‘They seemed to be. Baxter Carnaby wasn’t a fortune hunter—he was genuinely in love with Esther. At the time, his own interests—his coal mine and so forth—were doing quite well. Baxter and Esther received the interest on my uncle’s investments, which amounted to about four hundred pounds a year, to supplement their own income.’
‘What happened to the Carnabys’ income in the following years?’
‘Unfortunately, Baxter’s mine exploded shortly before his death and had to be closed. His personal income plummeted after that. I believe Esther sold jewellery and other family heirlooms recently, to support the family at Linn Hagh.’
‘Who gets the four hundred pounds a year now?’ Lavender asked.
‘George Carnaby—their eldest son.’
‘It may be useful to see the will made by Baxter Carnaby himself.’
‘Baxter used a lawyer in Newcastle—Mr Agar, I believe. He’ll have a copy, but I’ve never seen it myself—and I doubt my father has. He had retired from his practice at the time of Baxter Carnaby’s death four years ago.’
Lavender paused and regarded the greying woman by his side with new respect. She was clearly a woman with a keen mind, humour and compassion.
He found himself comparing her with Magdalena. Katherine Armstrong had none of Magdalena’s sensuous beauty, but the two women shared intelligence, humour and a clear disregard for propriety. He felt that Katherine Armstrong would probably like Magdalena if they ever met, and the thought warmed him towards the woman in front of him.
‘Why do you need to see Baxter Carnaby’s will, Detective?’ she asked.
‘Unfortunately, it’s always necessary to know who has the most to gain in difficult circumstances like this. The Carnaby family finances are complicated. I take it that George Carnaby—her half-brother—would inherit Miss Helen’s personal fortune if anything unfortunate should happen to her?’
‘Yes, he would.’ She paused before asking: ‘Do you think Helen’s inheritance had something to do with her disappearance, Detective Lavender?’
‘It’s too early to say, Miss Armstrong,’ he replied gently. ‘I only met George Carnaby briefly. What kind of a man is he?’
‘Not very bright,’ she said sharply. ‘George is genial enough in public, but he has always been a bit shifty as far as I’m concerned. He lives the life of a country gentleman with his horses and his gambling, but he has never had the money to sustain that lifestyle. According to my own brothers, George can be a brute with his horses at the hunt. He pushes them to extremes, and he’ll lame a horse rather than miss out on being in at the kill.’
‘So tell me again, Miss Armstrong, was Helen Carnaby happy at Linn Hagh?’
‘No, she wasn’t.’ She sighed and fidgeted nervously with her gloves in her lap. ‘I believe that was one of the reasons she decided to stay on at the school in Whitby.’
Ah, at last—the truth.
‘Do you or your father have any reason to suspect that George Carnaby may have been involved in some way in his sister’s disappearance?’
Lavender’s question hung in the air for a moment. A flurry of grey curls bobbed around her face when she shook her head.
‘No. He seemed as alarmed and shocked as the rest of us at the time. On top of this, I understand Constable Beddows has verified with the two guests who stayed with them at Linn Hagh on the night of her disappearance that Carnaby drank with them until the early hours of the morning. He had to be helped to bed. I’m not an expert in the drinking habits of men, Detective, but it seems unlikely to me that a man who was that far gone in his cups could then have orchestrated Helen’s mysterious disappearance.’
Lavender nodded.
‘I totally agree, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘Their inebriation would have hindered them from staging her mysterious escape from Linn Hagh. I believe it to have been a very elaborate hoax.’
Her eyes lit up with hope.
‘Have you some idea already of how she got out of that locked bedchamber?’
He realised he had said too much.
‘It’s early days yet, Miss Armstrong, early days. Tell me, did Miss Helen have any close female friends of her own age in the neighbourhood?’
She watched him shrewdly for a moment before answering.
‘Yes, one of my nieces—Cecily. She and Helen were at school together in Whitby. Cecily has been quite distraught about Helen’s disappearance.’
‘Would it be possible to speak to Miss Cecily?
‘Yes, she will be at the house tomorrow afternoon. We’re having a little family gathering to celebrate Papa’s birthday. Please call after lunch, and I’ll introduce her.’
She rose to leave. Lavender hurried to his feet.
‘We shall be delighted to pay our respects to your father on the occasion of his birthday—and perhaps we’ll have some news for him.’
‘Cecily is now Mistress Nicholas Derwent,’ Miss Katherine informed him while she fastened the top button of her pelisse. ‘She married Captain Derwent of the Northumbrian Fusiliers about a month ago. They married just before Helen’s disappearance. Cecily was most upset to return from her honeymoon and discover Helen had vanished.’
Her pleasant round face contorted with pain.
‘I do believe that Cecily’s wedding was the last time we saw Helen.’
Chapter Ten
Lavender walked Miss Armstrong back to her home, then returned to The Rose and Crown and made himself comfortable in a seat near the fire in the smoky taproom. He settled down to read while he waited for the return of his constable. However, he had trouble concentrating on the slim, leather-bound volume in his hands. Apart from the noisy game of dice to his right, he was also distracted by the mutterings of the large group of drunken farmers on his left. These hard-featured men had retired to the tavern after completing their business at Bellingham’s Saturday market and seemed intent upon drinking the tavern dry. He had noticed several small flocks of forlorn sheep, penned up outside the inn in the dark, and had commented on them to the landlady.
‘Aye, they’ll belong to Isaac Daly or Jethro Hamilton,’ Mistress McMullen told him. ‘They’re good lads—regulars like, here on a Saturday after market. Mind you, after a few ales, they’ve bin known to tek home the wrong flock of ewes.’
That would explain the dogs, thought Lavender. The farmers’ end of the taproom also contained half a dozen tired and hungry sheep dogs. They sprawled across the flagstones like a matted black and white carpet, and the whole tavern reeked of wet dog, the smell trapped beneath the low, beamed ceiling. Occasionally, a farmer would throw a scrap of food onto the floor, and a vicious fight would break out between the animals. A yell and a sharp kick from a hobnailed boot would end it; the curs would scurry, yelping, into a corner.
These distractions made reading impossible, so Lavender amused himself by trying to single out ‘Isaac’ and ‘Jethro’ from the rest of the rowdy group. It didn’t take him long. They all wore dirty, thick jackets as well as neck cloths and the collarless shirts of labouring men, but each had distinguishing features. Isaac was the tallest of the group, lank-haired and thin-faced. The most powerfully built amongst them was Jethro Hamilton. He had piercing blue eyes, several days’ stubble on his strong jaw line and the confident, deep voice of authority.
Suddenly, their boisterousness subsided, only to be replaced by dark mutterings about some group or other who were giving them problems. Lavender heard the words ‘thieving bastards’. He picked up his book, but he had barely read half a page before he was interrupted again.
‘Hey—you. Detective gadgie from London.’
Lavender glanced up and found most of the farmers staring coldly in his direction.
‘Yes, Mr Hamilton?’
The big farmer recoiled in shock.
‘How d’ya know my name?’
‘I’m a detective, Mr Ha
milton. It’s my job to know things.’
The tavern erupted with laughter. ‘The bugger’s bin eavesdropping,’ someone commented.
‘Well, never mind that,’ Jethro said firmly once the laughter had subsided. ‘Ye’ve bin looking fer that missin’ lass from Linn Hagh, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hev you found her yet?’
‘No.’
‘Give the gadgie a chance,’ one of the older men said. ‘They’ve only bin here a day.’
Jethro ignored him and pushed ahead to his point. ‘Hev you searched that faw camp?’
Lavender put down his book.
‘Constable Beddows has already searched the gypsy camp; Miss Carnaby is definitely not there.’
‘Phaow,’ Jethro sneered. ‘Beddows couldna find a tup in a sty full of porkers.’ The other men laughed in delight.
‘You mark my words, Detective; one of them faws will have stolen that lass. The buggers steal owt else around here that’s not nailed down.’
‘Aye.’ A murmur of agreement spread around his table. Faces glowered and the mood darkened.
It was at that point that his frozen and ruddy-faced constable returned. Woods slumped down on the settle opposite Lavender, called for a glass of ale and rubbed his ice-cold hands in front of the blazing fire.
‘Since when was one of your daughters christened Anna? ’ Lavender chided him quietly. ‘I’ve stood godfather to at least one of them, and I’ll swear your girls are named Rachel and Tabitha.’
Woods grinned, then gulped back his ale. He belched loudly and wiped away the froth from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. ‘It were necessary to stretch the truth a bit to put the gal at ease,’ he said, ‘since you always frighten the young gals.’
‘I’m a detective,’ Lavender said. ‘I’m supposed to frighten people.’
‘What’s that fancy book you’re readin’?’
‘It’s Candide by Voltaire.’
‘Spanish?’
‘No, French, actually.’
‘Now that’s frightenin’ .’
‘Anyway, what did you find out from young Anna Jones?’
Quietly, Woods related the details of his conversation with Anna to Lavender. He told him how Helen Carnaby had complained about being stalked through Hareshaw Woods.
‘Anyway, I think we should put out a few feelers towards Whitby,’ finished Woods. ‘By the sound of it, Miss Carnaby is rather partial to the place—and that gypsy girl is definitely worth talking to.’
Lavender nodded. ‘I’ll ask Miss Armstrong for more details about that school she went to—and her friends in Whitby.’ He told Woods about his earlier conversation with Katherine Armstrong.
‘So have you worked out how the gal got out of that locked room yet?’
Lavender smiled. ‘I’ve got one or two theories. I just need a bit more evidence before I declare them. Tell me, Ned, what do you think of what we’ve learned about Helen Carnaby so far?’
Woods thought for a minute, took off his hat and undid the buttons on his greatcoat.
‘She’s obviously a clever young woman—they wouldn’t have had her stay on at that school unless she was clever. This also suggests that she’s not afraid of a bit of hard work.’
‘Unlike her brother,’ Lavender observed. ‘I get the sense that George Carnaby is headed for ruin.’
‘By the sound of it, Helen Carnaby likes her feminine fripperies, dresses and hairpins, and such like.’
‘And that’s what’s confusing me,’ Lavender said. ‘I’m not an expert in women’s clothing or—as you keep pointing out to me—women in general. But I do find it hard to accept that a fashionable young woman would abandon all her clothes if she left her home voluntarily. The girl didn’t even take her nightgown with her. Yet none of the evidence suggests that she was forced to leave by another. Even if she had been drugged, I hardly think anyone could have got her out of that building unnoticed—not if they were carrying an unconscious woman.’
‘It’s a long way from civilisation, and it would have been difficult carrying bags of clothing—never mind an unconscious gal—in the snow,’ agreed Woods. ‘One thing’s for certain, she didn’t leave by the window or up the chimney. That second-floor room in the tower is far too high for a ladder, and the chimney is too narrow for even a nipper to climb.’
The two men fell silent for a while. Woods took off his coat and ran his fingers through his thick, damp and dishevelled hair. Lavender called over a barmaid and asked for their supper.
‘I think we may have been asking the wrong questions, Ned.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All of this investigation has been focused on how she got out of the locked bedchamber and where she went. I think we need to try to establish why she wanted to leave in the first place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Does it not strike you as strange that she has disappeared now, just weeks before her twenty-first birthday, when she would have been entitled to access her inheritance? In six weeks’ time, she would have been an independent woman with ten thousand pounds, and could have walked out of Linn Hagh forever. Why go now—with nothing but the clothes on her back? Even if there were a lover waiting for her out there—which everyone seems to doubt—all he had to do was bide his time until January and then marry the girl. There would have been nothing that George Carnaby could have done to stop their marriage after she came of age—baby sister or not.’
‘Do you suspect foul play?’
‘Possibly—but not from George Carnaby. Ignorant brute that he is, he seems as irritated and confused by her disappearance as the rest of us. But there is one thing I am sure about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Helen Carnaby was scared of something.’
Chapter Eleven
Sunday, 21st November 1809
Lavender and Woods arrived at St Cuthbert’s Church in Bellingham a good half an hour before the rest of the congregation. Lavender said he wanted to examine the graveyard before they joined in the service, and he intended to watch the worshippers as they arrived.
St Cuthbert’s was only a couple of streets away from The Rose and Crown, in a low-lying spot next to the River North Tyne. There had been a sharp frost overnight, and the roads were treacherous with ice. The sky had cleared, and weak northern sunlight smiled down on them as they slithered down the hill towards the small twelfth-century church, which stood apart from any other building.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Woods exclaimed. ‘Even the church’s got a stone roof. Don’t tell me that those bloody reivers used to burn down the church as well?’
‘Repeatedly.’ Lavender smiled. ‘And did you notice the strong buttresses alongside this one-storey building? They’re to support the weight of the stone on the roof.’
The isolated graveyard went right up to the very edge of the silent river. Beneath their boots, the long grass of the churchyard, which had frozen into icy spikes, crunched like glass.
Edged with ice, the North Tyne River was black with peat, slow moving and deep. Barely a ripple shimmered across its surface. The trees on the opposite bank and a nearby stone bridge were perfectly mirrored in its glassy surface.
After a while, they began to search for the Carnaby graves. It didn’t take them long to stumble across ‘Martha Carnaby, 1752–1784, beloved wife of Baxter Carnaby.’
‘It must have been hard to love a mad woman,’ Woods commented.
Lavender bent down, reached out with his gloved hands and pulled away the tangled briars and weeds at the bottom of the gravestone. ‘I see that Baxter Carnaby was buried with his first wife,’ he said.
‘Was he?’
‘Yes, look here. “Also, Baxter Carnaby, 1749–1804, beloved husband of the above” .’
‘There’s a lot of “beloveds
” in there.’
‘Mmm,’ Lavender agreed. ‘Somebody was determined to make a point. I guess this is George Carnaby’s doing. I doubt his grieving stepmother would have been happy with this arrangement.’
He paused for a moment and reread the inscriptions. ‘I see that Baxter Carnaby was a widower for four or five years before he remarried and had his last child, Helen, in January 1789.’
‘Is that significant?’ Woods asked.
‘It might be. Most men I know who are left with no wife and three young, motherless children usually remarry quite quickly.’
‘According to Mr Armstrong, the mad first wife was in an asylum for several years before her death. The poor bloke had probably just got used to the peace and quiet.’
‘Yes, you may be right. Now, if Baxter Carnaby is here with his first wife, where is Esther Carnaby, the second wife, buried?’
It took them a while to find her. Esther was buried in a remote corner of the graveyard, with a plain headstone that bore the simple words: ‘Esther Carnaby, 1764–1809’. A small posy of wilting wild flowers lay across the grassy mound in front of the headstone. Lavender bent down and picked them up.
‘Hellebores. How long have these been here, I wonder?’ He stared at the dying flowers and frowned while he tried to remember how long they lasted after they were picked.
‘A couple of days, perhaps?’
They didn’t get the chance to discuss the flowers further. The congregation started to arrive for the service. Lavender and Woods stood at a discreet distance and watched family after family drift through the low door of the ancient church. Both Isaac Daly and Jethro Hamilton had been transformed into respectability by the Sabbath. Sober, combed and besuited—if still a little bleary-eyed—both farmers were accompanied by their wives and a gaggle of lively young children.
The Carnabys arrived in a carriage with two other men. Poor Anna sat shivering beside the driver. Woods winked at her discreetly, but she ignored him and looked away. George Carnaby climbed down first and hailed Lavender to join them.
‘I didn’t know they had a coach and four,’ Woods commented.
The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Page 9