Murder in Park Lane

by Karen Charlton

  The battered, dark-red company ledger was at the bottom of the pile and was the property of ‘Drake’s Tailors, a maker of gentlemen’s clothing’ on Moulsham Street in Chelmsford. The ledger was almost empty, apart from a few handwritten entries of sales to various establishments in London and the home counties. Lavender recognised the name of one of the establishments on Oxford Street; he’d purchased a new cravat from there recently. The sales recorded included greatcoats and waistcoats, with the odd batch of pantaloons and linen shirts. There was nothing to connect the ledger to MacAdam and the dates of the sales were several years old.

  A small rectangular box at the end of the shelf caught Lavender’s eye. Light ebony stripes and tiny beads patterned the glossy veneer, underlining the elegant forms of the body and lid. Too small to hold a weapon and therefore to attract Woods’ interest, the box had passed unnoticed in their earlier search of the room. Lavender picked it up and tried to prise open the lid. It was locked. He glanced around at MacAdam’s discarded clothes and wondered where the man kept the key that would open the tiny iron lock.

  Returning to the washstand, he picked up MacAdam’s dark-blue silk waistcoat and checked the pockets. Nothing. He found over three guineas and an expensive silver pocket watch in the dead man’s black coat. He fingered the watch and its heavy chain for a moment. Robbery was clearly not the motive for the attack on MacAdam; no thief would leave something this valuable behind. But there was no sign of the key for the box in his coat pockets. Nor was it in the pockets of his smart kerseymere pantaloons.

  He examined MacAdam’s clothes. Made from good-quality materials and well tailored, they were the sort of garments Lavender himself would have happily worn – the clothes of professional and wealthy businessmen.

  A long, silky, burnished copper hair was caught on the coarser material of the pantaloons. There were other chestnut-red hairs on the cuffs of a coat. A clue to the female company MacAdam kept, perhaps?

  The silk label on the inside of the coat caught his eye: ‘Drake’s Tailors, established Chelmsford, 1777’. A quick examination of the labels in MacAdam’s shirt, waistcoat and pantaloons revealed they were also made by the Chelmsford company. In fact, when he opened the closet and rummaged through the clothes, he found that nearly every item came from Drake’s. Mrs Palmer had been right about MacAdam’s connection with the clothing manufacturer; the man had been a walking advertisement for his family business.

  He eventually found a small key in the pocket of MacAdam’s spare coat in the closet and he returned to the bookshelf and the wooden box. The interior of the box was lined with white silk and a latticework of thin ribbons. It contained a pile of folded handwritten letters.

  Lavender moved to the better light at the window to read.

  My deerest, deerest David, I cannot but wait but until I see you again tomorrow . . .

  These were billet-doux, private love letters. Each one was recently dated and written by a devoted woman called Amelia Howard to MacAdam. Judging by her lapses in grammar and spelling, Miss Howard was either very young or had been poorly educated. He noted with surprise the expensive Mayfair address printed on the letterhead and wondered if she was a servant at the house. The next sentence cast doubt on that thought:

  . . . it is my most ardint joy and pleasure to ride carriage with you on the Row . . .

  Servants didn’t promenade with the gentry on Rotten Row through Hyde Park. Concluding that Miss Howard must have badly neglected her studies with her governess, he arranged the letters into chronological order and scanned their contents.

  . . . kind Granpapa say he see no impediment to calling the bans in churches . . . my sister is so jelus of us . . . I miss you so much alredy and want to laff with you again . . . I send you precius box from India to keep letters in from me. I have its match for yours . . . write again today, deerest David . . . my heart leaps for your letters . . .

  The sound of Woods’ heavy step on the stairs was a welcome relief from Miss Howard’s passionate declarations of love for MacAdam. Lavender put the letters back in the box and looked up expectantly when his constable entered the room.

  Woods shook his head. ‘I’ve found out nothin’ new. The maid slept through MacAdam’s return last night. She were busy in the kitchen this mornin’ when she heard Mrs Palmer scream. She found her mistress and Bentley in great distress on the landing. They sent her to fetch Sir Richard. She’s only worked here for five weeks but tells me our sly fox of a surgeon is a regular visitor to this house.’ He narrowed his eyes and looked challengingly at Lavender.

  Lavender smiled. ‘There could be several explanations for this, Ned. Mrs Palmer is probably one of Sir Richard’s patients and has a malingering condition that is not obvious to our eyes.’

  ‘Or she might be his mistress.’

  ‘His what? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ned, that’s a fanciful leap of the imagination. She must be ten or fifteen years older than he, at least.’

  ‘There’s no accountin’ for a man’s taste,’ Woods growled. ‘And he were holdin’ her hand when we walked in . . .’

  ‘Probably offering comfort. The woman has had a great shock.’

  ‘When did your doctor last hold your hand?’ Woods demanded. ‘And when did either of us ever see that wheedlin’ sawbones touch a woman before except with a scalpel?’

  Lavender was almost lost for words in the face of Woods’ indignant tirade, but his constable hadn’t finished yet. ‘And when did he ever take it upon himself to interview our witnesses for us? He’s mightily concerned with this case. Overly concerned, in my view.’

  ‘Ned, yes, Sir Richard does seem to be very protective of Mrs Palmer, but that doesn’t make him her lover – or a suspect in MacAdam’s murder. Sir Richard is Guy’s Hospital’s most eminent surgeon and he’s married. I’ve never heard any rumours that he and Lady Allison aren’t happy together.’

  His words only partially mollified Woods. ‘All men have their secrets. He’s a dark horse, he is. I wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t a rake in his youth. There’s more to this than meets the eye, you mark my words.’

  Lavender jammed the box of billet-doux into his greatcoat pocket and turned for the door. ‘Come on, I’ve found some clues about MacAdam’s family business and some letters from his sweetheart. We need to pay the young lady a visit then take a coach to Essex to find his family. Let’s stop speculating and follow the evidence, Ned.’

  But Woods still grumbled about slyboots and surgeons while he followed him down the stairs.

  Sir Richard was waiting for them in the hallway when they reached the ground floor. ‘Any luck up there, Lavender?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve found a name and address for MacAdam’s family business in Chelmsford. We’ll go there this afternoon. We’ve finished with the scene of the crime. The undertaker may remove the body. Ask him to bring it to the Bow Street morgue. I’ll try to find someone to claim it in Essex and pay for the funeral.’

  ‘But what about the murderer? This fellow must be caught and hanged as soon as possible.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s a fellah?’ Woods growled.

  ‘Notifying the next of kin of the death is always our first priority in a murder case,’ Lavender said. ‘Sometimes the family can be very helpful. They might know the enemies of the deceased: disappointed business partners, scorned lovers, creditors, etcetera. We must also try to establish MacAdam’s movements last night and find out where he went and whom he met.’

  ‘Good, good . . . you seem to know what to do. By the way, I can rely on your discretion in this case, can’t I, Lavender?’

  Lavender stiffened and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘You won’t talk to the news-sheet reporters and will conduct your inquiries quietly, won’t you?’ There was a fine sheen of sweat on Sir Richard’s high forehead and the gleam of desperation in his pale, shifty eyes. ‘The scandal of a murder in Mrs Palmer’s house will be detrimental to both her business and her reputation.’

  ‘
I’ve no intention of speaking to journalists at the moment but this is a murder inquiry. The coroner will have to be informed and Magistrate Read will open an inquest. There’ll be newspaper interest in this.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know the procedure. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But let’s practise discretion where we can, shall we?’

  Lavender said nothing and Sir Richard continued, ‘Is there anything I can do to help? The sooner this ghastly business is resolved, the better.’

  Lavender paused before he replied. ‘I also came upon some personal correspondence from a Miss Amelia Howard to MacAdam. Perhaps you can ask Mrs Palmer what she knows about the young woman? It would also help if she can draw up a list of any other friends and acquaintances of MacAdam.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you mentioned this before. Good luck in Essex.’ Sir Richard turned back towards the parlour, opened the door and disappeared inside.

  A man with a scythe was mowing the grass in Hyde Park close to their patient horses. The smell of fresh cut grass was a welcome relief from the stench of MacAdam’s death chamber.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Woods said when they walked out into the sunshine. ‘Sir Slyboots Allison just offered to help us – and wished us luck? Don’t try and tell me he’s behavin’ normally.’

  Lavender paused for a moment beside his horse to think. Woods was right, of course – Sir Richard’s behaviour was out of character, but they couldn’t let that distract them in their hunt for the murderer.

  Young Will, the road sweeper, scampered across to claim his penny from Woods. Lavender stroked the smooth neck of his horse and watched while Woods teased the boy for a moment or two before handing over the coin. He glanced up and down Park Lane thoughtfully. A uniformed nursemaid walked beneath one of the modern gas lamps, holding two small, well-dressed children by the hand. Birds warbled in the trees overhead and another carriage emblazoned with a coat of arms rumbled slowly down the tranquil street.

  Woods came to his side and looked at him expectantly. ‘Where to first, sir?’

  ‘I think we need to split up. I’ll go to Bruton Street and interview Miss Howard but I want you to visit some of the neighbours. Tell the occupants there’s been a nasty murder at number ninety-three and tell them Bow Street officers are investigating the case and need information. Give them MacAdam’s description and ask them to question everyone else in the household about anything suspicious they may have seen or heard last night.’

  ‘It would have been dark by then,’ Woods said.

  ‘Yes, but look at those lamp posts, Ned. This street is well lit and if MacAdam was on foot when he was attacked, someone may have seen or heard something unusual.’

  ‘He may have come home by hackney carriage.’

  Lavender frowned. ‘Yes, perhaps he did, but he would have been in terrible pain and if he was in a cab, why not ask the driver to take him straight to the nearest doctor? No. I think he was on foot – and the stabbing happened not far from here. He staggered home to examine his wound.’

  ‘Perhaps he intended to ask Mrs Palmer to send for a doctor?’ Woods suggested.

  Lavender nodded and paused for a moment, his mind lost in speculation. ‘Sir Richard was quite clear MacAdam would have only had about half an hour after the attack before he lost consciousness. MacAdam needed at least five minutes to get into the house, up to his room and undress.’

  ‘So you reckon the attack took place within a twenty-five-minute walk of here?’ Woods glanced up and down the street. ‘That’s a lot of fancy households to visit – and it’ll cause quite a commotion on a respectable street like this.’ A wide grin stretched across his round face. ‘And I don’t think it’ll meet Sir Slyboots’ notion of “discretion”.’

  Lavender shrugged and untied the reins of his horse from the railings. ‘It’s impossible to conduct a murder inquiry quietly. Sir Richard has worked with us long enough to realise this. You make inquiries here and meet me back in Bow Street in two hours. Word of the murder will spread rapidly. Make sure everyone knows that any information pertaining to the attack on MacAdam is to go straight to the Bow Street Police Office. We’ll come back tomorrow afternoon and visit more houses if we have to.’

  ‘Are we still goin’ to Essex?’

  Lavender nodded and began to lead his horse in the direction of Berkeley Square. ‘We’ll take the two o’clock coach to Chelmsford. We may need to stay overnight.’ The horse clopped steadily behind him.

  ‘Why are you walkin’?’ Woods called after him.

  ‘I want to see if Miss Howard lives within a twenty-five-minute walk from here.’

  Chapter Five

  It took Lavender about fifteen minutes to lead his horse through the traffic to Bruton Street, the home of Miss Howard. The road ran off Berkeley Square, one of the most famous and desirable residential locations in all of London.

  Personally, Lavender thought the towering houses in this part of London were rather ponderous and heavy, but the five acres of parkland in the centre of the square, with its statues and shady plane trees, added a touch of elegance. The neighbourhood was also haunted by footpads, who waited to pounce on unwary pedestrians on the unlit steps of some of the small alleys that ran off from the square. Most of the Berkeley Square inhabitants only left home in their carriages, accompanied by burly servants for protection, but Bow Street Police Office had dealt with several cases of robbery and assault in this vicinity.

  Bruton Street consisted of two long terraces of five- and six-storey houses, similar to the ones he’d just passed in the square. They had gardens at the rear and behind them a row of mews houses provided stabling for horses and carriages. Lavender knew he should take his horse around to the stables but a spectacular sight drew him down the street to the front door of the Howards’ home.

  A gleaming ebony phaeton, with highly polished brass trimmings and lanterns, stood in front of the house, harnessed to a magnificent pair of black stallions. The soft hood was pulled back, revealing its luxurious red leather interior. A dark-skinned and turbaned Indian groom was mounted on one of the drawing horses, waiting for his passengers. He wore a livery of billowing crimson silk, which matched the plump red cushions of the vehicle. A white ostrich feather was pinned to his turban with a glistening spinel, which contained a bright red stone surrounded by imitation diamonds.

  Suddenly, the door of the house opened and a well-dressed, dark-skinned young woman skipped down the steps with her maidservant and another turbaned footman. The young woman’s muslin dress with its empire waist, her trimmed bonnet and matching little jacket were the height of English fashion, but her caramel skin tones and glossy raven ringlets suggested an Indian ancestry. The burnished red hair he’d found on MacAdam’s trousers certainly didn’t belong to her.

  She was a pretty little thing and chatted amicably in a foreign tongue to her ayah as they climbed into the carriage with the assistance of the footman. Her sleek ebony hair briefly reminded him of the dark beauty who waited for him at home, his Spanish wife, Magdalena.

  The women only had enough time to settle back into the seats and smooth their skirts before the postilion driver urged the impatient horses forward and the phaeton set off down the street at a smart pace.

  Lavender tied his own horse to the railings at the front of the house, mounted the steps and knocked at the door. If the footman was surprised by a Bow Street officer’s request to see Mr Howard, it didn’t register on his dark, impassive features. He left Lavender standing in the spacious marble hallway, filled with a dazzling display of Mughal artefacts, while he delivered his request for an interview to Mr Howard.

  A glittering arsenal of Indian armoury swept across the white plastered walls and up the side of the elegant curved staircase. Elaborate patterns formed from round, burnished gold shields surrounded with dozens of curved, silver-hilted sabres filled the entire wall. Jewelled daggers set with yellow topaz or rubies the colour of pigeon’s blood and exquisitely carved wooden arrows fanned out above th
e doorways. To have amassed such a collection, Mr Howard must have spent many years on the Asian subcontinent and no doubt had amassed a vast amount of wealth too.

  Lavender examined these blades closely but nothing appeared to be missing from the display and none of the knives matched the description given to him by Sir Richard of the murder weapon.

  The footman returned and took him into Mr Howard’s study.

  This room was a mixture of traditional British furnishings and exotic artefacts from India. Bookcases full of leather-bound tomes towered to the ceiling on either side of the rosy marble fireplace. A large oak Chippendale desk, which gleamed with inlaid brass ornaments and the glossy veneer of rosewood, stood between the tall double windows. Against another wall stood a pair of ornate silver tables, embellished with mother-of-pearl and a glittering mosaic of tiny round mirrors. On one stood crystal decanters and glasses, on the other a gilt statue of a Hindu god, who glared back at Lavender with its lizard-green emerald eyes.

  Howard himself was a small, grey-haired man of about sixty. His white complexion had long ago been burned to dark leather by the tropical sun. He wore a tasselled hat and a jade-green silk banyan, which enveloped his wiry frame. He lounged back in a fireside chair, smoking from the pipe of a hookah of burnished gold inlaid with empurpled ebony, which stood on the small table beside him. The air was thick with the aroma of tobacco and spices.

  Opposite Howard sat another grey-haired man in a plain dark coat and waistcoat, whom, from his sober attire, Lavender assumed to be a secretary or steward. His pale complexion had never seen a tropical sun. Broken blood vessels had formed a mesh of red lines on the skin stretched over his cheekbones. It gave him a childlike, pinkish glow.

  Lavender cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Howard.’

  Howard regarded him curiously and in silence for a moment. ‘So, you’re a Bow Street Runner, are you?’ His voice bore the faint trace of a northern accent.