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

by Karen Charlton

  So far this had been easier than she had expected. A lot easier. Don Gabriel’s suicide earlier in the evening had given her an excuse to shoot off the door lock to the study and now she had possession of the key to the desk drawers. Within seconds, she was inside the study and feeling braver, she lit the desk lamp. She yanked open the doors to the desk and flicked through Menendez’s private correspondence. It wasn’t long before she found documents that damned him. They made for a chilling read. Magistrate Read was right: Menendez was a traitor in the pay of the French. He was a spy.

  ‘Breeding will out,’ she muttered angrily through gritted teeth as she folded the letters and slid them down the front of her bodice.

  ‘Indeed it will, Magdalena,’ said a cold voice behind her. ‘Although, I’m surprised to find a daughter of the hidalguía has entered my bedchamber, stolen the key to my desk and riffled through my private papers like a common thief.’

  She spun around. Menendez stood behind her; his hair still dishevelled from his bed and his shirt open at the neck. He twisted his cravat in his hands and his face was contorted with anger. How did I not hear him enter the room? She pushed herself back against the desk in alarm.

  ‘Did your detective lover persuade you to turn into an informer against your own countrymen?’ he demanded.

  ‘You’re a traitor!’ she yelled into his leering face. ‘You’re a dancing monkey for los cerdos franceses!’

  He laughed bitterly and stepped closer. ‘I’m a realist,’ he snarled. ‘I know that collaboration with the French is the only way to end this accursed war and bring some normality back into our lives. But you, madam – you’re a hellcat and a whore.’

  Menendez gripped her shoulders roughly, spun her round and forced her face down over the desk. Paperweights, inkbottles and quills flew onto the floor. He pressed down onto her with the weight of his body and whipped his cravat over her head. She opened her mouth to scream with fear and pain but he yanked the cravat into her mouth before she could make a sound and tied it behind her head. The gag cut painfully into the sides of her mouth.

  Magdalena kicked out behind her but she was no match for Don Felipe’s strength. He had her firmly pinned down over the desk. Now his right hand began to roam over her body. She gasped in horror as she felt him lift her skirts and run his hands up her legs to the top of her stockings. Does he intend to ravish me?

  She screwed her eyes up and tried to block out the sensation of his mauling hands. Suddenly, he found what he was looking for. He whipped her pistol out from the top of her boots. He pressed the muzzle of the weapon into the side of her temple.

  ‘Did you reload it after you shot off my door lock?’ he hissed in her ear. ‘Shall I pull the trigger and end your life now? I’ve caught you red-handed trying to rob me.’

  Magdalena froze.

  ‘No.’ Menendez laughed and pulled back the pistol. ‘You’re worth more to me alive than dead. I can think of a few other people who want to kill you – and they will pay me handsomely to return you to their clutches. Did you know that there is a reward out for your capture in Spain?’ He smoothed her skirts back down over her legs. She recoiled at his touch.

  ‘The French don’t forgive,’ he continued. ‘They have offered a large reward for the return of the woman who shot four of their officers – and I will need that money now. Now that you have spoiled my little operation here in London.’

  She swallowed hard and tried to scream but it came out as a strangled gurgle.

  ‘Yes, I think we’ll take a little trip back to Spain together.’ He dragged her over to the windows and, using the cords that usually tied back the drapes, he bound her hands behind her back. Next he pushed her to the floor and tied up her ankles. She was completely helpless.

  ‘Of course, they will play with you for a while before they execute you,’ he said. ‘They will torture you for information and despoil you.’

  Sebastián’s cheeky, smiling little face came into Magdalena’s mind. As tears streamed from her eyes, she forced herself to think of his laugh and his sweet, wet kiss on her cheek. Stephen will take care of him now. Please God, Stephen would never let her son starve.

  She was vaguely aware that Menendez left the room. The waiting seemed interminable. The ormolu clock on the fireplace taunted her with its ticking as it measured out some of the last minutes of her life. It was over. Only misery and horror lay ahead for her now.

  Fresh tears seeped unbidden out of the corner of her eyes. What a fool I have been! To risk everything – for this? Part of her wished that Menendez would shoot her in the head there and then. She shivered at the thought of the unspeakable horrors the French would make her suffer. But at least Sebastián is safe.

  Menendez returned in his outdoor coat with its voluminous capes. He untied the rope around her ankles and dragged her roughly to her feet. ‘Your carriage awaits you madam,’ he snarled. He wrapped her own cloak around her shoulders, fastened it, pulled up her hood and dragged her into the cold hallway and out of the open front door.

  For a moment, he left her standing on the doorstep while he spoke to the coach driver who was loading a small trunk onto the roof. Menendez had made a mistake. She stood in a pool of light beneath the oil lamp on the wall of the house. A few yards behind the Menendez coach a cab had drawn up at one of the neighbouring houses. The young driver looked curiously in their direction.

  She shook her head vigorously and the loose-fitting hood fell back. Now her head, her face and the white gag that silenced her were clearly visible in the lamplight.

  Menendez bounded up the steps and whipped the hood back over her head. ‘You whore!’ he hissed as he tried to drag her towards the coach. She resisted him as much as she could, refusing to use her legs to walk. Desperately, she prayed that the young cabby could see her resistance.

  The coach door slammed shut behind them. Menendez threw her down into a seat then leant down and slapped her hard across her face. Tears sprang from her eyes at the pain. But a sense of triumph rose inside her along with renewed hope.

  ‘Don’t think that anyone will come to your aid, now you two-faced trollop! Your stupid, precious lover is tucked up in his bed and snoring his head off – and no one else cares for you. Do you hear me, you whore? You’re just another Spanish refugee and no one gives a damn. No one cares!’ The carriage jerked as it pulled away from the kerb.

  Behind her gag, Magdalena mouthed the worst obscenity she knew in Menendez’s direction.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Lavender and Woods thundered around the corner into Bedford Square and pulled up sharply in front of the Menendez house. Throwing the reins over the park railings, they raced up the steps. Lavender hammered on the door with a ferocity that should have wakened the dead, never mind the Menendez household. Neither of them paid attention to the pale and startled coachman sat on his cab.

  A dishevelled footman, with no wig and his waistcoat flapping open over yesterday’s creased shirt, finally answered the door. He opened his mouth to protest at their noisy intrusion but he never managed to utter his complaint. Woods pushed him roughly to one side as the two men strode into the dim hallway.

  Juana Menendez was halfway down the staircase, a lamp in her hand and a shawl thrown loosely over the shoulders of her billowing nightgown.

  ‘Detective! How dare you force your way in here – again!’ She was furious.

  ‘Where is your brother, Señorita Menendez?’

  ‘Felipe? Why?’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He has gone out for a while. His room is empty.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not privy to his business.’

  Lavender hesitated for a moment. He saw Juana’s plump sister lurking nervously on the upstairs landing in the shadows but where was Magdalena? Surely they had made enough noise to awaken the entire household?

  ‘I need to see his room,’ Lavender said.

  ‘You most cert
ainly shall not! How dare you! Andreo’ – she waved a furious hand at the footman, gesturing him towards the detectives – ‘Andreo! Remove these persons from our house immediately.’

  Woods turned to face the manservant. ‘I wouldn’t try anythin’ on if I were you, fellah,’ he growled.

  Andreo took a step back.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of white linen and Teresa flew across the landing in her nightgown, boots and a cheap woollen shawl. Her loose frizzy hair flew out behind her. ‘Señor the detective! Señor the detective!’ she screamed as she raced down the stairs.

  ‘How dare you, you slut!’ Juana Menendez screamed in Spanish. She grabbed Teresa by the hair and jerked the girl to an abrupt halt. Teresa shrieked in pain and burst into tears. ‘Go back to the servants’ quarters – now!’

  Lavender leapt up the stairs to Teresa’s rescue. The footman stepped forward at the same time – only to find his way barred by Woods’ bulky figure. ‘Easy fellah.’

  Lavender pulled Teresa away from Juana Menendez’s clutches and led the sobbing maid back down the stairs to safety. ‘She has gone, Señor the detective!’ Teresa wailed. ‘She has gone!’

  Lavender’s gut wrenched again and he felt the bile rise in his throat. ‘Who has gone Teresa?’ he asked gently. But he knew the answer already.

  ‘Doña Magdalena – she’s not in her bed.’ She buried her head in his chest and sobbed.

  ‘There! See you have your answer!’ Juana Menendez yelled. ‘Your precious Señora Morales is out on a midnight assignation – unchaperoned – with my brother. The filthy whore!’

  ‘No!’ Teresa suddenly came back to life. She stamped her foot and swung back in fury to face the triumphant mistress of the house. ‘No. Doña Magdalena, she loves Señor the detective! She tell me!’

  ‘Well, where is she then?’ Juana goaded. ‘She’s not with him now, is she? She’s with my brother? Explain that!’

  ‘I know where they are,’ squeaked a nervous male voice from behind them.

  Startled, everyone spun round. They stared in disbelief at the skinny young cab driver framed in the open doorway and backlit by the moonlight. Swathed in scarves against the cold, with his hat pulled low over his eyes, he clutched his whip tightly in his gloved hands.

  ‘Alfie!’ Woods exclaimed. ‘Is it Alfie?’

  ‘Evening, Constable Woods.’ The lad touched the brim of his hat respectfully. ‘I thought I recognised you.’

  ‘You know him?’ Lavender asked.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Woods said. ‘This is Master Alfie Tummins from the cabby company in Wandsworth.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Lavender said, icily. ‘This is the young man who let kidnappers steal away poor Harriet Willoughby from his cab?’

  ‘Well – as Constable Woods knows – I’m right sorry about that.’ Tummins swallowed anxiously. ‘But I can ’elp yer tonight, Constable, I can. I knows where that man took that woman.’

  ‘How so?’ Lavender demanded. Even Teresa looked up from Lavender’s chest.

  ‘I ’eard ’im tell the coach driver to take them to the wharf at Smith’s timber yard next to Westminster Bridge.’

  The Lambeth docks? What the hell was Menendez going to do with Magdalena at the docks?

  ‘Are you sure, man?’ Woods asked the timid coach driver.

  ‘Very sure,’ the lad replied. ‘I were watchin’ them closely and listenin’ on account of the woman, you see.’

  ‘The woman?’

  ‘Yes, the pretty, dark one. She were gagged and all trussed up. She fought like a fiend but that foreign geezer dragged ’er into the coach.’

  ‘These are lies!’ Juana Menendez screamed down the stairs. ‘Foul calumny!’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to help?’ Lavender snapped.

  ‘There wasn’t time. They were aboard and the driver ’ad cracked the whip and set off before I could think.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago.’

  Ten minutes! There was still chance to catch them.

  ‘The next thing I knew, you and Constable Woods rode round the corner like the devil were after you. I thought the two events were connected so I leapt down from me cab and came ’ere.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Alfie,’ Woods said. Even in the dim light they watched the young coachman’s cheeks flush red with pleasure.

  ‘You’ll tell me da?’

  ‘Yes, lad, I will.’ Woods pulled Teresa away from where she was still clung onto Lavender and pushed her towards the young coachman. ‘I need you to do me another favour, son. I want you take this young gal safely to my wife on Oak Road. Tell my wife to look after her until I get home.’ He gave Tummins the address and tossed him a few coins. ‘You’ll be all right, treacle,’ he said to Teresa. ‘Young Alfie here and Mrs Woods will take care of you.’

  Juana Menendez’s curses rang in their ears as they leapt down the steps and grabbed the reins of their tethered horses.

  ‘Menendez has got Magdalena,’ Lavender said as he swung himself up into the saddle. Fear strangled his voice in his throat.

  ‘Not for long,’ Woods reassured him. He turned his horse to face south. ‘They’re in a carriage – and only have ten minutes on us. We’ll be at that wharf ahead of them!’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Magdalena was shivering when the coach jerked to halt in front of a row of deserted warehouses and huge piles of sawn planking. Menendez opened the door and the stench of the river mingled with sawdust and rotting wood flooded into the carriage. He dragged her out onto the wharf, where bales of goods and huge piles of stacked crates towered around them. The coachman handed down the small trunk to Menendez then climbed back onto his box and drove away.

  Menendez tucked the trunk beneath one arm and grabbed Magdalena roughly with the other. ‘We walk from here,’ he said.

  Magdalena’s boots slipped on the treacherous black ice. Unable to use her bound arms to steady herself she stumbled frequently. Only a low stone balustrade separated them from the deadly black waters of the silent Thames below. She thought she might break away from her captor and throw herself into the river. Drowning in the Thames seemed preferable to the fate that lay ahead of her in Spain at the hands of the French.

  But Menendez tightened his grip and pulled her away from the edge. ‘Careful now, Magdalena,’ he hissed in her ear. ‘You’re a valuable commodity to me. I’d hate to lose you in the water.’ Putting down the trunk, he lifted a lantern from the wall of a warehouse and signalled to his invisible allies in the Thames.

  The raw wind whipped around Magdalena’s skirts. Her hood blew back and her teeth chattered. She didn’t know whether it was with fear or the cold. Menendez’s letters to his French spymasters crackled softly against her skin. He clearly hadn’t seen her hide them. They were still down the front of her bodice, stabbing her in the heart to remind her of her foolishness.

  She glanced around desperately. Across the black expanse of the water the welcoming lights of Westminster twinkled and glowed but this wharf was deserted. Above her head, wooden cranes creaked and swayed in the cold wind, and their tangled rigging slapped against the beams. The bulbous oak hull of a three-masted sloop anchored halfway across the river was silhouetted against the moon. A light flashed from the prow, followed by another. It was responding to Menendez’s signal. Those pinpricks of light were sealing her doom.

  ‘Not long now,’ Menendez said, the satisfaction evident in his voice. ‘My friends will take good care of us on our voyage; they will be delighted to receive the list I have in my pocket – the one your stupid lover sought.’

  Magdalena thought again about throwing herself into the water. Did she have the strength to knock him over the balustrade too? Could she kill them both? She shook her head and sighed: Menendez could swim.

  She heard the slap of oars against the choppy water of the Thames and the monotonous creak of metal oarlocks. Someone was rowing out from the ship towards them.

  ‘I have had a th
ought,’ Menendez said. She saw the leering grin stretched across his face. ‘As part of my reward for returning you to the French, I will ask that your confiscated estates be given to me. A neat solution, don’t you think? Unfortunate for your son, but this is a far preferable course of action than marrying you to acquire them.’

  Her eyes flashed. She gave a strangled groan and tried to kick him. He laughed and kicked away her legs. Magdalena sank into an undignified heap on the ground. He leant down and clutched the neck of her cloak so tightly around her throat she thought he would strangle her. His hot breath was rank against her cheek.

  ‘You didn’t really think that I would sully my family name through marrying a murdering trollop like you, did you?’ Menendez hissed. ‘No, I just wanted you in Bedford Square as an insurance in case your prying lover came too close to my operation.’ He laughed again. ‘You’re too old for me Magdalena. I prefer my women to be younger – a lot younger.’ She groaned and closed her eyes, desperate to shut out his mocking voice. But it didn’t work. ‘Even your little maid is too old and haggard for me. But it’s a pity that we have to leave tonight – I would have still despoiled your precious Teresa anyway – and enjoyed it.’

  She groaned with fury. If only her hands were free she would have strangled him. She had never felt more alone, helpless or furious in her life.

  At the base of the wharf, the sailors from the ship hauled in their dripping oars and hailed Menendez in French. A dark figure clambered out of the wooden longboat and leapt up the slimy stone steps that glistened with riverweed in the moonlight. ‘Do you have it?’ he growled in French.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Menendez pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket with a flourish and handed it over to the other man.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the Frenchman asked with a curt nod of his head towards Magdalena.