Woods took a deep breath, pulled back his shoulders and smiled. He felt curiously light-headed and happy. The misery and irritation that had haunted him since he stopped eating yesterday had lifted and he wasn’t even bothered by the pain in his guts any more. ‘I’m goin’ to Robertson’s jewellers on the Strand to follow up a lead. If Detective Lavender gets back before me, let him know, will you?’
The man nodded.
Woods strode out of the prison block into the sunny yard – and promptly blacked out and fell in a heap on the cobbles.
After a fruitless search for the missing ring in MacAdam’s room, Mrs Palmer fetched her keys and let Lavender into Mr Collins’ stuffy bedchamber. It reeked of stale tobacco smoke and there were several clay pipes on the mantelpiece spewing out a trail of fine tobacco on to the surface. He pushed up the sash window to let in some air. ‘When did someone last come in here?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t been in here since he left,’ Mrs Palmer replied from the doorway. ‘My maid cleaned in here the week after Mr Collins left for Yorkshire but it’s been locked up since then. Do you need me for anything else, Detective? Because if you don’t, I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘No, thank you. You can go.’
She turned and disappeared down the stairs.
Collins was an untidy beggar. He’d left a pair of muddy boots on the floor and a dirty cravat and a spare coat flung across a chair. Lavender wondered which bits of the room the maid had actually cleaned because every surface was covered with books, pamphlets, crumpled bits of paper and personal items.
There was even a pile of unswept ash on the hearth, although strangely enough it looked like someone had tried to clean the thin, grubby carpet around the edge of the hearth. One patch was paler than the rest and less marked.
Lavender examined the books first; every one of them had an equestrian theme. Collins obviously liked his horses and followed racing. The crumpled pamphlets were from horse fairs and races held earlier in the year; the small, screwed-up pieces of paper were gambling slips. The man had even used some old gaming tickets as bookmarks between the well-thumbed pages of his books.
Lavender paused thoughtfully and remembered MacAdam’s earlier career with horses. Collins and MacAdam had obviously shared a passion for the animals but following racing was an expensive pastime for a layman, especially if he was a reckless gambler. Had Collins run up gambling debts? Lavender searched through the scattered papers looking for letters from creditors or anything else to give him an idea about the state of his suspect’s financial affairs. He found nothing.
Biting back his frustration, he examined the coat on the chair and found some dog-eared trade cards in the pocket. They showed an elegant green tea canister encased in a swirling wreath of foliage, flowers and small Grecian urns. It read: ‘Raitt’s Tea Warehouse, May’s Buildings, St Martin’s Lane. Fine Teas, Coffee and Chocolate. Wholesale and Retail.’ He pocketed one of the cards with the address and noticed the breadth of the shoulders of the coat. Sir Richard was right – Collins was another big man, about the same size as MacAdam and Woods.
He opened the closet door and was surprised at the number of garments hanging inside. The elusive tea merchant must either have an extensive wardrobe, or he had taken hardly anything with him to Yorkshire. Several flame-coloured hairs were caught on the hem of the pantaloons and breeches. Lavender pulled them off and rubbed their silky texture between his fingers, frowning. For the first time, he considered the possibility that these were dog hairs. They were almost identical in colour and texture to the hair he’d found on MacAdam’s clothes, which he’d initially thought belonged to a woman.
Collins had also left behind his razor, shaving brushes and soap, but Lavender didn’t read much into that. He himself had two sets of shaving equipment, one of which stayed permanently in his travelling bag in case an investigation ever called him out of town in a hurry. He found more gambling slips in the pockets of the coats and a short, sweet letter to ‘Uncle Frank’ scribbled in a childish scrawl, from Collins’ niece.
He gave the room one last glance and noted a broken tile in the corner of the hearth before he descended the stairs to the parlour and returned the key to Mrs Palmer. ‘You don’t keep a dog, do you, Mrs Palmer?’
She shook her head.
‘Did any of your lodgers have friends who own dogs with a red coat? Perhaps an Irish setter?’
She looked startled but shook her head again. ‘Is this relevant to the case, Detective?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He excused himself and let himself out of the house into the sunlight.
Young Will, the road sweeper, was standing by the park railings with his horse, beneath the shade of a towering oak.
‘Where’s yer fat friend today?’ the boy asked when he held out his hand for Lavender’s penny.
Lavender smiled. ‘Be off with you, you cheeky imp.’ He turned back to his mare and stroked her silky neck, enjoying the freshness of the light breeze and the whispering of the leaves above. Weak sunlight filtered through the canopy of the leaves, creating a soft, dappled effect on the horse’s glossy neck and flank.
The ruby ring had added a new dimension to MacAdam’s murder. A missing jewel of such value brought robbery back into the investigation as a motive. MacAdam’s murderer may have been happy to leave the pocket watch and small change in his pockets once he’d uncovered such a dazzling article.
But it was only twenty-four hours since the investigation began, so there was plenty of time to get to the bottom of this case. It seemed longer, though.
He glanced up at the position of the sun and realised it was nearly noon. Mrs MacAdam would arrive at Bow Street to view her husband’s body in the morgue at two o’clock. He only had enough time left to visit the workplace of one of Mrs Palmer’s lodgers.
He swung himself up in the saddle and turned his horse in the direction of Collins’ employer in St Martin’s.
Chapter Thirteen
Woods woke to find a pale-faced crow flapping above his throbbing head. When his eyes finally focused, he realised it was Magistrate Read in his voluminous court robes scowling down at him. A small crowd of smirking ostlers had also gathered around him. His frightened son was amongst them.
‘What happened, Woods?’ Magistrate Read demanded.
Embarrassed, Woods sat up and tenderly explored the sore, bloodied patch on the back of his head where it had hit the cobbles. ‘Nothin’ happened, I tripped and fell over, that’s all. Fetch me a drink of water, son.’
While Eddie raced over to the pump, Woods pulled himself to his feet. One of the officers made a crack about ‘being foxed on duty’ and another suggested he watered down his ale, but Woods barely heard them. Both the light-headed sensation and the terrible gnawing in his stomach returned when he stood up. Despite his desire to brush off the incident, he staggered and grimaced with pain.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Read asked. ‘You’ve got a nasty lump on your head.’
Eddie returned with a cup of water, which Woods gulped down gratefully. The water temporarily filled the emptiness of his belly and settled the hunger pangs.
‘Your head looks bad, Da,’ the lad said.
‘It’s nothin’ a bit of vinegar and brown paper won’t put right,’ Woods replied with a wink. ‘Remember that old rhyme, son? Jack and Jill ?’
Eddie smiled ruefully.
‘Well, if you’re sure you’ll be all right, Woods . . .’ Read said.
‘Yes, sir, I’m fine.’
‘Then back to work, everyone.’
The crowd dispersed and Magistrate Read continued his journey to the courthouse.
Only Eddie remained, his young face etched with concern. ‘Da . . . ?’
Woods managed a smile. ‘I’ll be fine, son. Now stop fussin’ and get me my horse.’ While Eddie went into the stables, Woods brushed the muck off his uniform and staggered to the water pump. He soaked his face and the back of his head to remove the blood. By th
e time Eddie returned with the saddled horse, Woods was wet but more alert and he’d stopped quivering.
But it took all of his energy to haul himself up. Conscious of his son’s sharp eyes, he fixed a smile across his face. It vanished the second he cantered out of the stable yard and the stomach pains returned.
Just for a week, he promised himself. Just for a week . . .
Lavender enjoyed the strong aroma of the coffee when he rode past the famous New Slaughter’s Coffee House on St Martin’s Lane. He had the time to call in for a bowl. He and Magdalena were coffee drinkers and both of them liked it strong.
Once a leafy lane leading to the heart of the capital, bordered by the gardens and large homes of the nobility and officials of the royal court, St Martin’s Lane was now a bustling and thriving commercial thoroughfare. A row of four-storey stuccoed family houses with flat roofs towered above him, casting the street into shadow and jostling for space with the older, wood-gabled shops and taverns. The Chippendales lived here on St Martin’s Lane and had converted two of the houses into a workshop for their celebrated furniture business.
May’s Buildings, a relatively new commercial building, was constructed around a paved central courtyard with a broad archway leading out on to the main street. Several bow-fronted shops looked out on to the courtyard. A sign displaying the elegant green tea canister and elaborate Grecian foliage of Raitt’s Tea Warehouse swung out of the wall above a doorway.
At the rear of the courtyard, the large wooden doors of the tea-packing warehouse had been slid open. Men were taking measured quantities of the pale green leaf out of large tea chests and packing them into smaller boxes. The aromatic scent of the plant drifted on the breeze towards Lavender.
He entered the building through the door beneath the swinging wooden sign.
A middle-aged bald man with wire spectacles glanced up from behind several sets of the brass scales on the counter and greeted him. The grassy vegetable aroma of tea was stronger in here. Open boxes of tea were everywhere, labelled with exotic names like ‘Bing’, ‘Hyson’ and ‘Imperial’, but there were also bowls of delicate, reddish-brown leaves called ‘Bohea’. The shelves behind the counter glittered with expensive silver tea sets. There was everything the discerning housewife would need, from a teapot on a stand to the teaspoons and sugar tongs.
Lavender introduced himself to the proprietor, Mr Alistair Raitt, and explained he was looking for a worker at the company called Francis Collins.
‘Ha!’ the little man exclaimed, ‘and so are the rest of us.’
Lavender frowned and adjusted his ears to the Scotsman’s strong accent. ‘What do you mean, sir? I understand Collins works for Raitt’s Tea Company but may be away on business at the moment in Yorkshire.’
‘So that’s the story the rascal tells, is it?’
‘Where is Mr Collins?’
The black shoulders of Raitt’s jacket shrugged. ‘I dinno, I’ve niver seen him for months. Yes, he was supposed tae be in Leeds on ma company’s business but he niver arrived there – or returned back here. I’ve replaced him now.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘It was in June. He set off with a wee shipment of tea for my business partners in Leeds and Harrogate. He was instructed tae get us more trade and were supposed tae be back here in three weeks.’
‘May I have their address?’
‘Aye, but I’ve wrote tae them since and he niver arrived.’
‘I’ll take a copy of that address anyway, sir. What was Collins’ position in your company, Mr Raitt?’
The shopkeeper reached for a pencil and a piece of paper. ‘He did a bit of everythin’ but mostly sellin’ here in the shop or promotin’ the business in the tea shops of London and with provincial buyers and warehouses. He’s a silver tongue, has Collins, and he’s good at his job.’ He handed Lavender the address.
‘Didn’t you make any other enquiries about his absence? Contact his family – or his landlady, for instance? He may have met with an accident while on your company business.’
Raitt scowled at Lavender’s suggestion. ‘I’m a busy man, Detective. I canna be chasin’ around England lookin’ for workers who’ve deserted. Collins was niver mah responsibility.’
‘Did the shipment of tea disappear with him? Did you contact the constables about the theft?’
Raitt shook his head. ‘It was only a wee shipment. The bigger loss was the trade he didna get for me.’
‘On what date in June did Collins set off for Yorkshire?’
‘I canna remember.’
Sighing with frustration, Lavender thanked him and left.
Eddie Woods frowned, bent down to the horse’s fetlock with his stiff-bristled dandy brush and began to remove the mud from the animal’s lower legs. The stallion snorted and shuffled uncomfortably. It was loosely tied to a ring on the outside of the stable wall.
‘Shh, Beresford,’ he soothed. It had become a tradition amongst the stable hands to name the Bow Street horses after the British generals, especially those who fought alongside the newly elevated Marquess of Wellington. Even the mares were named after military men. The experienced mare his Uncle Stephen rode was called Abercromby.
Beresford calmed down and remained still while Eddie resumed his firm brushing of the animal’s hocks. Mud fell away on to the cobbles.
The rhythmic work gave him a few moments to think about his da. Finding his father unconscious on the ground had alarmed and unsettled Eddie. His da was never ill and had never taken a day away from work that Eddie could remember – apart from when he was shot in the shoulder, last spring. Was this swooning a sign of something bad? He didn’t know whether or not he should tell his ma. His da probably wouldn’t like it but his ma wanted to know everything. If he didn’t tell Ma, she might give him a slap.
He was dimly aware that his mother’s attitude had changed towards him this summer. She was more loving these days and he’d seen a softness shine in her brown eyes when she looked at him. She listened closely to what he said and she’d also stopped slapping him. She gave him bigger portions than his brother because she said he needed a man’s strength to do a man’s job and she often sneaked him small treats when the others weren’t looking. He didn’t want that to stop – or for her to slap him again. To tell Ma? Or not to tell Ma? It was a conundrum. As his da often said, it was addling his noddle.
He sighed, stood up and regarded Beresford’s clean fetlocks with satisfaction. He’d fetch a pail of water and swill away the mud from the cobbles. He might as well comb Beresford’s blond mane and swish his pale-coloured tail in the water while he was at it. Both looked a bit grubby.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Eddie spun round. Two black-gowned, heavily veiled women stood behind him. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard them approach.
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘We understand the late Mr MacAdam has been brought here to rest.’ He couldn’t see much through the veil but the woman who spoke had dark eyes and she sounded young. ‘We’d like to pay our last respects to him.’
For a moment, Eddie didn’t know who or what she meant. Then he remembered the dustman the undertakers had brought to the morgue yesterday. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He pointed towards the building with his dandy brush. ‘It’s over there. Are you Mr MacAdam’s family?’ He knew Mrs MacAdam was expected shortly.
‘No.’ The young woman followed the line of his arm and stared at the door a few yards away. She seemed to hesitate.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, sir. Thank you.’
‘I’m afraid there’s another body in there too. It’s a bit ripe.’
The young girl braced herself before she led her companion towards the morgue. They opened the door and hesitated. He thought it might be the smell that stopped them but they’d only paused so the other woman could take off her gloves and button up her coat against the chill of the room. They disappeared inside.
When the
y reappeared, the older woman was sobbing. The younger woman took her arm and led her through the arch out of the stable yard.
Eddie sighed and led Beresford back inside the stable. His Uncle Stephen was right; solving mysterious murders was the most exciting thing in the world – but dealing with the sadness of the friends and relatives of the victims was hard.
Chapter Fourteen
Robertson’s Jewellers, known locally as ‘Robbie’s’, was one of the most famous high-class establishments in the mile-long parade of shops on the Strand. Despite the fact that the seedier nature of Covent Garden had swept down the street like a tidal wave over the last few years, by day the Strand remained a popular shopping area for Londoners of quality. The interior dazzled customers with its glass cases full of glistening diamonds, sapphire-encrusted necklaces and sparkling emerald rings and bracelets.
The shop was also carpeted, which always embarrassed Woods because he was never sure about what he may have picked up on the bottom of his muddy boots from the stable yard; but the proprietors were always friendly and helpful towards the Bow Street officers. Over the years, they’d helped them retrieve several items of stolen jewellery.
Woods entered and asked for the proprietor. While he waited, he studied a stylish gold pocket watch and a diamond-encrusted cravat pin, under the watchful eye of several male shop assistants. When the shop owner arrived, Woods explained he wanted information about a recent transaction involving an expensive ruby ring purchased by a big fellah called MacAdam.
The elderly man immediately called for the sales ledgers and examined them studiously. ‘Here,’ he said, jabbing his finger into the book. ‘It was three days ago. Mr MacAdam bought one of our ruby rings for one hundred guineas. It was an exotic piece, brought over from the Indian subcontinent.’
‘Indian, eh?’ Woods said. No doubt Miss Howard would have appreciated that. ‘Can you describe it, sir?’
‘It was previously owned by a Mughal empress and contained a floret of rubies around one central large stone. The leaves were carved from turquoises. The turquoise leaf design continued part way around the gold band.’
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