘Who was the last person to see MacAdam alive?’
‘Mrs Palmer. She heard him come home around half past nine last night and met him on the landing when he came up to his bedchamber.’
‘Did they talk? Was he in good health?’
‘He wasn’t bleeding to death if that’s what you mean, Lavender. I understand they wished each other goodnight, then went to their rooms.’
‘How is it you’re so well acquainted with Mrs Palmer?’ Lavender asked.
But Sir Richard didn’t reply. They’d reached the top landing and were all breathless – especially Woods. The surgeon pointed to one of the doors and said: ‘I’ve asked the undertaker to come this afternoon.’
Lavender made a mental note of Sir Richard’s evasion then braced himself for what lay within the room.
Chapter Two
Lavender’s sense of smell was the first thing to be assaulted by the stuffy death chamber. Stale alcohol mingled with male body odour and the ferrous tinge of congealing blood. Lavender wrinkled his nose and breat
hed through his mouth; the smell of blood always made him feel nauseous.
The bedchamber was another long, narrow room, darker than the parlour below because of the smaller window. But they didn’t need much light to make out the grisly sight on the bed pushed next to the wall. Lavender felt Woods recoil then stiffen beside him.
MacAdam lay on his back in his undergarments on top of the crumpled and stained bedsheets. The corpse’s eyes were partially closed and his firm, square jawline was slack. His abdomen was a bloodied mess. A limp, crimson arm trailed over the edge of the bed. It looked as if he’d tried to use his hands to stem the bleeding. MacAdam’s clothes and the blankets were scattered around the bed in heaps on the floor.
For a moment, the three men stood and stared in grim silence, then Sir Richard moved over to the bedside and Woods turned to examine the door lock.
‘We need some fresh air.’ Lavender walked to the window and tried to open it.
‘The wood’s warped and the window’s jammed,’ Sir Richard said behind him. ‘Mrs Palmer has meant to call a carpenter for some time.’
Lavender paused. His sharp ears caught the dull thud from several floors below as the front door shut. He glanced down to the street and watched the athletic figure of young Mr Bentley stride across Park Lane and climb into a waiting carriage. Lavender made a mental note of the coat of arms, with its pair of rampant stags, emblazoned on the gleaming veneer of the mahogany door.
The washstand stood beside the window. MacAdam’s razor and shaving cream stood beside the bowl, along with an unlabelled dark brown glass bottle. Lavender unscrewed the lid and sniffed but recoiled at the biting odour of the lye. Hair dye. He glanced back at the bed and MacAdam’s healthy head of thick, fair hair fanning out behind him on the pillow.
‘The lock hasn’t been forced, sir.’ Woods stooped and retrieved an iron key from the floor. ‘I reckon this is the key used to lock the door from the inside – the one Mrs Palmer claims she forced out of the lock with her own.’
Sir Richard bristled. ‘Claims? Surely you’ve no reason to doubt the good lady’s account, Constable?’
Lavender ignored him. ‘Please give this room a thorough search, Ned. We need to find the knife.’ Woods nodded and moved across to examine behind a row of books and papers stacked neatly on a shelf.
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