Lavender nearly choked on his brandy: ‘She’s not my sweetheart.’
‘Is she Read’s sweetheart?’ Vickery asked. ‘We’ve heard that he bought the little doxy some ribbons.’
‘You’re a dark horse, Lavender,’ said Vickery. ‘We get sent to grapple with a gang of cut-throats, while you and Read entertain young gals in his office.’
Lavender laughed and for the next half an hour he parried his colleagues’ teasing and joined in their banter. Their curiosity was piqued and even in their cups, these men were good at their job. Bit by bit, they wheedled the full story out of him.
‘You’ve done well, Lavender,’ slurred McManus, as they eventually rose to leave. ‘Townsend may try to steal the glory – but we know where the real talent lies in Bow Street.’ He raised his brandy glass in a silent toast to Lavender.
‘It was Ned Woods who found the pocket watch,’ he reminded them.
‘Yes,’ said Vickery, with a wink. ‘Of course it was.’
‘I’m surprised you managed to pull the wool over Read’s eyes with that little trick, Lavender,’ Donaldson said with a grin ‘Magistrate Read’s normally sharper than that.’
Lavender just smiled and took another sip of his drink. Vickery downed his brandy and stood up to leave. The other men followed suit and all bade Lavender farewell.
Woods broke away from the raucous crowd of patrol officers who were now singing a bawdy song and joined him at his table. His grey eyes gleamed with alcohol but they focused steadily on Lavender’s face. ‘I wanted to thank you, sir – for everythin’,’ he said.
Lavender smiled. ‘It was my pleasure, Ned. I trust Magistrate Read has invited you back to work?’
‘Yes, I’m back on patrol tomorrow mornin’.’ Lavender heard the satisfaction and excitement in his voice.
‘Well, there wasn’t much else Read could do, was there, except reinstate me?’ Woods continued. ‘Not once I’d solved the mystery of the lost pocket watch.’ He gave Lavender a huge wink with his good eye. ‘That were kind of you, sir – to set me up as the hero of the hour. But it might be best if you don’t do that again. Solvin’ these mysteries is your job – and you do it very well. I’m to provide the back up. It addles my old brain to have to think that much. I nearly didn’t get your meanin’.’
Lavender smiled. ‘I assume that Betsy is happier now?’
‘Yes,’ Woods said quickly, ‘and she’s asked you round for supper tomorrow night. She wants to make bread and butter puddin’ with rum sauce in your honour.’
Lavender’s eyes lit up. This was best news yet. ‘Please tell her I shall be delighted to come.’
Woods nodded and frowned slightly. ‘So what were it you saw in the casin’ of that ruddy watch?’ Woods asked. ‘What’s the damned mystery?’
Lavender put down his glass on the table. ‘Between you and me, Ned – there’s an inscription inside the watch from Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert to the Prince.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘It reads: “For my darling husband, George – from your one true wife”.’
‘Heaven and Hell!’ Woods exclaimed. ‘That would have caused some trouble if it had got into the wrong hands – especially the hands of those reporters.’
‘Exactly,’ Lavender said. His voice hardened. ‘Thankfully it didn’t.’
‘Weren’t there some rumours that he’d married her? A few years back?’
‘Yes, but they died down. There were questions about whether the Prince’s marriage to Princess Caroline is legal, and whether Princess Charlotte is legitimate and the rightful heir to the throne after her father. I can understand Read’s concern. The Prince is hugely unpopular at the moment; a resurgence of this old scandal is the last thing the House of Hanover needs.’
Woods gave a low whistle and shook his head. ‘Tonight’s not the night to worry about such things,’ he said, wisely. ‘We’re servants of the crown and we have a job to do – and today we did it well. Other folks make the rules; so let others worry about the politics.’
A grateful smile spread across Lavender’s face. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ned.’
‘Well, it looks like you’d do all right – if the last two days are anythin’ to go by. You even managed to get help from that young girl without scarin’ her.’
‘Yes, it was probably a good thing you weren’t there.’ Lavender said. He pointed to the hideous bruising on Woods’ face. ‘Sarah Benson would have taken one look at you, screamed and run away.’
Woods laughed. The amber liquid swirled and flashed in their glasses as the two men clinked them in a private toast.
‘We’ve done well,’ Woods growled.
‘Yes,’ Lavender replied, quietly. ‘We’ve done very well.’
Author’s Notes
Thank you for reading my short story. I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.
Detective Stephen Lavender was a real historical figure, a principal officer with the Bow Street magistrates’ court in London during the Regency period. Following the formation of the police force by Sir Robert Peel in 1821, Lavender became the highly-respected Deputy Chief Constable of Manchester until 1833.
I first came across Stephen Lavender when researching my first novel, Catching the Eagle. This is the true story of how one of my late husband’s ancestors was controversially convicted of Northumberland’s biggest robbery back in 1809. Lavender was the detective called up from London to solve the mystery of the Kirkley Hall Robbery. Ultimately, Lavender was the man who put our ancestor in the dock but I don’t hold this against him. In fact, when creating his character for Eagle I began to like the serious, intelligent and slightly melancholic Detective Stephen Lavender. I also grew very fond of his fictional sidekick, Constable Woods.
John Townsend, Magistrate Read and Detectives Vickery, McManus and Donaldson were also real Bow Street personnel and are vividly described in several reference books including: Percy FitzGerald’s Chronicles of Bow Street Police Office and A Certain Share of Low Cunning: A history of the Bow Street Runners by David J. Cox.
As always, the idea for this piece of fiction came from several different sources. While reading my treasured dialogue handbook, Cant, A Gentleman’s Guide; The Language of Rogues in Georgian London by Stephen Hart, I came across the painful, but now obsolete, crime of ‘snuffing’ and decided to feature it in a short story. This is the crime of ‘going into a shop on some pretence, watching an opportunity to throw a handful of snuff in the eyes of the shop-keeper, and then running off with any valuable article you can lay hands on; this is called snuffing him, or giving it to him upon the snuff racket.’
The idea of a thief hiding stolen items among the lead weights used to weigh down window drapes came from fellow author and friend, Claire Stibbe. Claire told my author group, The Hysterical Fictionaires, the wonderful story of how she and her brothers snipped off the corners of her mother’s dining room curtains, took out the lead weights and tried to spend them at the local sweet shop
Thank you to the gals in the Fictionaires for beta-reading and editing this story, to Sandra for the proofread and Mike at Q Design for the lovely book cover.
If you would like to read more about Detective Stephen Lavender and Constable Woods, they feature in two full-length novels published by Thomas & Mercer: The Heiress of Linn Hagh and The Sans Pareil Mystery (October 2015). The first chapter of Heiress is available to read at the end of this short story. The eBook and paperback can be purchased from Amazon. And The Sans Pareil Mystery is now available for pre-order.
Best wishes,
Karen Charlton,
Marske-by-the Sea, North Yorkshire.
16th May 2015
THE HEIRESS OF LINN HAGH
Chapter One
London - October, 1809
The two-wheeled hackney carriage sped down Mile End Road towards Whitechapel, weaving in and out of more sedate vehicles, farm carts and barrow boys. It c
hurned up the stinking waste and sprayed the startled pedestrians.
Beneath the hackney’s black hood, a dark-suited man gripped his walking cane and braced himself as the carriage lurched violently from side to side. His sharp eyes scanned the crowds, seeking out familiar faces.
A never-ending tide of soot-blackened shops, brothels, dilapidated taverns and coffee houses flowed past the carriage as it raced through the crowded streets. The man caught glimpses of shadowy figures lurking in the gloom of dank alleys between the buildings. The cries of the street vendors mingled with those of the drunks, rearing horses and the constant rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves over the cobbles. For the man in the hackney carriage, it was noisy, drunken and out of control.
It’s good to be back, Detective Lavender decided.
When they slowed for the Whitechapel tollgate, he caught a familiar flash of scarlet. He rapped on the hood above him with his cane.
‘Driver, stop here.’
In the centre of a ragged crowd of onlookers were two members of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. Instantly recognisable in their blue greatcoats and scarlet waistcoats, they had dismounted from their horses. One of them was Constable Woods. The officers circled a curvaceous and extremely drunk young woman, who appeared to be on the point of passing out. Lavender climbed down from the hackney and watched the developing scene from the edge of the crowd.
Suddenly, the woman’s legs buckled beneath her, and she lurched towards the older, stockily built man. Constable Woods caught hold of her beneath her stained armpits and broke her fall.
Now on her knees, she flopped forwards and vomited down his breeches.
‘Gawd’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘The doxy’s gone and spewed down the leg of me damned boot.’
The crowd roared with laughter.
Woods frowned, lowered the limp woman onto the ground and whisked out his handkerchief to wipe his uniform. He glanced up sharply at his companion, who hovered nervously above the prostrate female.
‘Get on with it, Officer Brown—search her—you know what you’re looking for.’
The younger man dropped down onto one knee and tugged at the drawstring of the faded reticule, which was half-trapped beneath her body. She let out a great snore before obligingly rolling away into the pool of her own vomit. Her skirts were halfway up her legs, revealing the gaping holes in her stockings and the flapping sole of her boot. Officer Brown retrieved the tatty cloth bag, yanked it open and held up six shillings, a few pennies and a half crown piece.
‘It’s not here, Constable Woods,’ he said. ‘I think the strumpet has already drunk it away.’
‘’Tis not very likely in a mere two days,’ Woods barked. ‘I said search her—not fool around with her purse, you saphead.’
The crowd laughed again, and some wag made a wisecrack about how the red, beaded bag matched the young officer’s pimply complexion.
It was at this point that the man from the hackney carriage stepped forward and joined his colleagues.
‘Is there anything I can do to help, Constable Woods?’ he asked. The bemused spectators regarded him curiously. One or two of them started with alarm and scurried away, but few in the mob recognised him these days.
Woods beamed in delight.
‘Detective Lavender!’ He shook his hand vigorously. ‘Well met, sir! It’s been too long.’
‘I agree. So, what do we have here?’
‘We have been searching for this thieving trollop since yesterday.’ Woods sighed. ‘It’s claimed she stole money from a rich merchant a few nights ago—while he slept in a bed in a bawdy house …’
‘I think I know where the money is, sir!’ the young officer interrupted, from his position on the ground. ‘I heard the paper rustle when she moved.’
‘Where, lad? Where?’
Constable Brown pointed nervously to the woman’s ample breasts. ‘I believe it’s down there—between her habit shirt and the bosom of her gown.’
‘Well, get it!’
The young man blushed. His hand trembled above the two wobbling mounds of female flesh and the gaping cleavage.
‘Go on, son!’ someone jeered in the crowd. ‘Give her a good fumble!’
There were howls of laughter.
‘Oh, for Gawd’s sake!’ Woods snapped. He stepped forward, stooped low and thrust his hand down the bodice of the unconscious girl. He had a good rummage around.
The crowd loved it.
‘Whayy!’
‘Try the other end!’
‘Don’t forget her placket!’
‘I’m glad to see that you’ve not lost your touch with the ladies.’ Lavender grinned.
Undeterred by the irony of his colleague or the raucous leering of the mob, Woods’ ruddy face was a picture of studied concentration.
When he finally pulled back his hand from the woman’s stained underclothes, he held up a crisp one hundred pound banknote. The crowd around Lavender emitted a sharp collective intake of breath, and the laughter subsided.
‘That lush will get more than a whippin’ fer being drunk and disorderly,’ Lavender heard someone whisper.
‘Is the rest not there?’ Disappointment flashed across Officer Brown’s face.
‘No. The trollop must have given it over to someone else fer safe keepin’.’ Woods straightened up. ‘Never mind—if the numbers match those retrieved from the bank, then this should be enough to convict her. Let’s get her back to Bow Street.’
The problem of how to transport the inebriated thief now made the constables pause. Lavender knew that normally they would have clapped her in irons and made her trot behind the horses.
‘If I sling her over the front of me horse, she’ll probably slide off and crack open her skull on the cobbles,’ Woods commented.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance,’ Lavender volunteered. ‘I’ve a hackney carriage standing by, and I’m on my way to Bow Street myself. Place her in the foot well. Woods, tie up your horse at the back of the carriage, and travel with me—there’s a thing or two I want to discuss with you.’
Woods nodded, lifted the woman and carried her towards the hackney.
‘Cor! She don’t half reek,’ he complained, his broad nose wrinkled in disgust.
Woods had no difficulty with carrying the woman. He was as strong and as agile as a twenty-year-old. His large build and great strength were fed by a legendary appetite. Woods did have a bit of trouble manoeuvring the woman’s dead weight to fit her into the tight space on the floor of the carriage, but he succeeded in the end.
The trollop didn’t get any more attractive on closer acquaintance, Lavender decided. Her hair was dishevelled and matted at the back like a bird’s nest.
Woods clambered into the vehicle beside the detective, and the hackney swayed alarmingly with the extra weight. Lavender was squashed on the shallow seat, but despite this he was glad of Woods’ company. He enjoyed working with him and made a point of singling Woods out when a case needed an extra pair of hands. Woods was honest, humorous and had the common touch, a quality Lavender lacked. Besides which, Lavender was not thrown about so much in the swaying hackney now that he was wedged between Woods and the side of the hood.
‘She’s in for a shock when she wakes up in the cells at Bow Street,’ the constable commented.
‘What is the full story? Who is she?’
Woods glanced down, and Lavender saw pity flash across his weathered features. ‘She’s Hannah Taylor, a known prostitute and petty thief. She’s been up to the beak before and went to a correctional institution. She must have thought she’d struck it lucky when she ran into this drunken merchant. He’d just returned to London and was flush with money and well in his cups. While he snored off the drink, Mistress Taylor, here, lightened his load to the tune of two hundred pounds. She took a one hundred pound note and two fifty pound notes from his pocket book and disappeared.’
‘It’s a shame that she doesn’t have the other two banknotes on her.’
W
oods nodded. ‘She’ll have to be questioned about their whereabouts. The merchant gave a good description of the woman who robbed him—I had an inkling the thief was her. He has also retrieved the numbers of the banknotes from Down, Thornton and Gill. Once we’re back at Bow Street, I should be able to match the number on the note with one of the numbers the merchant got from the bank. She’ll be headin’ fer Botany Bay this time—at the very least.’
‘That’s good work,’ Lavender said. ‘However, you might have to let the blushing Constable Brown drag her to the gaoler back at Bow Street. I need your assistance on another case or two.’
Woods’ eyes lit up. ‘Heaven and hell! Where are we off to this time?’
‘Back to Newcastle for a start. Magistrate Clennell has been in touch with Bow Street. Apparently, there is some more evidence come to light regarding the Kirkley Hall burglary.’
Woods’ face fell with disappointment, and Lavender understood why. That damned case had been the bane of their lives earlier in the year. Both of them had been convinced they had found the thief, but the suspect, James Charlton, had been as slippery as a jellied eel and had avoided being sent to trial at the August Assizes. It was one of the few unsolved cases in his career as a principal officer. Their only consolation was that they had retrieved most of the stolen money—from beneath a redcurrant bush in the grounds of the Hall.
‘And in addition to that,’ Lavender continued, ‘an heiress has mysteriously disappeared in neighbouring Bellingham.’
‘An heiress, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it usually the case, when these pretty young gals disappear, they have eloped with some spongin’ rake?’
‘Yes,’ Lavender confirmed. ‘However, I understand there are unusual circumstances surrounding this case—and I’ve been asked to travel to Northumberland to solve it.’
‘Requested by name?’
Lavender nodded. ‘It would seem the girl’s concerned uncle is a close friend of Mr Clennell, the magistrate, and that the uncle is also familiar with the particulars of the Kirkley Hall robbery. Despite the fact that we failed to secure the conviction of James Charlton, we’re still famous in Northumberland for recovering most of the missing rent money.’
The Piccadilly Pickpocket Page 6