The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen Charlton

  More recently, he had appreciated the tranquillity of the churchyard, especially in the summer when it was alive with birdsong and the gentle hum of bees. It was an oasis of calm amongst the noise, filth and crowds of the bustling city. It was a good place to think.

  And, of course, this was where Vivienne was buried.

  Lavender’s hand lifted the latch of the creaking iron gate and his feet trod his well-worn path between the crumbling stones to her grave. Condensation dripped from the tree boughs onto his hat and shoulders. With each step, his boots sank into the soft, muddy ground. He stopped beside her gravestone. Instinctively, he bent down, reached out with his gloved hands and pulled away a few weeds at the base. Then he straightened his back and gazed down sadly at the final resting place of his dead fiancée.

  He hadn’t visited Vivienne’s grave for several months but the familiar ache of longing and misery still settled in his chest when he thought of her laughter, her love of life and those futile plans they had made together. Everything had been destroyed in a matter of days. Her life, their love for each other and their future, together with the child she was secretly carrying. Everything was snuffed out by a cruel disease.

  A lump formed in his throat and he allowed himself a few moments to wallow in the thought of what might have been if Vivienne had survived the ravages of cholera. He imagined her warm and alive in his arms. He could smell her hair and the smooth softness of her lips as she kissed him. He remembered the silkiness of her fair hair. If she had still been alive, this morning her hair would have been tousled from a night of passion in their marital bed. Her smile would have been sleepy as she kissed him goodbye.

  They would already have an infant in the cradle, maybe two. Who were those faceless children that death had denied him? He tried to imagine what they would have looked like. The smiling cherubs he created in his mind were both fair like Vivienne with compassionate, blue eyes. Had it only been two years?

  He shook himself, glanced up and followed the line of the lofty tower of the Gothic church as it disappeared into the mist above. He heard his mother’s voice in his head: It’s time to move forward, Stephen. Time to learn to live and love again.

  He chased thoughts of Vivienne and his ghostly infants out of his mind and made himself think of Magdalena. He remembered the warmth of her hand in his, the warmth of her breath on his cheek at the theatre. He thought of her gorgeous smile, her quick wit and the way that she arched her right eyebrow whenever she was sceptical. How she lifted her chin and tossed back her head when she laughed.

  Lavender’s argument with Read yesterday and Forsyth’s blatant interference seemed to have brought the matter of his relationship with Magdalena to a head. Could he and this exotic foreign aristocrat ever share a life together as man and wife? What kind of a wife would Magdalena make? He smiled again as he thought about the differences between her and his first love, Vivienne, a gentle schoolmistress.

  He couldn’t imagine that Magdalena would ever rise with him at this ungodly hour to make his breakfast. There would have to be willing servants in Magdalena’s household, lots of them. But that wasn’t a problem; he could afford servants now. It was about time he did something with his money. That he needed to provide a comfortable home for himself and a future wife was the obvious course of action to take. He wondered what it would be like to wake up next to Magdalena in their bed. He thought of her warm, curvaceous body beneath her nightgown and for a moment he imagined what it would feel like. Then he shook his head to chase away the tantalising image.

  Above him, the sky lightened. A weak ray of sunlight forced its way through the fog and illuminated the gravestone in front of him:

  Vivienne Thompson, aged 24, died June 14th, 1808

  ‘Forgive me, Vivienne,’ he said quietly. But his voice, thick with emotion, still seemed to resonate across the silent and dismal churchyard. ‘I have to go now, my love.’ Yet, his hand still lingered on her headstone. He wanted to say more but it sounded so hollow, so pointless. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he whispered.

  He turned up the collar of his coat, pulled his hat down further onto his head and resumed his journey.

  Alfie, the young coachman, was as young and immature as Mrs Willoughby had indicated. He’s barely shaving, Woods thought, when presented with the lad the next morning. Thoroughly dejected, the boy hung his head in shame while they questioned him about the kidnapping. A shock of greasy hair fell forward to cover his pimply face. Meanwhile, Fred Tummins glowered beside him and shuffled from one rickety leg to the other.

  The lad’s account of the kidnapping matched that given to them by Mrs Willoughby. ‘She told me to say nowt,’ the lad insisted in his own defence. ‘She said I must keep me gob shut or else ’er sister might get ’urt.’

  ‘Bloody saphead,’ Tummins muttered angrily.

  ‘How many of them were there?’ Woods asked.

  ‘I dunno, three, four maybe?’

  ‘And all they said was: “Get the actress”?’

  ‘Yes, no – oh, I dunno. It were dark, mister, and I felt grievously queer. I thought they would fell me there and then and give me an earth bath.’

  ‘That ain’t no “mister”!’ shouted Tummins. He cuffed the lad on the back of the head. ‘This gentleman’s a Runner from Bow Street and you call ’im Constable, d’you ’ear?’ Alfie yelped and rubbed the back of his head.

  Woods decided that nothing more could be gained from interviewing the lad in the stable yard so they mounted their horses and set off for the Five Fields, with the dejected young man leading the way.

  This is a godless place, Woods thought. Soaking wet and muddy underfoot, their trip was hard going for the horses. Pockets of silvery mist limited their vision. Occasionally Woods caught sight of a copse of stunted trees in the distance but there were few other distinguishing features to help the young coachman isolate the spot. No farmhouses. Not even a roadside gibbet. As far as the eye could see it was a dull, uneven canvas of marsh grass, spiked reeds and treacherous bogs, loved only by waterfowl and highwaymen. Today, even the moorhens and cranes were silent.

  Finally, Alfie reined in his horse and stopped. He had been slumped miserably in his saddle since they left Wandsworth.

  ‘I think it were about ’ere, guvnor,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell fer sure, but I reckon it were about ’ere.’

  Woods and Fred Tummins reined in beside him. Tummins glanced around at the desolate landscape then he scowled, leant across and angrily cuffed the pimply youth on the back of his head again. Alfie yelped and a shock of greasy hair fell forward over his eyes.

  ‘What do yer mean, yer “think”? Is this where they ’eld up the coach, or not?’ the older man demanded. ‘In God’s name, Alfie, why did you bring ’em wimmen this way? Why didn’t yer tek ’em south of the river and cross at Southwark?’

  The young man rubbed the back of his sore head. He looked like he was close to tears. ‘It were quicker!’ he whined. ‘I wanted to get back fer another fare. Yer always tellin’ us to ’urry up and get back to the stables.’ He bowed his head again and sank into sullen silence.

  Woods glanced down at the rutted mud track that served as a road. His sharp eyes scanned the immediate area for trampled reeds, hoofprints in the churned up mud, anything that would indicate that this was where a terrified woman had been dragged from a coach. Nothing.

  Woods sighed. This was a fool’s errand and he knew it. The lad didn’t have a chance in hell of remembering exactly where the kidnappers had held up the carriage and kidnapped April Clare. For a start, it had been pitch-black on the night they were attacked. How this young and inexperienced coach driver had managed to stay on the road at night was a mystery. He had hoped that the trip out to the scene of the crime might jog the lad’s memory, but it seemed not.

  ‘I’m sorry, Constable,’ said Fred Tummins. ‘I think we’ve wasted yer time.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Woods replied cheerfully. ‘The lad’s done his best. I’ll stay here a wh
ile and have a look round. Before you go back though, is there anythin’ else, anythin’ you can remember about those villains? Anythin’ they said or did, which might help us in our investigation?’

  Alfie glanced up. ‘Well, they threatened me with my life if I followed ’em. I were in a cursed funk.’

  ‘Yes, we know that,’ snapped Tummins. ‘You’ve already told us about your pathetic cowardice, you saphead. There’s no need to mention it again.’

  Alfie looked downcast then suddenly his face brightened.

  ‘Oh, wait a minute.’ The lad stared straight ahead at the watery scene and frowned. He was trying to pull some memory from the recesses of his mind. ‘As they rode away I heard one of ’em ask: “Does she ’ave it on her?”’

  ‘Does she have it on her?’ Woods echoed. This was a new development.

  ‘Yes, and one of the others shouted back something like: “’Ow should I bloody well know!”’

  ‘Did they have foreign accents?’

  The boy looked startled. ‘No, no accents. One of them sounded a bit plummy if anythin’.’

  ‘Plummy?’

  ‘Yes, posh, like a nob.’

  Woods frowned. ‘Just one of them?’

  ‘Yes, the others spoke normal, like me and you.’

  ‘In which direction did they ride off?’

  ‘East, towards London.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Woods. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  Alfie’s face brightened. ‘Can I go back to Wandsworth now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The lad needed no second bidding. He wheeled his horse around in a flurry of flying mud clarts and he cantered off back down the road. Fred Tummins hesitated a moment and glanced awkwardly in Wood’s direction. The old man’s face was lined with worry. ‘I’m so sorry about this, Constable,’ he said. ‘’E’s young and foolish but ’e’s not a bad lad.’

  ‘Really?’ Woods said, coldly. ‘You can vouch for him, can you? You’ll swear on the Bible in a magistrates’ court that your coachman is not in league with these kidnappers and part of the gang?’

  Tummins’ rheumy eyes widened with horror. ‘Is that what you reckon ’appened, Constable?’

  ‘It has crossed my mind.’

  The old man paused for a moment to digest this latest unwelcome piece of news.

  ‘Well, yes, I would stand up for ’im in court,’ he said, quietly. ‘A saphead the boy may be, but ’e’s no criminal. The lad’s my son. I’ll bid you good day, Constable.’ With that he dug the heels of his boots into the flank of his horse and set off back to Wandsworth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Guy’s Hospital for Incurables was a more cheerful building on the outside than its name suggested, Lavender thought as he strode towards it with Woods at his side. Built in the classical style it consisted of three imposing wings around a cobbled courtyard. Elaborately carved ionic pillars supported the huge triangular stonework frieze above the entrance. Lights blazed behind the great arched windows on the ground floor. It was another city establishment that never seemed to sleep. Lavender hoped that Sir Richard would be available to see them, otherwise he would leave an apologetic message for missing the surgeon yesterday and call back mid-morning.

  The inside of the hospital didn’t live up to its grand exterior and the sickly sweet miasma of disease and camphor hit them in the nostrils the moment they entered the gloomy hallway. Woods’ broad face creased in disgust and his nose wrinkled. Several new patients crowded around the desk. They groaned and wailed while they waited to be assessed by the medical staff. Some were bent double with pain. Others were half carried, half dragged to the hard wooden benches by family and friends. A young woman in the later stages of labour screamed. Meanwhile, a thin child vomited repeatedly into a bucket held by its mother. The hospital was the place of last resort for the desperately ill and dying of London. Few of the patients admitted with cholera, fever, consumption or advanced venereal disease came out alive from Guy’s Hospital; the spread of infection and disease within the hospital itself was often to blame for its high mortality rate. Yet Guy’s was a highly respected teaching hospital and had gained a worldwide reputation for innovative medical research and techniques. The surgery they undertook, although risky, often saved lives. Surgeons like Sir Richard donated their time freely to the hospital and were revered by their patients (which, Lavender suspected, probably accounted for the man’s demigod behaviour and arrogance towards other mere mortals).

  A clerk informed them that Sir Richard had been there all night, touring the cramped and poorly ventilated fever wards. He was now resting in his office in the Surgeon’s House.

  ‘A sleepless night in this here hospital won’t have improved that sawbone’s temper,’ Woods commented dryly, as they made their way through the hospital. Lavender wondered if he had been wise to bring his constable. Woods’ dislike of Sir Richard was obvious and he suspected that the surgeon would make a fuss over the fact that they weren’t there to jump to attention when he had finished the autopsy the previous day. There was much to do. They still needed to follow up on inquiries the other constables had made at April Clare’s lodgings and someone needed to interview the actors at the Sans Pareil.

  However, Lavender was soon glad of Woods’ company. Sir Richard made them wait for half an hour outside his office before he would give him an audience.

  ‘He’s makin’ us pay for yesterday,’ Woods said. ‘We weren’t there to dance attendance on him durin’ and after the autopsy.’

  ‘Then let us endure our penance patiently,’ Lavender replied. ‘Tell me again what that young coachman overheard the kidnappers say.’ They sat on an uncomfortable bench in a cold corridor. An orderly in a bloodstained uniform ambled passed them, mopping the stark wooden floorboards with a pail of dirty water.

  ‘They said: “Does she have it on her?”’

  ‘What did he take this to mean?’

  ‘I don’t think he took it to mean anythin’. The lad was petrified and didn’t even remember the incident until we got out into the Five Fields.’

  ‘Can Alfie Tummins be trusted, do you think?’

  Woods shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s a queer thing to say if it ain’t true.’

  Lavender was thoughtful. ‘It suggests that Miss Clare had something the kidnappers wanted.’

  ‘Yes, it does. Perhaps this crime weren’t about money, after all.’

  ‘That would be fortunate because I suspect that Mrs Willoughby and Lady Caroline have little money between them.’

  Woods nodded. ‘Then there’s the attempted burglary in her lodgings. Perhaps that weren’t about theft either?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lavender agreed. ‘Well remembered, Ned. The room had been ransacked: drawers pulled out, papers thrown everywhere and the wardrobe emptied. It is possible that whoever broke in was looking for something.’

  ‘It must be something important if they’re prepared to go to such lengths to recover it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lavender said. But before they could speculate any further a clerk arrived to let them know that Sir Richard would see them now.

  The ancient floorboards creaked ominously as they entered the office and approached the surgeon. Bookcases dominated every wall of the room. On some shelves were heavy medical tomes with Latin titles or rolled scrolls with diagrams of human anatomy. Evil-looking knives, scalpels, drills and hooks glinted on others. In one corner, a complete human skeleton hung on wires from the ceiling. The wires were too long to stretch out the bones in a normal posture and it slumped forward, arms dangling down like those of a chimpanzee Lavender had once seen in a travelling fair. A sickening row of human hearts and fresh entrails rested in pools of blood on trays on a side table. There was the slight hint of rotting flesh in the air.

  Sir Richard glanced up from the document he was writing and put down his quill. His eyes were red with lack of sleep. ‘Ah, Lavender – and Constable Woods – I thought you would be along today. Glad you could make
it so early. We need to talk. We have a bigger mystery to solve than I anticipated. Take a seat.’

  Lavender had expected a far colder reception and was surprised by the surgeon’s uncharacteristic geniality. Intrigued, he sat down and waited for Sir Richard to elaborate. Woods took a seat at the far corner of the room. The surgeon’s use of the word ‘we’ was encouraging. Was this the first time Sir Richard had had to perform an autopsy on a woman he had known in life? Lavender wondered. Did the fact that he had seen April Clare act and heard her sing make him feel more connected with this victim?

  ‘Been in a fight, Lavender?’ Sir Richard pointed towards his eye.

  Instinctively, his hand went to his face. The swelling hand gone down but he had seen in his shaving mirror that the skin around the eye was still bruised. ‘It’s nothing. A silk-snatcher resisted arrest, that’s all.’

  ‘My, you fellahs are busy. Anyway, the actress, Miss April Divine, wasn’t murdered,’ Sir Richard began. ‘She died from natural causes – albeit in unnatural surroundings.’

  Lavender nodded. ‘We have discovered that her real name was April Clare. She was the daughter of the late Baron Clare of Rochdale. What caused her death?’

  ‘This,’ said Sir Richard. He reached over for a silver tray that held a bloodied heart and plonked it on the desk in front of Lavender. The cloudy blood and plasma swirled from side to side within the tray, some of it slopping over the side and forming a pool on the desk. For a moment Lavender was startled. He had often seen diagrams of the human heart, but he had never seen one so close up. The three exposed tubes of the aorta jutted out of the heart then flopped down like the scarlet coxcomb of a cockerel. In fact, this lump of bloodied meat could have been a recently skinned and mutilated fowl bird.