Eggerton’s stood between the brewery and the premises of the Spitalfields Soup Society. A long line of thin, rag-clad paupers and beggars snaked out on to the cobbled street from the door of the charity. Fortunately, the smell of the brewery hops overrode any waft of watery beef gruel that may have floated Woods’ way. He promised himself a glass of ale after this business at Eggerton’s had concluded. The alcohol should take the edge off his gnawing hunger. Two wagons piled high with great blocks of pale stone stood in the centre of Eggerton’s yard beneath a crane. Sweating men strained on the end of ropes to unload the cargo. Beneath the wooden awnings lining two sides of the open space, more men in brown hessian aprons used massive two-man diamond-tipped saws to cut these rough blocks into squares. Others stood behind trestle tables, using chisels to work the stones into the required shape or cleaving slate into thin wafers for roof tiles. The constant ring of their hammers on the chisels and the rhythmic grind of the saws echoed round the yard. Mountains of finished stone blocks were piled at the far end of the yard, ready to feed the insatiable demands of builders in the burgeoning city. Everything was covered with a fine film of greyish-white dust, including the faces of the workers as they concentrated over their work. It gave them a ghoulish appearance.
Woods led his horse towards the low office, tied its reins to a post and asked a passing workman to take him to the foreman. The man grunted and led him to a corner of the yard.
A small, wizened, bald man stood there, surrounded by a group of bright-eyed apprentices. He held a chisel and a hammer in his scarred, calloused hands. The chisel had paused above a block of stone on the bench in front of him. One glance at its intricately carved wreath of foliage told Woods this was where stone craft crossed over into an art form. The master mason glanced up at Woods’ uniform and his blue eyes twinkled.
‘A runner, eh?’ He turned his head to speak to the young men gathered around him. ‘It looks like the law ’as finally caught up wi’ me, boys.’ The apprentices giggled.
‘I’m Constable Woods from Bow Street Police Office.’
The elderly man put down his chisel and brushed the grime from his hands before extending one of them to Woods. ‘Sam Eggerton, master stonemason.’
‘I’m here to ask about a fellah called Ike Rawlings,’ Woods said as he shook Eggerton’s hand.
‘Ike?’ The old mason nodded. ‘Yes, ’e’s a carrier, ’e brings us several loads a week down from the quarry at Chelmsford. Nice fellah.’
‘Were he here two days ago?’
Eggerton rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. ‘Aye, I think ’e were.’
‘What time were that?’
‘’E usually arrives about midday, ’elps us unload and then goes ’ome. What’s this about, officer?’
‘Does he always go straight back to Chelmsford?’
The mason shrugged. ‘I can’t say as I know. Sometimes the carriers ’ave other errands to do while they’re in town.’
‘Did he ever mention a man he knew here in town? A man called MacAdam?’
Eggerton shook his head and Woods felt his heart slump with disappointment. He knew Lavender was right to want him to explore every aspect of this case, but tracing a man’s movements in a city the size of London was like trying to follow a rat through the old sewers.
‘I’m interested in his trip here two days ago.’ Woods glanced at the wide entrance to the yard and the busy street beyond with its constant stream of traffic. ‘Which way would he turn to get the road back to Essex?’
The mason thought for a moment, then said: ‘Left. That’d take ’im to Mile End Road and out o’ town.’
‘But ’e didn’t go that way two days ago,’ said an excited high-pitched voice. A carrot-topped little fellow with a face full of freckles elbowed his way forward. The boy was so small he almost tripped over the filthy man-sized apron strapped round his thin frame. ‘I saw ’im – ’e turned to the right and nearly caused that carriage to overturn. Don’t you remember, Master Eggerton?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the old man. ‘I remember now. It were quite a commotion. Well done, young Nibbs.’
‘What happened?’ Woods asked.
‘Ike weren’t lookin’ out properly. ’E turned straight into the traffic in front of an ’ackney cab and their ’orses collided. It were a devil of a job to sort it out because the traces got tangled. The cab driver were furious and cussin’ like Old Nick himself.’
Woods frowned. ‘Is Rawlings normally such a poor driver?’
‘No, ’e’s one of the best. You won’t find a safer pair of ’ands wi’ that ’eavy wagon in the whole of Christendom. But come to think on it, ’e were a bit diverted two days ago.’
‘Diverted?’
‘Aye, dreamy like. Ponderin’. I know ’e’s to wed soon and I thought ’e may ’ave been ponderin’ about his nuptials – or thinkin’ about his little woman.’ The apprentices giggled again. ‘I always tell the boys to steer clear of women, don’t I, lads?’
‘Yes, guvnor.’ Young Nibbs puffed out his chest with pride as he repeated the mantra. ‘Women are the tools of the devil. They’re sent by Beelzebub to distract a good mason from the straight line ’e’s carvin’.’
‘The only good woman is the one carved in marble,’ another boy added for Woods’ edification.
Woods smiled.
‘Now, what’s this about, Constable? Rawlings didn’t leave ’ere and cause another accident wi’ ’is wagon, did ’e?’
Woods shook his head. ‘It’s just a routine enquiry, sir. Thank you for your help – and you too, young Nibbs.’
The young lad bristled with pride.
Woods took his leave and walked back to his horse, barely able to contain his excitement. So, Ike Rawlings had been distracted on the day of the murder, had he? And he hadn’t left the stonemasons to return to Essex but had turned his wagon towards the west of the city instead. It was only a small piece of information, but enough to justify questioning the man further when they returned to Chelmsford. Inch by slow inch, they were gathering the evidence to make a case against Rawlings.
Suddenly he was flushed with joy and that giddy light-headed feeling returned. He stumbled slightly as he led his horse towards The Black Eagle tavern attached to the towering brewery that overshadowed the stonemason’s yard. He salivated at the thought of a tankard of ale. His stomach screamed out for sustenance. He’d earned a drink.
Lavender decided to visit the mews on King’s Street at the back of Park Lane. His investigation had come to a grinding halt. He couldn’t speak to MacAdam’s bank manager or to Miss Howard until tomorrow and the only clue left for him to explore this warm afternoon was the mystery of the coach used by MacAdam. When he rode back towards Hyde Park, he saw the sunlight glittering on the Serpentine in the distance and it lifted his spirits a little.
King’s Street Mews was a narrow, muddy back street, littered with piles of horse dung and clumps of rotting straw. Built in a uniform style for the utilitarian purpose of providing accommodation for the horses, coaches, ostlers and groomsmen of the nearby wealthy homeowners, the mews had little to endear itself to a stray pedestrian and reeked of horses and manure. Mindful of his boots, Lavender stepped carefully over the slow rivers of dirty urine draining away from the stables down to the block drain in the middle of the street. One of the upstairs windows had a window box of red geraniums beneath it, but the human residents of King’s Street Mews had made no other attempt to bring a touch of cheerfulness to break up the plain, smoke-blackened brick buildings.
Lavender paused to allow a groom to lead a horse out of one of the stables. Then he tied his own horse to an iron ring on a wall and pulled a notebook out of his pocket. Several of the coach house doors had been slid open on their rusty iron runners. Ignoring the curious stares of the ostlers and grooms, Lavender peered inside their dark interiors, searching for a vehicle whose coat of arms bore some resemblance to the red shield, coronet and two rampant black stallions in his sketch. He saw a
wide variety of gleaming barouches, a fashionable landau and other assorted carriages, but none of them matched Howard’s description of MacAdam’s old boneshaker with its distinctive coat of arms.
‘Can I ’elp you, guvnor?’ An elderly, whiskered groom sat on an upturned barrel. He was using wadding and a bottle of polish to bring back the shine to the brasses on a leather harness.
Lavender approached him. ‘I’m looking for a carriage that was kept here and used by a man called David MacAdam.’
The groom shook his shaggy head. ‘I’ve never ’eard of ’im – and I know the owners of all these stables and coaching ’ouses.’
‘He may have borrowed it from someone else.’ Lavender held out his sketch towards the man. ‘It had a distinctive coat of arms on the side, possibly with a coronet and two black rampant stallions.’
The groom glanced at his drawing and shook his head again. ‘Never seen it.’
Lavender thanked him, retrieved his horse and led it back to Park Lane. He stood for a moment in the dappled shade of the trees opposite number ninety-three, looking at the plain front of Mrs Palmer’s house. Sighing, he realised he might as well pack up for the day and go home to Magdalena. His investigation was going nowhere.
Think, think, he told himself. Even without confirmation from the bank, Lavender knew MacAdam couldn’t afford to keep horses and a carriage. Yet he’d visited the Howards in an old brown coach with a coat of arms. He’d also travelled to the jewellers on the Strand in a coach – possibly the same one – to purchase the ring for Miss Howard. And on this occasion, he’d travelled with a woman – maybe an older woman. He must have borrowed a coach and horses from someone. MacAdam had been a charmer, especially with the fairer sex. Women of all ages, from Mrs Palmer and her friends to Miss Calvin, the vicar’s daughter in Chelmsford, all seemed to have adored or trusted him. It had to be a woman who’d loaned him the coach.
He felt rather than saw Will the road sweeper sidle up next to him. ‘If you’ve come to see Mrs Palmer from number ninety-three, yer too late.’ The boy’s high-pitched voice shattered Lavender’s thoughts. ‘She left wi’ that nasty old trot from number eighty-five.’
Lavender struggled to keep his face straight. ‘It’s impertinent to talk about Lady Tyndall in such a manner, son.’
‘’Ave you found the killer of the fat guy yet, guvnor?’
‘Not yet.’ Obviously, nothing, not even MacAdam’s use of a corset, had escaped the urchin’s sharp eyes.
‘D’you need ’elp? I ’eard about the murder this mornin’ from Daisy the ’ousemaid at number ninety-seven. She often stops and passes the time of day wi’ me on ’er way to work.’
‘I’ll take any help I can get with this case at the moment. What do you know?’
‘Is there a reward if I ’elp you catch the killer?’
Lavender glanced down at Will thoughtfully. He was clutching the handle of his broom with both grubby little hands and had rested his peaked chin on top of them. He looked up at Lavender with intelligent brown eyes beneath his long, matted fringe.
There wasn’t a reward offered in this case. No one in MacAdam’s acquaintance – except Mr Howard – could afford to put up a reward for information. But after the revelations this afternoon, Howard would probably be more disposed to buy the killer a glass of brandy than assist with his capture.
For a second, Lavender wished Woods were there; he’d do a much better job of questioning the urchin and, with or without a monetary reward, he’d wheedle and charm information out of the boy. But Ned wasn’t there. He’d just have to be as gentle as he could.
‘There may be a bigger reward out soon for capturing the villain,’ he said cautiously, ‘but at the moment, I can only offer threepence a time to witnesses who tell me anything about MacAdam.’
Will looked thoughtful. ‘But I can tell you lots about ’im, guvnor. I sweep all of Park Lane. I do the full road – and round the corner to the toll gate. I often saw that geezer comin’ and goin’ out the ’ouse. I tell you what, give me thru’pence now and I’ll tell you ’alf. Then you can come back later wi’ another coin for the rest.’
Lavender didn’t know whether to laugh or clip the cheeky urchin around the ear. React like Ned, he thought – and use the boy’s name to put him at ease. He smiled. ‘Just tell me what you know, Will. If it’s good enough I’ll give you the full sixpence today. Now tell me what you know about MacAdam.’
A wide grin lit up the boy’s thin face. ‘’E used to leave early for work but not so much lately.’
‘Was he alone when you saw him?’
Will nodded. ‘Mostly, but sometimes ’e’d go down to Rotten Row wi’ the other geezers from the ’ouse and watch the nobs drive past in their carriages.’
Here was another witness to the friendship between MacAdam and Mrs Palmer’s other lodgers. Bentley had lied to him and downplayed his acquaintance with MacAdam. ‘Did you ever see him climb into a carriage?’
‘What, ’ere or down on the Row?’
‘Both.’
Will pulled himself up to his full height proudly. ‘I’ve done more than that – I’ve seen ’im drivin’ a fancy black carriage wi’ a young gal down on the Row.’
This wasn’t new information, Lavender thought. He pulled out his notebook and pointed to his sketch of the mysterious coat of arms with the rampant black stallions. ‘Did you ever see MacAdam board an old carriage with an emblem like this?’
Will studied it carefully but shook his head. ‘No, guvnor.’ Then he grinned and prodded the other coat of arms, the Fitzgerald emblem, with his grubby forefinger. ‘I’ve seen ’im use that carriage, though.’
‘What? The coach belonging to the Fitzgerald family?’
‘Aye, the old lady often gave ’im a ride – and the rest o’ them fellahs.’
‘The old lady?’
‘Lady Louisa, they call ’er. She’s a pal of ’er at number ninety-three – a pal of all of ’em who lives there, from what I can see. Can I ’ave my tanner now?’
‘One last question, Will. Did you ever see MacAdam meet anyone else out here in the street?’
‘No.’
‘Did it ever look like anyone was following him?’
‘That’s two questions. No.’
‘So, you’ve seen nothing suspicious – or unusual?’
Will frowned, and Lavender realised the child was worried he might not get his reward. ‘I don’t know what you mean about suspicious – but there were the geezer with the wagon.’
‘What geezer?’
‘You know – I told you yesterday. The wagon wi’ the dirty stone that spills out the dust and gravel on to my road.’
Lavender froze, barely able to believe his ears. ‘Did it come here often? Was it here on the afternoon of the murder?’
Will thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yeah, it were. The driver’s an old fellah like yer fat friend. ’E sits and smokes ’is pipe watchin’ number ninety-three.’
‘And you’re sure he was here two days ago, on the afternoon of the murder?’
‘Yes, ’e were. Can I ’ave me tanner now?’
Lavender fished in his pocket for the sixpence. ‘One last question, Will—’
‘What? Another ’un?’
‘Would you recognise this man if you saw him again?’
‘’Course I would. E’s an ’airy fellah wi’ a beard.’
A flood of satisfaction swept through Lavender when he handed the boy the coin.
Finally, this case was getting somewhere.
Chapter Eighteen
Lavender rode to Berkeley Square to find the Fitzgerald family home. The ornate cream facades of the town houses lining the square gleamed in the sunlight. The contrast between the MacAdams’ cramped back-street cottage back in Chelmsford and these imposing, elegant homes struck him anew. David MacAdam’s journey through life had taken him from one end of the social scale to the other. These were the homes of the nobility, politicians and wealthy businessmen. T
he Prince Regent’s stylish friend Beau Brummell lived here, as did one of the Prince’s female favourites, the indomitable Lady Jersey. Half the fashionable world sought entrée to her receptions held at number thirty-eight.
A group of uniformed nursemaids stood beneath the shade of the plane trees watching their young charges playing on the lawn in the centre of the square. Lavender dismounted and led his horse towards them.
Lady Louisa Fitzgerald was well known to the nursemaids. Apparently, she kept a pack of large, ferocious dogs, which were sometimes exercised here in the grassy centre of the square. Delighted to have the attention of a police officer, the young women told Lavender they had feared the drooling animals would eat the young children in their care. Lavender nodded and hid his amusement. He thanked them and promised to mention their concerns to Lady Louisa.
The Fitzgerald house was a dilapidated building compared to its neighbours and in urgent need of some exterior maintenance. Lavender tied his horse to the rusty railings, leapt up the stone steps to the peeling door and rang the bell. It unleashed a tirade of barks behind the door. When one canine voice drew breath, another took over, so loud and so close that Lavender’s fingers instinctively went to the loaded pistol he always carried in his coat pocket. Not for the first time today, he wished Ned was by his side. Woods had a natural ability with every kind of animal, from his beloved horses to escaped cows from Smithfield meat market. He was especially good with large, angry dogs.
He heard a man shouting and cursing the animals inside the building. Then an interior door slammed shut and the barking ceased.
When the door finally swung open, a flushed footman in a moth-eaten wig and faded livery glared at him down his pinched nose. His waistcoat swung open over his stained shirt, which had a button missing.
‘Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street, to see Lady Louisa Fitzgerald.’
The footman’s sharp eyes took in every detail of the smart tailoring of Lavender’s black coat and hat. Then his lip curled and Lavender smelt the alcohol on his breath. ‘The tradesmen’s entrance is round the back.’ He tried to shut the door in Lavender’s face.
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