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

by Karen Charlton

  ‘I can’t be long,’ Woods warned. ‘And neither can you. Don’t forget you have to collect Doña Magdalena. I’d better get back and give Betsy a hand. She’ll be mad if you’re late.’

  ‘Just one brandy in the Nags’ Head, Ned,’ said Lavender. ‘I have something else to tell you. Besides which, I know Betsy well enough to realise that she won’t appreciate any help from you; you’ll just get under her feet.’

  Woods thought for a moment and glanced down Hart Street at the welcoming glow that emanated from the small-paned bow windows of the Nag’s Head tavern. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But just one drink, mind you. I’ll get the rollin’ pin across my lugholes tonight if I stagger home fuddled with brandy.’

  It was quiet in the Nag’s Head. Centuries old, the ceilings of the public house were low and smoke-blackened, the windows small. Behind the bar, tiers of mirrored shelving displayed a wide range of brandies and other spirits in a wonderful array of glass bottles that glittered in shades of emerald and sapphire. The light from the chandeliers full of dripping tallow candles reflected in the glass and went someway to lifting the gloom in the ancient tavern. The place was popular with the Bow Street officers and the landlord nodded to them in recognition as they strode across the uneven floorboards towards the back of the inn where they found a couple of vacant settles next to the stone fireplace.

  Woods sat and stretched out his legs. His boots were still splattered with mud from his ride to the Five Fields. ‘I can’t believe that the gal pretended to be her dead sister,’ he said. ‘She had me fooled.’

  ‘It was an accomplished act,’ Lavender said. ‘But she had good reason to lie. She was scared for her life.’

  ‘I know what it is you want to talk to me about.’ Woods gave Lavender a conspiratorial wink across the hearth. ‘It’s about that arrogant sawbones, Allison, isn’t it? You want to tell me that I was right and the jumped-up little dandyprat got it wrong, didn’t he? Mrs Willoughby has had a child.’

  Lavender smiled. He took up the poker, leant forward and stoked up the small fire in the grate. ‘Actually, Ned, he was right. I believe the child in the Willoughby nursery belongs to April Clare – not Harriet Willoughby.’

  ‘What?’

  A barmaid with a stained gown and a mob cap on top of her thick mop of unruly hair appeared by their side. She poured them both a large glass of glinting amber liquid. She gave Lavender a beaming, toothless smile when he tossed her a coin and told her to leave the jug.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Woods said. ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘You remember that April Clare previously worked at Drury Lane Theatre before the fire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, she had an admirer there, another actor; an Irish fellow by the name of Mr Seamus MacAuley.’

  ‘Where does he fit into the kidnappin’?’

  ‘He doesn’t. He returned to Ireland after the Drury Lane fire and works in the Theatre Royal in Cork. As far as Miss Clare knows, MacAuley is still there but I have already written to them to confirm this. We need to eliminate him from the inquiry. Lovers can behave erratically – especially if there has been a tiff. There have been several examples of spurned men kidnapping women. But I don’t suspect that MacAuley had anything to do with this case; I think he is safely in Ireland. However, I do suspect that when MacAuley returned to his native country he left April Clare with more than a broken heart.’

  Woods stared hard at him; trying to understand his meaning. As realisation slowly dawned, his constable’s jaw slackened and his mouth gaped open with surprise. ‘You think he left her with child?’

  ‘I’m quite sure that he did. That would explain Miss Clare’s mysterious absence from the theatre during last summer. There is no sick aunt in Gloucester. I believe that April Clare took the time off from her career and disappeared out into the provinces in order to give birth to a child.’

  ‘And her sister, Mrs Willoughby, agreed to bring up the actresses’ by-blow as her own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why the secrecy and the lies? London actresses, married and unmarried, have children all the time. That tragedy queen, Sarah Siddons, has several – and Dorothy Jordan had a few before she even got with the Duke of Clarence.’

  ‘Yes, actresses have illegitimate offspring,’ Lavender said. ‘But the daughters of barons do not, especially if their sisters have married respectable naval captains. The scandal would have been huge. It was essential for the reputation of both sisters – and Lady Caroline – that Miss Clare’s indiscretion didn’t become common knowledge.’

  Woods nodded. ‘Ahh – how did you work it out?’

  Lavender took a long drink from his glass, sat back and undid the buttons of his greatcoat. Their corner of the tavern was warming up nicely. He found the scent of the woodsmoke and the gentle crackle of the fire soothing. As the brandy warmed his innards, he felt the tension ease from his tired body and mind.

  ‘It was those ill-fitting shoes that finally solved this riddle for me,’ he said. ‘Magdalena told me that when she carried her son, her feet grew larger. Suddenly it made sense. The two women may be identical twins but April Clare had slightly larger feet after the birth of her child. When the two women swapped clothes to play their little trick on Lady Caroline, poor Harriet Willoughby got a pair of shoes that didn’t fit.’

  ‘Gawd’s teeth!’ Woods exclaimed. He burst out laughing and held up his glass in a toast to Lavender. The amber liquid swirled, caught the light and glinted. ‘Well done, sir! Mystery solved.’ Woods drained his glass, poured more brandy and sat back. ‘I’ll tell you what though, I’m surprised that Captain Willoughby agreed to this. I can’t imagine that many respectable naval captains would have voluntarily taken in their sister-in-law’s nipper as their own.’

  Lavender glanced at his constable through partially veiled eyes. ‘Perhaps Captain Willoughby doesn’t know the truth,’ he said slowly. ‘Maybe he thinks that the child in the crib in his Wandsworth house belongs to him and his wife.’

  ‘What?’ Woods’ drink slopped onto the flagstones. He reached for the earthenware jug and poured himself another. ‘You think those women have gulled him?’ He looked incredulous.

  ‘Think about it, Ned,’ Lavender said. ‘Captain Willoughby sailed away at Christmas last year. It would be easy to fool him. In the summer a child is born. If Mrs Willoughby pretended to be with child and padded out her clothing, who was to know any different? All she had to do was disappear with her sister into the provinces when the birth drew close and return with an infant. How would anyone know whose baby it was?’’

  Woods seemed to have lost the ability to formulate his words and Lavender suspected that it wasn’t simply due to the influence of the brandy. Eventually, Woods said thoughtfully: ‘The, the servants assumed that the little nipper was Mrs Willoughby’s baby, hers and the captain’s.’

  ‘Just as I suspected,’ Lavender replied, with a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘Lady Caroline said that April Clare could persuade her sister to do almost anything.’

  ‘But wouldn’t Lady Caroline have recognised this as a ruse? I’d be surprised if they pulled the wool over her eyes.’

  ‘Oh, I imagine that Caroline Clare knew all about it. In fact, she probably thought up the idea in the first place.’

  ‘But why would Mrs Willoughby agree to deceive her husband like this?’ Woods’ broad face was crumpled with concern, his eyes glazed with confusion and liquor.

  Lavender shrugged. ‘Well, I’m not going to pretend to be an expert on the fairer sex.’

  ‘You’re not,’ agreed Woods.

  ‘But I have a theory. You heard Sir Richard Allison when he said it would be dangerous for Mrs Willoughby to bear a child? Well, perhaps the good captain wanted a child and an heir. If Mrs Willoughby pretended that Miss Clare’s child was her own, then she removed the need to endanger her own health with a pregnancy. I’m quite sure that Lady Caroline would have seen sense in this arrangement. She
was keenly aware of Mrs Willoughby’s delicate health and despite her alleged disinterest in her stepdaughters, I know that she is genuinely fond of the young women. Yes, I definitely think Lady Caroline had a hand in this.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Woods said. ‘This is a rum do. Did you confront them with your suspicions?’

  ‘No, I decided to leave the matter as it was. This particular deception has no bearing on the case, apart from the fact that the issue of the child made it more difficult for me to determine that April Clare was masquerading as her sister.’

  Woods shook his head and sighed. ‘There’s many a cuckolded man in England has a child in his home which is not his – but this is the first time I’ve heard of a case where some poor geezer has been landed with a nipper that’s neither his – nor his wife’s.’

  ‘As we’ve agreed, I’m no expert on women—’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘But I have begun to notice that women have their own ways of ensuring their survival.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes they can take a shocking course of action.’ He stared into the glowing embers of the fire and thought of Magdalena.

  ‘Well, I think it’s wicked to deceive a fellow so,’ Woods slurred.

  Lavender smiled and drained his glass. Despite his earlier protestations that he would remain sober, his constable had already downed half the jug of brandy. It was time to head for home. Lavender would shave and change before collecting Magdalena. He was looking forward to an evening in her company.

  But Woods wasn’t ready to go yet. ‘How many other poor blokes has this happened to, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you mean, Ned?’

  ‘I mean that my Betsy has two sisters. She’s very close to them both; thick as thieves them gals.’ Lavender realised that Woods was working himself up. His shaggy brows crinkled together in consternation. ‘You and I were away in Maidstone when my little Rachel were born. What about if Betsy and one of her sisters—? You don’t suppose—?’ He left the questions dangling in midair and looked up beseechingly at Lavender.

  Lavender rose to his feet and laughed. ‘No, I don’t suppose,’ he said firmly. He buttoned up his coat and hauled Woods up onto his feet. ‘And you must be foxed to think so. Chase that thought right out of your mind, Ned. Betsy’s never played that trick on you. And if she suspects for one minute that you think such things – you’ll have a lot more than the rolling pin to worry about!’

  ‘Do you know what the worst of it is?’ Woods said as they staggered back out into dark cobbled street. The cold night air hit their faces hard but Woods didn’t seem to notice it. He spun round dramatically and stared hard at Lavender.

  ‘No. What’s the worst of it?’

  ‘That Allison, that bloody little sod of a surgeon, was right all along.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Lavender was surprised but relieved that Magdalena left Teresa behind when they set off for supper at Ned and Betsy Woods’ house.

  ‘I gave her the night off,’ Magdalena informed him as he helped her up into the cab. ‘Normally, Teresa would sit in the kitchen with the other servants while we dined but I don’t think that Betsy Woods has any servants.’

  Lavender bit back a smile. The family didn’t have a dining room either as far as he recalled; most meals were taken in their back kitchen at the battered wooden table in front of the warm fireplace and range.

  Magdalena looked ravishing tonight. She wore a dark, burgundy dress, embroidered with black silk and further adorned with black lace and an intricate swirling pattern of glistened jet beads. The rich wine colour of her gown was just visible below the neckline of her black cloak. It enhanced her complexion at her throat and in her face. She smiled and leant her warm body next to his.

  ‘I have some good news,’ she said. ‘Magistrate Read has been in touch with me; I’m to begin teaching Spanish at the Hart Street language school tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Well done,’ Lavender replied. ‘I know this is what you want to do and I’m pleased for you.’

  She gave him a brilliant smile and she squeezed his hand. In fact, she was very physical throughout the journey. Her hand seemed to be forever fluttering to his arm. At one point, she lightly flicked a speck of imaginary dust from his breeches. He smiled to himself and wondered if his spontaneous kiss earlier that day had ignited her passion. He was tempted to kiss her again to find out. Unfortunately, the journey to Oak Road was short and they were already late and he didn’t want to start what he couldn’t finish. There would be plenty of time to explore her warm lips again on the journey home – and any other bits of her glowing flesh that she was prepared to allow him to caress. He intended to take full advantage of Teresa’s absence.

  Woods greeted them at the door in his Sunday best waistcoat, breeches and cravat. He had also run a comb through his thick hair. Apart from his shining eyes, he showed no sign that he had been chirping merrily only a few hours ago due to the influence of the brandy. ‘Welcome, Doña Magdalena,’ he said. ‘Please follow me into the parlour and partake of a warmin’ glass of Madeira.’

  Lavender bit back a smile at this unusual formality; he suspected that Betsy had told Woods what to say.

  Woods took Magdalena’s cloak, threw it over the end of the stair bannister and, to Lavender’s surprise, led them into the dreary room at the front of the house. Half-panelled in dark wood with claustrophobic brown-paper hangings reaching up to the smoke-stained ceiling, the parlour was a dull and drab room at the best of times. The family only used it at Christmas, Easter and funerals. They preferred the large, cheerful kitchen at the rear of the house. Even with the fire crackling in the grate the room looked glum. In addition to this, the mismatched and uncomfortable collection of furniture had been pushed back against the walls to allow for a round, bow-legged Queen Anne dining table and four spindly chairs to be centred in front of the hearth.

  Someone is going to get hot, Lavender thought as he glanced at the seat immediately in front of the fire.

  The pungent smell of beeswax polish now overpowered the musty odour he normally associated with the parlour. The table was already laid with Betsy’s best crockery and cutlery.

  Woods squashed himself past the chairs and reached for the decanter stood on top of Betsy’s precious piano. He poured out four glasses of the ruby-coloured spirit. There was just room for one of them to move around the table at a time. Lavender stood back and allowed Magdalena to follow Woods. First, she smoothed flat her silk gown, careful not to snag it on the furniture.

  ‘Thank you, Constable Woods,’ she said graciously, as she took her drink. ‘But I must go to the kitchen and see if Betsy needs any help with the food.’

  A look of alarm flashed across Woods’ face. ‘She asked me to keep you in here. She said you’re a guest and weren’t to think about helpin’.’

  Magdalena smiled. ‘Nonsense. Is she in the kitchen? I must assist her.’ She squeezed back passed Lavender and exited the parlour.

  ‘Where’s the table come from?’ Lavender asked when Magdalena had left.

  Woods groaned. ‘Betsy borrowed it from a neighbour. She made me carry it in here when I came in from work – and the blinkin’ chairs. Apparently, we can’t feed Doña Magdalena in the kitchen.’ The physical exertion had taken its toll. Woods’ broad face was ruddy and still glowed with perspiration.

  Another thought suddenly struck Lavender: the house was unusually quiet. ‘What have you done with the children?’ he asked. ‘Have you bound and gagged them?’

  ‘They’re upstairs,’ Woods said. ‘Betsy asked Elizabeth to come round and sit and play with them for the evenin’.’

  ‘Ah,’ Lavender said. ‘So Elizabeth is here, is she?’ This was an unforeseen development but there was no time for further questions because the two women appeared in the doorway bearing platters of food.

  ‘Good evening, Stephen,’ said the tiny mistress of the house. He leant down and planted a kiss on Betsy’s soft re
d cheek. He felt the tension in her jaw muscles below her skin. Betsy was clearly out to impress Magdalena tonight and the strain showed. Like Woods, she wore her Sunday best: a white poplin gown with a faint grey stripe. He noticed that she had a few spots of cooking fat on her ample bosom.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come tonight and bring Doña Magdalena,’ she said as she placed an oval serving dish in the centre of the table. ‘Although I don’t appreciate that you took Ned into the tavern after work – tonight of all nights to send him home foxed!’ She gave him a withering glance, which Lavender knew would have felled most men on the spot. Woods grinned sheepishly at him across the room. ‘I had to make him two jugs of coffee to sober him up,’ she added.

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry about that, Betsy,’ he said, trying to hide his smile. ‘You know how it is at the sharp end of crime – we always have some important issues to discuss.’

  ‘I know there are too many taverns in Covent Garden which offer temptation for weak-minded tosspots,’ she said and glowered at her husband.

  ‘The table looks beautiful, Betsy,’ Lavender said, cheerfully. He pointed towards the crystal vase of hothouse flowers which stood in the centre. ‘You have done us proud tonight.’

  Distracted, she flushed and pointed to the chair next to the fire. ‘Well, get yourself sat down then. We can’t let the food go cold.’

  Normally, Lavender would never remove his coat and loosen his waistcoat buttons in the presence of a woman, but the close confines of the room were unusual circumstances. Drastic action was required in order to save himself from overheating and to save Betsy’s pride. His hostess had not noticed the unsuitable proximity of the table to the hearth. After divesting himself of his coat, he slid sideways into the chair in front of the fire. The heat immediately burned through the material of his shirt into his back. Wood’s followed his example, took off his own coat and eased his bulk into the chair beside him.

  Magdalena sank gracefully into the seat opposite. She leant across the table and stroked the smooth lawn of his sleeve. ‘What a beautiful shirt, Stephen,’ she said, ‘and so well laundered.’ She was touching him again. He struggled to hide his smile.