The Sculthorpe Murder

by Karen Charlton

  ‘That’s a remarkable age for anyone to achieve,’ Lavender acknowledged. ‘And it’s even more surprising Mr Sculthorpe survived the initial attack.’

  Rushperry shook his head and his jowls quivered. ‘By all accounts, Sculthorpe was a quiet man, in very good health and with no known enemies. Since his wife’s death last August, he had lived peacefully in his cottage and scarcely allowed himself the common necessities for existence.’

  ‘If he were poor, what did the robbers hope to gain?’ Woods asked.

  In the distance, the church clock chimed. Rushperry pulled out a silver pocket watch and snapped open the cover. He frowned and sighed when he saw the time. ‘There’s a rumour in the parish that William Sculthorpe was worth several thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘The rumour also suggests his meagre lifestyle was self-inflicted and a result of his penurious disposition rather than an indication of real poverty.’

  Lavender frowned. ‘So what is the truth? Was Mr Sculthorpe a wealthy man who preferred to live frugally? How much money did they steal from the property on the night of the robbery?’

  ‘I can’t answer any of those questions,’ Rushperry admitted. ‘We have no idea what he had in the house at the time of the robbery but we have found correspondence from a London bank, Messrs Down, Thornton and Gill. I have written to them, informing them of Sculthorpe’s death and asking for clarification of his financial affairs, but as yet I have had no reply. Gentlemen, I’m afraid I shall have to leave in a few minutes. I have another meeting at seven o’clock in Foxton. Unfortunately, I can’t defer my departure for more than another five minutes.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lavender said. ‘We won’t detain you much longer.’

  Rushperry pulled a ledger from beneath a pile of papers and handed them across to Lavender. ‘We held an inquest at The Bell Inn here in Market Harborough, two days after Sculthorpe died. The coroner’s report is contained in this ledger along with statements from the doctor and a witness.’

  ‘There was a witness?’ Lavender asked. ‘This should be helpful.’

  ‘There were two witnesses but their accounts differ in content: one man claims there were five murderers, the other said three. However, this second witness is unreliable.’

  ‘How so?’

  But Rushperry just shook his head and waved a dismissive hand in the air. ‘I have to confess, Lavender, I find the whole affair very perplexing.’

  Lavender felt a twinge of excitement rise within him. He lived for the challenge of a difficult case.

  ‘The reliable witness is the constable for Middleton and Cottingham, a sound chap by the name of Jed Sawyer,’ Rushperry continued. ‘He came across the gang in the street as they ran away from the scene of the crime and they attacked him too. They beat him badly and he is unable to return to duty at present.’

  ‘So you’re a constable short?’ Woods asked.

  ‘Not now you’re here, Constable Woods,’ Rushperry replied with an attempt at jocularity. But the smile died quickly from his lips. A new wave of exhaustion swept over his fleshy features. ‘To be honest, gentlemen, the constabularies of Northamptonshire and Leicestershire are stretched beyond belief at the moment. We have had a sharp rise in crime, which spills over our borders, and we’re struggling to cope. But I have arranged for one of Market Harborough’s own constables, young Sam Clancy, to accompany you to Middleton at half past eight in the morning. He’s a good lad – keen. You can meet him here tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lavender said. ‘Under the circumstances, that’s generous of you. What are these other crimes you’re dealing with?’

  The magistrate raised his left hand in a gesture of helplessness. ‘We have the Luddites in the north breaking the machinery in the mills and now we face a rise in petty theft and drunkenness since the canal wound its way through the two counties.’

  ‘I’ve heard the canals can bring great prosperity to an area,’ Woods said.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Constable – the price of our coal has halved since the canal reached Market Harborough last year. But canals also bring troublemakers in their wake. On top of this, we have just had a nasty murder to deal with down in Wellingborough – and if that wasn’t enough, there is another gang of thugs robbing and terrorising the area south of Market Harborough.’

  Lavender sat up straighter.

  ‘Two weeks ago,’ Captain Rushperry continued, his voice rising in indignation, ‘these villains entered the house of my fellow magistrate, Robert Marriot. They aimed a pistol at his wife Elizabeth, and robbed them.’

  ‘Were they hurt?’ Lavender asked.

  ‘No, but they put them both in fear of their lives. Fortunately, these criminals are known to us – and to the rest of the county. The local news-sheet, the Northampton Mercury . . .’ – and here his scowl revealed just what he thought of the Northampton Mercury – ‘. . . has dubbed this gang “The Panthers” and has sensationalised their crimes.’

  Woods’ eyebrows rose and a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘The Panthers, eh?’

  ‘Yes, they’re named after one of their leaders, Benjamin Panther. They are notorious. Robert Marriot recognised them when they broke into his home in Preston Deanery. They’re armed and dangerous. Every available constable we have in Northamptonshire is trying to find these devils. We just don’t have the men to deal with yet another murderous gang up here on the Leicestershire border and I’m grateful to get your assistance.’

  ‘Is it the same gang who attacked Mr Sculthorpe?’ Lavender asked sharply.

  Rushperry threw up his arms in another gesture of despair. ‘That, Detective, is one of the things I hope you will find out. The Panther Gang usually threaten their victims with pistols, and poor William Sculthorpe was beaten to death. I can’t help but mark the difference.’

  Lavender nodded, rose to his feet and put on his gloves. Woods stood up beside him. ‘We won’t detain you any longer tonight, Captain Rushperry,’ he said. ‘We have plenty to think over and I’m sure Constable Clancy will be a great help tomorrow.’ He tucked the ledger Rushperry had given him into the inside pocket of his coat.

  ‘I will be back here next Tuesday,’ Rushperry said. ‘We always hold a petty session of the magistrate’s court here on a Tuesday. If you need me I can be reached at home: The Elms on the Leicester Road. Oh, and by the way, Lavender, can you call on Lady Anne Fitzwilliam at Rockingham Castle at ten on Saturday morning? It’s just a courtesy visit, you know how these things work, but it shouldn’t take long.’

  Lavender nodded.

  ‘And one last thing before you both go . . .’ Rushperry broke off and slid open a drawer of his desk. ‘The day after the attack, Constable Clancy found this in the gutter further down the street. It may or may not be relevant – but it’s certainly intriguing.’ He handed a small, muddy cloth bag to Lavender and fished in his coat pockets for something else. ‘This may have been used to carry away some of the stolen money from Sculthorpe’s cottage.’

  Lavender took off his right glove, inserted his hand into the opening of the bag and examined the limp rag in his hands. A nondescript item probably used for carrying coins, he decided. It could have belonged to any shopkeeper or household in Middleton.

  Rushperry finally found what he sought. He pulled a crumpled note out of his inside coat pocket and passed it across the desk. ‘This paper was screwed up in the bottom corner of the bag. As I said, we have no idea if it’s connected with the crime or not – and I never mentioned it at the inquest. But if it’s relevant, it makes for interesting reading. It’s another mystery for you to solve, Detective.’

  Lavender unfurled the scrap of paper, smoothed out the creases and stared hard at the spidery handwriting in the dim light. He could just make out the words:

  ‘This is the last payment you old bastard. Leave me alone. J.W.’

  Chapter Three

  Night had already wrapped its dark and starless cloak around the chilly streets of the town as they climbed down the stone
staircase of the Town Hall. A noisy altercation taking place outside The Angel Inn caught their attention. Against the bright backdrop of the well-lit tavern, two shadowy figures squared up to each other, shouting. Their clenched fists were raised, ready to strike. Lavender and Woods paused to watch. Suddenly, a third shadow appeared in the doorway of the inn and blocked out the light. This giant man cursed and added his booming voice to the argument, threatening both of the men with a good hiding if they didn’t clear off. The two assailants stepped back, turned and staggered away in opposite directions. The colossus who had broken up the fight waited until they had disappeared before returning inside the tavern.

  ‘I’ve a fancy to visit that place,’ Woods said. ‘I’d like to see these boatmen the townsfolk keep moanin’ about. Besides which, I’ve a thirst for a tankard of ale right now.’

  The coroner’s report burned against Lavender’s chest in the inside pocket of his coat. He longed to return to their room in The Bell Inn to read it but he’d deprived his good-natured constable of sustenance for long enough. ‘Very well,’ he said. The two men fell into step as they walked the short distance to The Angel.

  ‘What did you think of Captain Rushperry?’ Woods asked.

  ‘I think he is a careworn man besieged by a tidal wave of crime,’ Lavender replied grimly.

  Woods nodded. ‘It sounds like there is a lot of trouble in this county.’

  ‘And troubled men can make mistakes.’

  They approached the pair of slim stone columns that supported the crumbling portico above the tavern doorway. Wall lanterns on either side of the entrance cast pools of light on the short flight of steps up to the door, above which a plaque bore the words: ‘Albert Kilby – Licensed to sell beers and strong liquors’.

  Woods stopped in his tracks and pointed up to the sign. ‘Me ma were a Kilby before she married me da,’ he said. ‘Her family worked the northern rivers and cuts on barges but she were in service for a while before she wed.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Lavender knew Tilda Woods for many years before her death. A tiny, sweet-natured old woman, Tilda had been devoted to her burly son and her grandchildren. Lavender had always assumed she was a Londoner like the rest of them. ‘What’s a “cut”?’ he asked.

  ‘The canal.’

  They entered the tavern and paused for a moment to let their eyes adjust to the light and the fug of tobacco smoke. The plain exterior of the building belied its brightly lit and gleaming interior. Lavender had the sensation they had entered a different world. Dozens of polished copper and brass plates and ornaments stood on the high shelf over the dark wood panelling of the tavern’s walls. They were also arranged along the shelves behind the bar, interspersed with pottery ornaments and painted Toby jugs. A line of lace-edged painted china plates and several mounted horsetails also decorated the walls.

  ‘This looks pleasant enough,’ Woods observed. They sat down at a table and hailed a barmaid. Parched with thirst, they downed their first mug of ale quickly and ordered another. To Woods’ delight, the tavern also sold pies and gravy. He promptly ordered a double helping for himself and a portion for Lavender.

  ‘Our host at The Bell Inn will be disappointed if we don’t eat there tonight,’ Lavender warned.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll disappoint him with me appetite,’ Woods said with a wink.

  Lavender glanced around and took in the rest of the clientele. A dozen working men, uniformly dressed in collarless shirts, dirty jackets and fall-fronted corduroy trousers held up with wide belts, sat slumped around the low tables. Lavender recognised the significance of those wide belts. Favoured by the dock workers down in London, they provided valuable extra support for the stomach muscles of men who spent their days lifting heavy weights and heaving on ropes.

  A couple of the men had glanced up when they first entered the tavern but they had quickly lost interest in the newcomers and returned to their pipes and conversations. A hum of low voices, heavily accented and with the occasional snatch of dialect, filled the air. One group of men was laughing at the story of how a mule had ‘taken a look’ at the cut. Lavender worked out that the animal had fallen in the canal. Another group played a noisy game of dice at their table in the corner.

  ‘It’s not a “den of sin”, is it, sir?’ Woods sounded disappointed.

  ‘No,’ Lavender agreed. The boat men were a swarthy race, he decided, but placid. The flagging conversations around him suggested that most of them were tired out after a hard day’s labour at the wharf. Like other men who worked outside every day of the year, they had been weathered like a piece of old leather by the elements. Several had coal dust ingrained into the lines of their faces and they sported an interesting array of scars, missing fingers and tattoos. One man had an eye-patch.

  ‘Mind you,’ Woods added, ‘I wouldn’t like to meet Landlord Kilby down a dark alleyway.’ Lavender followed Woods’ gaze over to the bar and nodded in agreement. The white-haired giant who had broken up the earlier fight now stood wiping a glass behind the bar with his apron. Lavender suspected that the apron had been made out of a bed sheet. A curly mat of white hair protruded from the open neck of Kilby’s collarless shirt and more hair formed a soft, white down on his thick forearms and the back of his huge hands. Lavender had no doubt that this hairy brute was Albert Kilby. Probably in his mid-fifties, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on the tavern landlord. He would be a formidable opponent in a fight; the man was pure brawn.

  Beside him, a tall and unsmiling woman poured ale into two tankards. Tendrils of lank, dark hair had escaped from her hair pins and hung limply around her heavily lined and sallow face. Her shoulders were rigid as if she was compensating for the pain caused by an injury in another part of her body.

  Kilby glanced up, catching Lavender’s eye. A friendly smile lit up his large, round face.

  Their hot pies arrived and they devoured them quickly. While Woods tucked into his second portion, Lavender ordered a brandy, sat back against the settle and let his mind drift back to their new case and the added complication of the armed band of desperadoes who were terrorising the south of the county. ‘Every available constable we have in Northamptonshire is trying to find these devils,’ Rushperry had said.

  Lavender’s lips twitched in distaste. The ‘devils’ who scared a fellow magistrate and his wife near to death in Preston Deanery had provoked a full-scale manhunt but when an ordinary old man was brutally slain, the judiciary could barely spare a constable to investigate. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, he realised. After all, he had twelve years of experience of working within this system and he knew British law was designed to protect the law-making classes. He sighed and shook his head to chase such cynical thoughts out of his mind. It was his job now to get justice for William Sculthorpe. And he would.

  Woods glanced up, his mouth full of unchewed pie. ‘So what do you think?’ he mumbled. ‘About this murder?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lavender suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long day. ‘I need to read the coroner’s report and get a good night’s sleep. I suspect we will have a tough time putting the pieces of this puzzle together. We’ve got an elderly man, who may – or may not – be quite wealthy, who was robbed and murdered by five – possibly three – men.’

  ‘And meanwhile, there’s that gang, the Panthers, lurkin’ around the county,’ added Woods. Lavender heard the excitement in his constable’s voice. The nickname given to the Preston Deanery thieves by the local news-sheet had clearly fired Woods’ imagination. ‘And there’s that strange note found in the bag,’ Woods added. ‘What did you make of that? Was Sculthorpe a moneylender, do you think?’

  Lavender shrugged. ‘Let’s not make assumptions,’ he warned. ‘Perhaps it’s simply a note passed on to a shopkeeper in Middleton by a customer who was paying off the last of a debt. Maybe the shopkeeper had been haranguing him for the money. You can take the cloth bag around the shops when we get to Middleton and see if anyone recognises it. But
we’ll keep the contents of the note to ourselves for a while and make discreet inquiries about who owns the initials J.W.’

  The giant shadow of the landlord fell across their table. ‘Ar do, gentlemen,’ said the colossus. ‘Alby Kilby, landlord. Is everythin’ to yer satisfaction?’

  ‘The pie was excellent,’ Lavender said.

  ‘And the gravy,’ Woods added, wiping the last of it off his chin with his sleeve. ‘This is a pleasant place you have here, sir. I like them brass and copper plates.’

  The landlord beamed at the praise. ‘That were moy Rosie’s doin’,’ he said, pointing to the thin, sullen woman behind the bar. ‘She’s done this place up real nice.’

  ‘I think my wife Betsy would like one of them pretty plates with ribbon,’ Woods continued. ‘Do you sell them?’

  Despite his weariness, the edges of Lavender’s mouth twitched into a smile as his indefatigable constable drew the burly landlord into conversation. Woods had the ‘common touch’ with folks, a quality he knew he lacked.

  ‘I’ll ask moy Rosie if she has one to spare,’ Kilby said.

  ‘Have you ever worked on the cut yourself?’ Woods asked.

  The landlord threw back his great head and laughed. His mop of white curls quivered and the candlelight shone through his bushy whiskers. ‘As man and boy,’ he said gruffly. ‘My first barge on the H’Oxford were a leaky old tub called the Greyhound. I went from one end of this country to another, humpin’ coal, grain and pottery on and orf that ruddy boat. A’ve even bin down your way – to Lunnen – with an ’orse called Silver.’

  Kilby pointed to a mangy, grey horsetail pinned to the wall beside the bar. ‘There’s Silver’s tail. Yer keeps yer luck in the tails of yer horses,’ he said. ‘Yer should never throw them away. T’Oxford’s bin troublesome fer years at the London end, mind,’ he added. ‘What with the tides and the flash locks. The Grand Junction Canal’ll be a far better road for the narrowboats when they’ve finished buildin’ it.’ Lavender smiled at the idea of the boatmen calling the canals ‘roads’.