Murder in Park Lane

by Karen Charlton

  Her hands fluttered to cover her mouth. ‘London? I can’t go to London!’

  Once again, Rawlings patted her hand. ‘Course you can, Winnie. I’ll take you tomorrow, if you like. Get your sister to take care of the boys for a day.’

  ‘In the meantime, Mr Rawlings, I’d appreciate it if you took us to the grave.’

  Rawlings nodded and stood up. ‘I’ll just get me coat.’ He disappeared into the bedchamber off the kitchen.

  ‘You said ’e were murdered?’ Mrs MacAdam asked. She was still struggling to understand.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. He was stabbed.’

  ‘Ha!’ Her face darkened with anger. ‘It’s a bloody good job ’e is dead, Detective, because I tell you this: if I’d found out Davy were lyin’ to us in June and only pretendin’ to be dead – then I’d ’ave bloody stabbed ’im myself!’

  It was a relief to be outside in the breeze again even if it did carry with it the acrid stench of the tannery. Lavender needed fresh air, peace and quiet, with Woods by his side, to try to make sense of this extraordinary and gruesome horror forced upon the MacAdam family.

  Woods echoed his thought. ‘Well, she isn’t your mysterious redhead. This case has more twists and turns than the back alleys in the rookery of St Giles.’

  They fell into step behind the tall, gangly figure of Rawlings and his billowing cloud of tobacco smoke. He led them towards the towering medieval church of St Mary’s. The daylight was waning now and the sunset draped itself over the rooftops and smoking chimneys of the town like a soft pink blanket. It illuminated their path with a rosy glow as they picked their way through stagnant puddles and the indiscernible piles of rubbish that littered the street. Lavender imagined the sad funeral cortège of David MacAdam making this journey and shook his head at the extent of the man’s cruel deception.

  ‘Who do you suppose is in that coffin?’ Woods asked.

  ‘It might just be a pile of rubble,’ Lavender conceded. Unless we can find Collins quickly – there’s only one way to find out for sure.’

  Woods’ eyes widened with shock. ‘Exhumation? You’d ask for an exhumation?’

  Lavender nodded grimly.

  They quickened their step to keep up with Rawlings’ long stride.

  ‘Do you often travel down to London, Mr Rawlings?’ Woods asked.

  The pipe bobbed up and down in his clenched teeth when the tall man nodded. ‘I’m a carrier for a local quarry and stonemason. I only got back late last night and I’ve another load to take down to town tomorrow. Ye’ve got a lot of building work goin’ on in London. I’ll bring Winnie. We’ll be at Bow Street about two o’ clock.’

  ‘That’s helpful, thank you,’ Lavender said.

  ‘I’m happy to ’elp poor Winnie,’ Rawlings replied. ‘’Tis a real puzzle, this mystery about Davy. The poor woman has never had an easy life bein’ wed to ’im – ’e often left ’er alone for months at a time. ’E swanned around the city in ’is fancy clothes, while she and the boys were always short of money.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve known the family for a long time,’ Woods said.

  ‘Aye, that I ’ave. I knew Winnie as a young girl.’

  ‘Was their union ever a happy one?’ Lavender asked.

  Rawlings shook his shaggy head. ‘They argued a lot.’

  Lavender thought back to another case he’d worked on earlier that year when he’d tracked down and arrested a man for deserting his wife and family. While he stood in the dock, the errant husband declared that he might as well serve time in gaol as his own marriage was a foul prison and his wife a vicious turnkey. The courts were full of such unhappy cases and the workhouses full of impoverished and abandoned wives and children. A miserable marriage led to desperation. Bigamy was common. But this was the first time he’d come across someone who’d faked his own death to escape his marriage. He wondered how the ‘widowed’ Mrs MacAdam had managed to support herself and her children throughout the summer. No doubt Rawlings had helped her. His thoughts returned to the grisly practicalities of the impending exhumation.

  They reached the low wall topped with iron railings that skirted the churchyard of St Mary’s. Rawlings lifted the latch of the creaking wooden gate and led them across the damp grass between the crumbling gravestones. Their boots sank into the soft, muddy ground. A few birds still chirped sleepily in the boughs of the yew trees above their heads but most had settled down to roost now.

  MacAdam’s tombstone was plain, cheap sandstone and simply gave the year of his birth and the date of his death, 13th June, 1812. A dead posy of hedgerow flowers lay across the grave. Lavender glanced uneasily at the nearby road. Exhumations were a nasty business, often carried out at dawn to deter gawkers and protect the sensibilities of the local residents and the mourners at other funerals.

  ‘Who oversaw the funeral service?’ Lavender asked.

  ‘The vicar. The Reverend Calvin.’

  Lavender glanced back at the solid rectangular building of the church. ‘He needs to be told that he’s probably buried the wrong man.’ The arched wooden door on the two-storeyed porch was open but the windows were black, with no glimmer of light inside.

  Rawlings followed his glance. ‘The Reverend Calvin will be at ’ome in his vicarage on the ’igh Street by now. ’E’s in ’is dotage and goes to bed early on a night. You might just catch ’im before ’e retires if you ’urry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lavender said. ‘To be honest, apart from talking to the vicar, I don’t think there’s much more we can accomplish tonight. You’ve been very helpful, Mr Rawlings. Don’t let us detain you if you want to return to Mrs MacAdam. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon in Bow Street.’

  For a moment, the tall man hesitated. He glanced back at the church and sighed sadly. ‘It’s a shame, it is.’

  ‘What is?’ Woods asked sharply.

  But Rawlings shook his shaggy head, said ‘Goodnight to you both’ then walked back through the graveyard towards the gate.

  ‘Do you want to eat first before we call on the vicar?’ Lavender asked Woods.

  ‘There’s somethin’ amiss here,’ Woods replied, frowning.

  ‘That’s a bit of an understatement, considering the circumstances.’

  ‘No, I meant with Rawlings and Mrs MacAdam. Wait here for a moment.’ Woods strode towards the church porch and disappeared inside the dark building. When he emerged, there was a wide grin stretched across his broad face.

  ‘I knew it!’ he said. ‘I knew there were more to his friendship with Mrs MacAdam. They’re betrothed and are due to be married in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘What? Rawlings and Mrs MacAdam?’

  ‘Yes, their names are on the list of marriage banns posted on the wall inside the porch. I thought there were somethin’ between them when I saw how comfortable he were by her hearth. Did you notice he kept his coat in the bedchamber?’

  ‘That’s well thought through, Ned,’ Lavender said. ‘I confess I was too distracted by the prospect of the exhumation to notice much. I hope she finds more happiness than in her marriage to MacAdam. Rawlings seems a decent man.’

  Woods gave him a funny look. His next statement surprised Lavender. ‘No, sir, you’ve misjudged him. Rawlings is a sly man, despite his slow speech and easy-goin’ ways.’

  ‘Sly?’

  Woods nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, he knows the two of them are suspects for the murder of MacAdam.’

  ‘They are?’ The mysterious Collins was currently Lavender’s first choice of suspect in this murder inquiry. That man had a lot of questions to answer.

  Woods stared back at him in disbelief. ‘Of course they’re suspects! Gawd’s teeth, sir – it’s not often I’m one stride ahead of you in a case.’

  ‘How are they suspects? They thought MacAdam was already dead.’

  ‘Yes, but suppose they were both lyin’? Imagine they knew MacAdam were still alive and had feigned his own death. You heard the woman say how she’d kill him herself if she’d known about it.’


  Lavender hesitated, then nodded. ‘To be honest, I found Mrs MacAdam’s shocked reaction quite genuine. Most people would react like that to such a horrendous prank. It’s a natural outburst of anger considering the extent of her husband’s deception.’

  ‘But if MacAdam were still alive – and they found out about it – it’d ruin their nuptials and their plans for a life together. You must confess, sir, they’ve got a strong motive to kill MacAdam. And Rawlings were in London yesterday, on the day of his murder. How do we know she weren’t with him?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. We need to question them again. We must keep an open mind and explore every possibility. This is good thinking, Ned.’

  Woods’ cheeks flushed at Lavender’s praise. ‘Right, let’s visit this vicar and see what he has to say for himself.’ He turned and strode enthusiastically towards the road.

  Chapter Nine

  The streets of Chelmsford were quieter now as darkness fell. The shops had closed and the townsfolk hurried home for their suppers. They stopped a helpful pedestrian who directed them towards the vicarage.

  The Reverend Calvin received them in his drawing room, sitting in front of the fire wrapped in a plaid blanket. He was white-haired and frail and his rheumy eyes squinted painfully behind his spectacles. The plain middle-aged woman who’d admitted them into the house was his daughter and it quickly became obvious she was also his nursemaid. ‘Please try not to tire him,’ she begged. ‘He struggles to follow conversation at this time of night.’

  The woman wasn’t jesting. Lavender had trouble explaining the purpose of his call. Miss Calvin turned pale with shock when Lavender told them about MacAdam’s cruel trick on his family but she soon rallied and asked a series of quick questions to clarify the situation. The vicar, however, struggled to grasp what had happened.

  ‘What’s he saying, Annie?’ he whined plaintively. ‘Is David MacAdam still alive? Did we bury a man alive in the churchyard? Was the corpse still breathing?’

  She leaned forward and took his mottled hand in her own. Calvin’s skin was paper thin and looked like it might tear at any moment. ‘No, Father, no. It’s nothing like that. Please don’t upset yourself. Detective, may I speak to you outside?’

  Lavender nodded. He and Woods walked back out into the hallway and waited while she settled the old man and joined them.

  She closed the door to the study behind her and turned her ashen face to Lavender. ‘I’m so sorry, Detective, but I feel the shock of this may kill him. He’s in terrible health and should have retired years ago. I feel this distressing turn of events may be the end of his career.’

  ‘It may well be,’ Lavender said sternly. ‘I’m not sure what protective measures the church has in place to make sure it doesn’t bury the wrong man but protocols clearly weren’t followed in this case. If there were any documents brought from London with the coffin, then I need to see them.’

  Her face crumpled in distress. ‘My father can’t see to read any more. I deal with the administration and sometimes I’m not sure what I’m doing. I can’t remember receiving any documents before the funeral.’

  ‘I understand your father knew MacAdam personally, that he’d helped him with his elocution.’

  ‘Yes, that was some years ago. Mr MacAdam was such a charming man. We were sad to hear he’d died so young. I organised the sexton to dig the grave, took father to the burial and wrote him a eulogy to deliver for Mr MacAdam – but he forgot to read it out. Oh dear, what a terrible situation – and it’s probably my fault!’

  Lavender watched tears well up in her eyes. Despite his frustration, he felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. His maternal grandfather had been Dean of St Saviour and St Mary Overie’s church in Southwark. He knew from his grandfather that many English parish churches were run by elderly and incompetent vicars, who refused, usually for financial reasons, to relinquish their homes and their livings and retire. Their wives and families usually bore the brunt of the parish workload.

  ‘How long has your father been the rector in Chelmsford?’

  She hurriedly wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘For nearly fifty years.’

  ‘Well, we won’t detain you any longer, Miss Calvin, but you do realise, don’t you, I’ll have to write to the bishop to obtain a faculty for exhumation? We need to find out who – or what – is in that coffin.’

  She swallowed hard and nodded. They said farewell and left.

  ‘Right, we need a tankard of ale and some supper to help us think this through.’ Lavender set off back towards The Great Black Boy coaching inn and Woods fell into step beside him. ‘David MacAdam is – was – the most twisted liar I’ve ever come across in my thirteen years as a police officer and my head is reeling at the extent of his duplicity.’

  Lavender’s hopes for a quiet spot by the fireside in the tavern were dashed the moment they ducked beneath the low lintel and entered the inn. It heaved with townsfolk engaged in rowdy games of dice, noisy hard-faced farmers and inebriated soldiers from the local barracks in their brilliant red uniforms. Half a dozen tired and hungry sheepdogs were also sprawled across the taproom floor, like a matted black and white carpet. Occasionally, a drunk soldier would stand on a stray paw and the whole pack would leap to its feet, yelping and growling. This led to a lively exchange of cursing and recrimination between the militia and the agrarians. The tavern stank of tobacco smoke mingled with wet dog.

  They found a small round table in the far corner and sank wearily into their wooden chairs. A blowsy barmaid with missing teeth was soon by their side with two tankards and a pitcher of ale. Lavender asked her for food and was told that the whiting, caught locally, was one of the most popular dishes served at the inn. Lavender ordered himself a plate of the fish. ‘What about you, Ned?’

  ‘Nothin’ for me, sir – I’ll just drink my ale tonight.’

  Lavender frowned, unsure how to proceed. Woods never turned down food. In fact, he usually ate enough for the both of them. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The barmaid shuffled impatiently from one foot to the other and Lavender dismissed her.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, once they were alone. ‘Why won’t you have supper?’

  ‘I’m not hungry, that’s all.’

  ‘Not hungry – rubbish! I can hear your belly rumbling from here.’ Lavender’s eyes narrowed as a new thought flashed through his mind. ‘This is something to do with Sir Richard’s comment about how you need to wear stays, isn’t it?’

  Woods glanced away and waved his big hand dismissively in the air. ‘Can’t a fellah just say “no thank you” without an interrogation? Now, what about this case, sir? What are your thoughts about this sharper, MacAdam?’

  Woods was trying to distract him. Lavender remembered Magdalena’s comment about how sensitive Woods was at the moment about his weight and decided to change the subject. It wouldn’t hurt his constable to miss a meal or two.

  Lavender sat back, sipped his ale and thought quietly for a moment. ‘Well, MacAdam is less of an enigma than he was when we left London this morning. We now know he wasn’t the charming, genial character described by his London friends but an unscrupulous liar and a cheating husband intent on bigamy. He lied about his background to the Howards and connived with his friend, Collins, to fake his own death. He wanted to release himself from his family in order to marry an heiress.’

  ‘It’s like he led two lives.’

  ‘Maybe three, if there’s a red-headed woman involved in his life as well,’ Lavender pointed out.

  ‘He’s gulled everyone.’

  ‘Yes. It might help if we worked out how long this went on for. When did Drachmann say MacAdam left his employment?’

  ‘It were May, I think.’

  ‘May? Of course!’ Lavender slammed down his ale on the table. Froth slopped over the side. ‘The same month he met Miss Howard. A young woman like that would expect a lot of time and attention.’

  ‘What? You think he left his
job to court her?’

  ‘Possibly – he was pretending to be a baronet’s son, remember? A wealthy gentleman of leisure has plenty of time to escort his beloved around town.’ Lavender frowned. ‘But that doesn’t explain how he supported himself through this summer. Mrs Palmer claims he always paid his rent on time and I found a receipt from his bank for £50. MacAdam got money from somewhere.’

  Woods shrugged and sipped his drink. ‘Maybe he went to a moneylender. They’ve been known to turn nasty if you welch on your debt – and have murdered debtors in the past.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Maybe his young woman gave him money?’ Woods suggested. ‘MacAdam wouldn’t be the first man to become a petticoat pensioner and from what you’ve told me Miss Howard were so besotted and innocent he’d have found it easy to gull her.’

  ‘Yes, although I’m sure if that happened, her grandfather didn’t know about it. I need to question both of them about this tomorrow – and I need to go to his bank.’

  ‘But what about this faked death, sir?’

  The barmaid suddenly returned with a generous plate of sizzling whiting and thick-cut slices of warm bread and fresh butter. She paused to fill up their tankards. Woods gazed at Lavender’s food with the desperation of a starving street orphan.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?’

  Woods averted his eyes and gave another dismissive wave. ‘No, no.’

  Lavender paid the woman and asked for a room to be prepared for them for the night. She gave him a toothless smile, bobbed a curtsey and left them alone again.

  ‘Meeting Miss Howard changed the course of MacAdam’s life,’ Lavender said between mouthfuls. ‘A month later, he’d left his employment and persuaded his unscrupulous friend, Collins, to help him stage his own death. On MacAdam’s instructions, Collins brought a sealed coffin back to Chelmsford with the story that the commercial traveller had died from a hideously disfiguring and infectious disease, thereby ensuring no one would want to open the coffin and examine the body too closely.’