A small group of men with lanterns waited for them by MacAdam’s grave, surrounded by the dark shape of crumbling tombstones leaning drunkenly amongst the nettles. The flickering light cast grotesque shadows on to the flint-stone walls of the silent church – the demonic outline of those about to disturb the dead.
Lavender winced when the screeching of the rusty gate shattered the eerie silence of the night. Magistrate Nulty, Sir Richard and his students greeted them in hushed tones. They fell silent beneath the dripping yew trees when the sombre, rhythmic thump of the spades on the earth began to echo round the graveyard.
Lavender shuffled from one cold foot to the other as his boots sank into the sodden ground. He distracted himself by watching the slow glow of light spread from the east. Rooftops, smoking chimneys and the church tower gradually took form. Bats flitted silently overhead, returning to their roost in the belfry.
The weak daylight brought some comfort and normality to the dismal scene. Crows called to each other from nests in the treetops then rose, circling and wheeling in pairs and groups of three before they headed to their favourite feeding grounds.
The gravediggers were about four feet down now. They slowed when the soil became wetter and stickier. They wiped muddied hands across their brows and breathed heavily with the exertion.
‘Looks like they’ve buried him deep,’ Woods whispered beside him.
Lavender said nothing. A small crowd had gathered at a respectful distance on the road. Vincent Dowling, the reporter, was amongst them and so was the Reverend Calvin and his ashen-faced daughter. The frail old man leaned heavily on his stick and Miss Calvin.
Sir Richard moved alongside him and Woods. ‘What do you expect to find here, Lavender?’ Even the normally loud and confident surgeon had lowered his voice.
‘With luck, the coffin will be filled with rubble,’ Lavender replied.
‘And if it’s not? If it contains a cadaver?’
Lavender’s chest tightened. ‘Then we need to identify the body and discover the cause of death – if possible.’
‘You do realise, don’t you, that after three months the corpse will have decomposed badly? There’ll be little left of the tissue, with only the skull and the bones remaining.’
Lavender swallowed hard and nodded.
The pounding of the spades ceased and the sextons called for a lantern to be passed down into the grave. One of them had found a coffin nail and held it up for examination.
‘Well, at least we know somethin’s down there,’ Woods said.
The minutes dragged on as the gravediggers resumed their work. They were shoulder-deep in the hole now. Their hats bobbed up and down as they bent over their work and rose to deposit another spadeful of sloppy earth on to the edge of the gaping hole.
‘Well, it can’t be as bad as that poor fellah they hauled out of the Thames this week,’ Woods said cheerfully.
‘It’ll be worse,’ Lavender replied grimly.
A dull thud and a scrape announced to the tense spectators that a spade had hit wood. Lavender held his breath and the birds in the trees stopped their merry chirping as if on cue.
Everyone inched forward to the edge of the extended hole. The rotting wooden lid of the coffin was now visible. The sextons were squashed on a ledge beside it. They scraped away the top layer of mud and their smeared faces glanced up for further instructions.
Sir Richard took control. ‘Remove the lid. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.’ He turned to his students. ‘Hodge, Kingsley – help them remove the lid.’
Hodge reached for pliers and pulled a crowbar out of the wheelbarrow of tools standing beside the grave. Kingsley dropped down to his haunches and slid down the muddy hole, oblivious to the damage to his tailored coat and breeches. His young face was paler than any of them. Hodge passed down the tools.
Beneath the force of the crowbar the lid cracked and came away easily, releasing the foul smell of the dead into the fresh morning air.
Everyone spluttered and groaned. Kingsley and Magistrate Nulty retched.
‘Gawd’s teeth!’ Woods muttered, wrinkling his broad nose in disgust. He pulled out his handkerchief and covered his lower face.
Lavender’s eyes watered and obscured his vision. He brushed away the tears, braced himself and stared down at the skeletal corpse in the pit. The morning sunlight strengthened, illuminating the grave in all its viscous, gory detail.
Sir Richard had been right. The putrefying cadaver had decomposed almost down to the skeleton. The mouldering clothing of a man lay flat over his bones in the sticky pool of noxious black liquid staining the base of the coffin. Gnarled, blackened claws protruded from the cuffs of the coat.
Lavender forced himself to look at the skull. Only a few peeling shreds of purple flesh and wisps of dry, dark hair remained. The lips had gone entirely, exposing a full set of strong white teeth tightly clenched in the grimace of death. The sunken cheeks were green hollows and the empty eye sockets leered up at Lavender in defiance, challenging him to name these grisly remains. He groaned with disappointment. It would be impossible to recognise the man who’d once inhabited that body.
‘I have something!’ Kingsley shouted from behind his own handkerchief. Coughing and retching, he crouched down and rummaged in the stinking coffin amongst the mangled remains. When he stood up, he held a rotting black leather bag in his gloved hand. He tossed it up on the side of the grave.
Lavender picked up the mouldering bag and walked away out of the shadow of the trees into the soft sunlight. Woods and Sir Richard followed him.
He reached inside the bag and pulled out a small, waterlogged box. It immediately disintegrated in his hand. A shower of black clumps spilled out on to the ground and Lavender caught the faint aroma of tea. He cleared the dirt from the sodden cardboard and pointed to the faded green markings. ‘I think I know who he is.’
The ink had run in the damp and the emblem was faint, but an elegant green tea canister and the elaborate Grecian foliage of Raitt’s Tea Warehouse were just about decipherable.
‘It’s Frank Collins.’
‘That’s not possible!’ Sir Richard exclaimed.
He examined their find more closely. The bag contained a dozen soggy boxes of tea. ‘Collins’ employer, Raitt, said samples of tea had had gone missing along with the man.’
‘But how is this possible?’ Woods asked. ‘He were the one who brought the coffin here – how the devil did he end up inside it?’
‘It wasn’t Collins who brought the coffin here,’ Lavender said. His brain whirled as he pieced together the final pieces of the mystery. ‘It was someone else – someone masquerading as Collins. We should have realised no one would have used his own name to carry out an audacious crime like this.’
‘But how can he have been dead since June?’ Sir Richard’s small, pale eyes were upset and confused beneath his frowning brow. He ran his muddy hand across his forehead, oblivious to the streak of dirt he left behind in his carefully styled hair. ‘He sent my sister some rent money in August.’
‘Again – that wasn’t him,’ Lavender said. ‘The killer – or killers – sent the rent money to Mrs Palmer to maintain the illusion Collins was still alive and in Yorkshire on business.’
‘Well, who in hell’s name has done this?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘Sylvia will be devastated – that’s two of her lodgers confirmed dead in the space of a week!’
‘I’m afraid your sister’s woes aren’t over yet,’ Lavender said slowly. ‘The only other person who was privy to the affairs of both MacAdam and Collins was her third lodger, Alfred Bentley – and he answers the description we have of the young man who brought the coffin to Chelmsford.’
Sir Richard gave a short humourless laugh of disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious, Lavender, surely? Collins was a big fellow and Bentley is barely shaving. He’s just a boy – a weak, impressionable boy. It seems improbable that he murdered Collins and came up with this heinous plan to fake MacAdam’s death.�
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‘Stranger things have happened,’ Lavender said grimly.
‘Perhaps MacAdam killed Collins?’ Woods suggested. ‘If the Bentley fellah is as weak-minded as you think, maybe MacAdam persuaded – or forced – the younger chap to help him cover up the murder and bring the coffin here.’
‘That makes more sense,’ Lavender said thoughtfully. ‘Ike Rawlings is under arrest and on his way to London with his gaoler. He said last night he might be able to identify the young man who brought this body to Chelmsford.’ Another thought struck him. ‘Sir Richard, did you tell your sister that we would be exhuming the grave today?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘If she told Bentley – then he might run.’
‘We need to get back to London – and fast!’ Woods said.
Lavender shoved the crumbling boxes of tea back into the bag and closed it. ‘We’ll arrest Bentley and take him to Bow Street, where Rawlings may be able to identify him.’
‘My poor sister!’ Sir Richard groaned. He looked wretched. ‘She’ll be devastated.’
‘I’m sorry, but we must go,’ Lavender said.
The surgeon nodded glumly.
Lavender glanced back at the gaping hole in the ground. ‘Please continue with the autopsy, Sir Richard. I know it won’t be easy for you but if you can find any clue about how Frank Collins met his death, it would be very helpful.’
Sir Richard nodded irritably. ‘Just catch the bastard responsible for this, Lavender.’ He turned and walked back to his gruesome task across the sodden ground.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lavender and Woods caught the first coach back to London and strode into Bow Street at about half past nine.
‘I’ll get a warrant for Bentley’s arrest while you saddle up the horses,’ Lavender said. He leapt up the scuffed wooden stairs to Read’s office two at a time.
Read was halfway across the room, resplendent in his court robes and wig, when Lavender entered. ‘You just caught me, Stephen. I’m due in court in five minutes.’
‘I need an arrest warrant for a man named Alfred Bentley.’ Quickly, he explained what they’d discovered at the exhumation. ‘If Bentley found out from Mrs Palmer that we did the exhumation this morning then he’ll know the game is up. He might try to run.’
‘Good grief!’ Read retraced his steps across the room and grabbed a blank warrant and his quill from the inkstand. ‘What charge?’
‘We’ll start with the murder of Francis Collins. Oswald Grey and I will need to sit down with a legal dictionary to work out the rest of the crimes the cove has committed. The charge sheet will be extensive.’
As if on cue, there was a sharp tap on the open door and Grey stepped into the room. ‘Detective Lavender, you need to come downstairs to the desk immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a Mr Jackson here, an employee of Mr Howard’s on Bruton Street. He’s very distressed and says they urgently need your help. Apparently, Miss Howard has eloped to Scotland and her grandfather has sent for you to help give chase.’
‘What?’ Lavender spun round. This didn’t make sense. ‘Her fiancé has just died – she can’t have eloped.’
‘Apparently, she’s gone north with some penniless wastrel called Bentley.’
Lavender gasped and snatched the warrant from Read’s hand. ‘I’m on my way.’ He flew across the room and down the stairs.
‘The ink’s still wet!’ Read yelled after him.
Howard’s secretary stood wringing his hands in the grimy hallway. The broken veins on his pale cheeks were flushed red with anxiety. ‘Lavender! Thank goodness, you’re here! This is a terrible business.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘She went out for an early ride in the phaeton this morning. About half an hour later, her ayah confessed to Mr Howard that the wicked girl planned to meet up with this chap Bentley and elope to Gretna Green. She had forced the servant woman to help her pack and load her belongings into the carriage and sworn her to secrecy. But the ayah was wracked with guilt.’
Forced? Lavender couldn’t imagine the gentle Miss Howard forcing anyone to do anything.
‘Mr Howard is furious,’ Jackson continued. ‘He called for his landau, and gave chase immediately. He insists you join him in the hunt.’
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Lavender said. ‘Miss Howard seemed genuinely in love with David MacAdam. Why has she run off with Bentley?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry – I’m so flustered – I haven’t been clear. It’s not Miss Howard who’s eloped with Bentley,’ Mr Jackson said hastily. ‘It’s Miss Matilda Howard, her sixteen-year-old younger sister.’
‘Good grief!’ Lavender’s brain spun. Events were fast moving out of his control. He didn’t know what the devil was going on but he knew they needed to catch Bentley. ‘Do you know which route they took north?’
‘The ayah said they intended to take the Great North Road.’
‘How long has the girl known him?’
Jackson looked embarrassed. ‘The ayah said Miss Matilda has secretly met Bentley since June. Mr MacAdam introduced them privately. Miss Howard knew nothing about this either – she’s devastated.’
June. The same month when Collins was murdered and MacAdam faked his own death. Is that why Bentley helped MacAdam? To gain an introduction to the second Howard heiress? These men were despicable.
Lavender turned to Oswald Grey, who’d followed him downstairs. ‘I need more men.’
‘Most of the officers are either on patrol or still searching for Billy Summersgill,’ Oswald told him.
Summersgill. Lavender had forgotten about him and the burglary. An idea flashed in Lavender’s brain and another piece of the mystery fell into place.
‘Constable Barnaby is out in the yard,’ Grey added. ‘Take him.’
Lavender nodded and strode towards the door, with Jackson trailing behind him. Barnaby was quick, intelligent and a fast rider. ‘I’ll take Eddie Woods too,’ he called over his shoulder to Grey.
‘We don’t know how they intend to pay for this flight,’ Jackson said breathlessly as he struggled to match Lavender’s stride. ‘It’ll take them at least four days – and nights – to reach Gretna Green. They’ll need fresh horses and accommodation. Mr Howard is terrified the cad will get cold feet and abandon Miss Matilda at the side of the road. She doesn’t have much money of her own.’
‘Oh yes, she does,’ Lavender corrected him.
Woods, Eddie and Barnaby stood talking by the stables. Eddie held the reins of two saddled horses.
‘You’re all coming with me – now!’ Lavender yelled. ‘Get two more horses saddled. Quick!’ Woods, Barnaby and Eddie dived into the stables.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mr Jackson continued, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. ‘Mr Howard only gives Miss Matilda a small allowance. What makes you think she has any money?’
Lavender hauled himself up into the saddle, gathered up the reins, then leaned down to the secretary.
‘Did you ever find the burglar’s accomplice amongst your servants?’
‘No.’
‘Think about what’s occurred this morning, Jackson. Then ask yourself: who do you now think stole that valuable ring?’
Five minutes later, Lavender and his men trotted out of Bow Street and joined the heavy traffic heading towards Clerkenwell. Their faces were grim with determination. They wouldn’t be able to pick up much speed while they were in the confines of the city but Bentley and Miss Howard wouldn’t have moved quickly through London either.
Lavender tried to work out how much distance lay between them and the fugitives. The average coach travelled at six miles an hour but that phaeton wasn’t an average vehicle and, according to her grandfather, the young girl was an exceptional horsewoman. She’d fled with Bentley about two hours ago. They didn’t know they were being pursued by her grandfather and the Bow Street officers but they wouldn’t dawdle. They may have reached Stevenage by now. It would be
a long, hard ride.
He glanced ahead at Woods’ broad blue-coated shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with his trotting horse and felt a sudden pang of guilt. He’d forgotten about Ned’s shoulder injury. A furious dash north on horseback wouldn’t help his constable’s recovery. But it was too late to turn him back. Besides which, the stubborn fool would probably refuse to go back anyway.
Gradually, the city fell away. The sun strengthened above them and they whipped their horses into a gallop. The rush of wind in their ears and the drumming hoof beats drowned out all other sensation. Lavender leaned over his horse’s flying mane and peered through the dust cloud kicked up by the thundering hooves to concentrate on the road ahead.
At some points, the rutted historic highway was hundreds of yards in width. Over the years, feet, hooves and vehicles had sought firmer ground on the broad, grassy common away from the ruts and widened the road. The four horsemen weaved effortlessly in and out of the other vehicles, passing everything that threatened to slow them down.
Woods set the pace and Lavender was happy to let him. Every now and then, the experienced patrol officer would pull on the reins to slow his panting horse, especially if the road narrowed or they wound up a gradual incline. Then Woods would set his spurs to his animal’s flanks once more and they’d thunder ahead. They clattered through small hamlets, splashed through shallow fords and stopped only for tollgates. But most of the keepers opened the gates wide to let them pass unhindered once they saw the distinctive uniform of the Bow Street patrol officers bearing down upon them.
Lavender watched Eddie veer away from a couple of small, ragged children playing with a mangy dog in the dust of a village street. Flushed with the excitement of the chase, Eddie was as good a horseman as his father and exceptional for his age. Lavender had done his best to teach Sebastián but he knew his stepson would never sit as comfortably in the saddle of a horse as Woods’ son. It was like Eddie had been born to it.
Murder in Park Lane Page 23