Murder in Park Lane

by Karen Charlton

  ‘I’m a Principal Officer with their police office, yes.’

  Howard gave a little laugh, inhaled from the pipe and exhaled a billowing cloud of white smoke. The joints in the hand that held the tube to his mouth were swollen with arthritis. ‘I believe one of the Fielding brothers was the magistrate at Bow Street when I left England forty years ago.’

  ‘That would have been Sir John Fielding, sir. He was an excellent magistrate – and blind.’

  ‘Yes, they called him “The Blind Beak of Bow Street”, didn’t they? This is Jackson,’ – he pointed a knobbly finger towards his companion – ‘he’s my secretary and is charged with easing me back into genteel English society after my long absence on the subcontinent.’

  Lavender nodded politely to Jackson before turning back to Howard. ‘You worked for the East India Company, sir?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve retired now. Jackson tells me the Bow Street Police Office has a good reputation for solving crimes and that you’re one of their most respected officers.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘So, what brings you to Bruton Street, Detective?’ He replaced the hookah pipe on the table and stretched out his knobbly fingers.

  ‘I’ve come about a man called David MacAdam, sir. I understand you and your daughter were acquainted with him.’

  ‘MacAdam? What of him?’

  ‘I’m sorry to inform you he was stabbed to death last night. He died at his lodgings on Park Lane.’

  ‘What?’ Howard sat up straight, pulling his voluminous gown from beneath him in agitation. Beside him, Mr Jackson turned pale and gasped.

  ‘How so?’ Howard demanded. ‘How is this possible? Was it robbery? The footpads in London are a disgrace . . .’

  ‘We’re still trying to establish exactly what occurred, sir, but we don’t believe the attack was part of a robbery. MacAdam still had his pocketbook and watch in his greatcoat when we found him.’

  Howard’s shocked face crumpled when another thought hit him. ‘Oh my God – poor Amelia! She’ll be devastated, the poor girl.’

  ‘I understand Miss Howard and MacAdam . . . were close,’ Lavender said gently.

  ‘Close? No, far more than that – they were betrothed, for heaven’s sake! Jackson was just about to tell the vicar to post the banns in the church and send an announcement to The Times. Jackson, fetch me a brandy.’

  Lavender waited patiently while the secretary hurried to the decanter on the silver side table. Both men seemed in genuine shock at the news of MacAdam’s death and would need a moment to recover. Jackson poured out a generous measure of the amber liquid into a crystal glass and gave it to his master before slumping back down into his own seat. His face, too, had turned grey.

  Howard took a generous gulp of the drink before turning back to Lavender. ‘But how did this happen? MacAdam was here last night – he drank a glass of brandy or two with me after Amelia had retired for the night. I can’t believe he’s now dead!’

  Lavender felt a surge of excitement shoot through his body. ‘MacAdam was here last night? What time did he leave?’

  ‘He left in his carriage at his usual time of just after nine o’clock. What happened to the poor fellow, Lavender?’

  His carriage? Mrs Palmer hadn’t mentioned that MacAdam kept a carriage and horses.

  ‘We believe he was attacked on his way home. For some reason, he didn’t seek assistance and bled to death in his bedchamber. He was found by his landlady this morning. I’ve ruled out both suicide and robbery as a motive. We’re investigating this as a murder.’

  Howard and Jackson stared at him, aghast.

  ‘Good god,’ Howard murmured.

  ‘How . . . how can we assist you, Detective?’ Jackson’s voice cracked when he spoke.

  ‘I need to tell MacAdam’s family of his death and I understand MacAdam was from Essex. It would be a great help if you can tell me what you know about him and his family.’

  Howard put down his glass and sank back into his chair. ‘Well, he’s a gentleman, of course – the second son of a baronet. I understand the MacAdams are a respected family in Essex, with business interests in textiles and coal mines.’

  ‘That will be Drake’s Tailors, perhaps?’

  Howard looked confused and shook his head. ‘No, he said the family business was called MacAdams’. They’re not as wealthy as us, of course.’ He waved his hand languidly to draw attention to the fine furnishings of the room. ‘But he was a decent fellow, devoted to Amelia, and I’m happy to overlook the discrepancy in fortune if it makes Amelia happy. It’s my greatest ambition in life to see my granddaughters happily settled in marriage.’

  ‘Miss Howard is your granddaughter?’ Lavender already knew the answer but he asked anyway. Howard had stopped talking and was staring miserably at the expensive Turkey carpet. Lavender’s question made him loquacious again.

  ‘I’ve two granddaughters – both the progeny of my romantic son and his beautiful Indian wife.’ His eyes suddenly narrowed and he scrutinised Lavender’s face. ‘Are you shocked, Detective, at the thought of a white man’s marriage with a foreign, coloured woman?’

  ‘No, sir. I could never judge another man harshly for falling in love, whatever the woman’s race, colour or religion. My own wife is a Spanish Catholic.’

  ‘Love?’ Howard said with a tinge of sarcasm. Then he shook his head. ‘Yes, it was love, I suppose. I tried to persuade my son to keep his woman as his mistress but she was high caste and a distant relative of a maharaja. After she converted to Christianity for him, I had no more objections.’

  ‘Why do their children live with you?’

  ‘Sadly, my son and his wife were killed in a coaching accident in Bengal six years ago, leaving me to care for their girls.’

  ‘You know you adore them, sir,’ Jackson said quietly. ‘They’re such a comfort to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir,’ Lavender said.

  Howard dismissed Lavender’s sympathy with a wave of his gnarled hand and his tone hardened. ‘Fortunately, I’ve amassed enough wealth during my time with the company to provide for my chee-chee granddaughters and buy them good husbands.’ Sadness washed over his features again. ‘Amelia is the elder. Poor Amelia suffered greatly after the loss of her parents. I dread to think how she will take the news of the death of her fiancé.’

  ‘Is Miss Howard at home now?’ Lavender asked, although he suspected he already knew the answer to this question.

  ‘No, she left to go shopping on Oxford Street just before you arrived,’ Jackson said. ‘Perhaps you saw them leave in a black phaeton?’

  Lavender nodded. ‘How did Miss Howard meet Mr MacAdam?’

  ‘Riding on Rotten Row back in May. One of the horses became skittish and MacAdam went to the driver’s assistance. Amelia and he fell into conversation and before we knew it, MacAdam was a regular caller at the house and a most attentive suitor. He asked my permission to approach Amelia and proposed to her last week. Sometimes he would drive her in the phaeton to the park. In fact, I suspect the man has been out more in my expensive new toy than I have. He was an excellent horseman.’

  ‘But you said he kept his own carriage?’

  ‘Yes, an ancient bone-rattler of a thing. It had the family crest painted on the side, of course, but I got the impression MacAdam preferred to be seen in our phaeton.’

  ‘Family crest? Can you describe it, please?’

  Howard and Jackson looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘Was it a red shield with a coronet, supported by two rampant black stallions?’ Jackson suggested.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Howard replied. ‘Is this relevant, Detective? Surely you can find this out from his family?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. Can you tell me the name of his family seat in Chelmsford?’

  ‘Chelmsford?’ Howard frowned. ‘I thought the man said he was from Colchester? Either way, I’m afraid I can’t remember the name of their family estate. I’m sure you’ll find
it easily enough – there can’t be many Baron MacAdams living in Essex. Failing that, you’ll have to come back later and ask Amelia.’

  ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll return tomorrow to talk to Miss Howard.’

  Howard’s chin sank to his chest and he nodded glumly. Lavender knew he was dreading the moment he would have to tell his granddaughter about the death of her fiancé.

  Jackson rose to his feet. ‘I’ll show you out, Detective.’ The two men walked quietly out into the dazzling hallway, leaving Howard lost in his own thoughts. Jackson closed the door behind him, frowning.

  ‘Have you something you want to tell me about MacAdam?’ Lavender asked intuitively.

  The older man nodded and they walked a few steps away from the study door. ‘I don’t want to add to Mr Howard’s distress at the moment, but something you’ve said doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ve mentioned “lodgings” – and a “landlady”. MacAdam always claimed he lived with his elderly aunt in a big mansion on Park Lane when he stayed in London. We assumed it was the family’s London residence – not “lodgings”.’

  Lavender regarded the secretary shrewdly, his mind churning with this new information. ‘You didn’t trust MacAdam, did you?’

  The mesh of broken red blood vessels on Jackson’s face flushed brighter. ‘I’d never be so impertinent as to voice my suspicions to the family . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But MacAdam always seemed a little too keen to please.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Miss Howard is a beautiful young woman, of course, despite . . .’ Jackson paused, unsure how to finish his sentence.

  ‘Despite her dark skin and racial background?’

  Jackson flushed. ‘Mr Howard was a powerful and ruthless man on the Indian subcontinent,’ he continued quickly, ‘few men were able to deceive him – though many tried. But he’s grown softer and more affectionate in his old age, especially around his granddaughters. The rest of his family are dead and the young ladies are all he has. He should have stayed in India and found husbands for the girls there but he was desperate to return to England, to show off his wealth to his fellow countrymen and live out his final years in London.’

  ‘Do you suspect MacAdam’s motives in his pursuit of Miss Howard?’

  Jackson nodded sadly. ‘It’s a long time since Mr Howard has lived in England and he was never part of the gentry back then. His family were merchants from Bradford. They had the connections to get him his lucrative position with the East India Company. I think that the subtle mores and codes of high society elude him. He’s blind to the prejudice in London society and doesn’t notice when the aristocracy patronise him. It seems improbable to me that a baronet’s son would fall so quickly and passionately in love with a foreign, dark-skinned young woman . . .’

  ‘. . . unless he was after her fortune.’ Lavender completed the sentence for him.

  Jackson looked miserable. ‘A fortune hunter, yes. The two girls have been poorly educated,’ he added. ‘They don’t have the accomplishments required for an English drawing room and they’re barely literate. Without their future inheritance, I doubt most English young men would consider them as wives.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mr Jackson, thank you.’ Lavender bowed and took his leave.

  Chapter Six

  Woods received a mixed welcome from Mrs Palmer’s neighbours.

  He left his horse tied to the park railings under the watchful eye of young Will and went down a narrow road called King’s Street Mews, lined with stables and coach houses, to the back of the Park Lane houses. Ducking beneath lines of flapping laundry in the cobbled yards, he knocked at the servants’ entrance of each home.

  Depending on the size and status of each house, the doors were answered by a variety of wary cooks, housemaids and butlers, most of whom greeted the news of MacAdam’s murder with a mixture of shock and disbelief. They treated Woods as if he were the diseased harbinger of bad luck and were quick to close the door on him after he’d delivered his message and asked a few questions. One or two wide-eyed servants lingered on their doorsteps and pressed him for gory details of the stabbing.

  ‘Were there a lot of blood spilling out o’ his guts?’ asked one footman.

  ‘Did ’e foam at the mouth and gurgle?’ enquired a cook.

  It never ceased to amaze Woods how bloodthirsty his fellow Londoners could be.

  No one had seen or heard anything unusual the night before but everyone promised to alert the rest of their households to the crime and encourage witnesses to come forward.

  ‘’E were that good-looking blond fellah, weren’t he?’ asked one curious housemaid. ‘Nice chap, ’e were. Sorry to ’ear ’e’s dead. ’E sometimes passed the time of day wi’ me out ’ere in the back yard.’

  Woods’ grey eyebrows knitted together. ‘Did he come and go through the rear entrance of the house?’

  ‘Yes, ’e must ’ave. Sometimes I’d see ’im pass by on ’is way to the mews.’

  Woods thanked the housemaid for her information and moved on to the next property.

  He received the best welcome of the morning from a large house four doors away from Mrs Palmer’s home. The shocked butler stood back from the doorway and waved him inside. ‘I think you’d better speak with the mistress. She’ll want to hear this herself.’

  ‘Who’s your mistress?’

  ‘Lady Tyndall. She’s a friend of Mrs Palmer’s. The two ladies have known each other for years.’

  Woods hesitated but the stiff-backed butler had already shut the door behind him. He led Woods through a steamy kitchen, which smelt tantalisingly of roast beef, and up two flights of a dark, narrow, back staircase to the first floor of the property. The climb left Woods out of breath.

  ‘Wait here.’ The butler left Woods on the spacious landing and disappeared inside one of the rooms at the front of the house.

  Woods smoothed down his creased coat, glanced around at the gilt-framed portraits hanging on the plastered walls and wished his riding boots weren’t quite so muddy. He was never as comfortable as Lavender when it came to dealing with the nobs. The butler soon returned and gestured for him to enter the drawing room. ‘Constable Woods, ma’am.’

  Woods’ muddy boots sank into a thick Turkey carpet and he had to blink to protect his eyes from the brilliance of the light pouring in through the tall arched windows. Decorated with pale yellow silk wall hangings, Lady Tyndall’s drawing room was sunny in every sense of the word. Light bounced around the lemon walls, towering gilt mirrors and crystal chandeliers of the elegant and spacious chamber.

  Her ladyship was dressed in a dove-grey silk gown that matched the grey ringlets peeping beneath her white lace cap. She sat on a yellow sofa upholstered with the same patterned silk as the wall hangings. A discarded news-sheet lay on the seat beside her. She had her back to the windows and regarded Woods coldly through a tortoiseshell lorgnette. The hand holding it shook slightly but he was relieved to see that although she looked pale and distressed, she was dry-eyed.

  ‘Good mornin’, ma’am.’

  ‘Good morning, Constable.’ Her voice was like ice. ‘My butler tells me there’s been a terrible incident at Mrs Palmer’s house. Is this true? Has Mr MacAdam been found dead – and is Lavender investigating?’

  ‘You know of Detective Lavender?’

  ‘Of course!’ she said quickly. ‘Most of London knows of Lavender.’ She patted the copy of The Morning Chronicle by her side. ‘The news-sheets are full of his exploits and his success in solving crimes.’ This fact didn’t seem to give her any pleasure.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Woods said hastily. ‘Detective Lavender is investigatin’. We believe Mr MacAdam were stabbed on his way home last night. Mrs Palmer found him dead in his room this mornin’.’

  She winced. ‘Good grief! Poor Sylvia! I must go to her at once. What a dreadful thing to happen.’ She turned to the butler, who stood
behind Woods, and instructed him to ask her maid to fetch her cloak and bonnet. The servant nodded and backed out, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Now, tell me everything, Constable,’ she demanded. ‘Mrs Palmer and I – and our late husbands – were friends for many years. What on earth happened to poor Mr MacAdam and what have you uncovered so far?’

  Woods paused and narrowed his eyes against the fierce glare of the woman before him. He was an experienced police officer and unaccustomed to being browbeaten by a member of the public, no matter how aristocratic she may be. He asked the questions and did the interrogating, not the other way around.

  ‘How well did you know the deceased, ma’am?’ he asked.

  Frustration flashed across Lady Tyndall’s features. ‘Why, I barely knew him! Mr MacAdam was Mrs Palmer’s lodger, that’s all. What have you learned about the events of last night so far?’

  ‘It’s early days in the course of our investigation yet.’

  ‘But you must have some notion!’

  ‘How did you find him, ma’am?’

  ‘How did I find him?’

  ‘Yes, what manner of man was MacAdam?’

  She shook her head in irritated confusion and her grey curls quivered like fat sausages beneath her cap. ‘I had only a brief acquaintance with Mr MacAdam but from what I saw of him, he seemed the perfect gentleman. But you haven’t answered my question, Constable.’

  ‘We believe the attack took place on, or around, Park Lane about nine o’clock last night.’

  ‘That’s very vague.’

  ‘It’s the best we can do at the moment, your ladyship. I’m enquirin’ along the street. Detective Lavender and I hope to find some witnesses to the incident that killed MacAdam.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’

  ‘Have you found any witnesses?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find any here,’ she said firmly. ‘I myself always retire to bed and read before nine o’clock and so does my household.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am, but if anyone remembers that they saw or heard anythin’ unusual outside the house last night, please ask them to inform us at Bow Street Police Office . . .’ The maid appeared with Lady Tyndall’s cloak and bonnet and Woods’ voice trailed away.