The Sculthorpe Murder

by Karen Charlton

  ‘What brought you bankside?’ Woods asked.

  Again the landlord pointed to his wife. ‘Moy Rosie inherited a tidy sum from her uncle – and a bankside tavern to boot. We ran The Fox up at Braunston fer years afore we came down here.’

  ‘Do you still have family on the canals?’

  Kilby nodded. ‘Two of our lads is still workin’ the narrowboats up on T’Oxford. Our eldest be a number one, a marster boatman,’ he said proudly. ‘He has his own boat, the Adelaide.’

  An argument had broken out at the dice table. Kilby half-turned towards the players. The man with the black eye-patch was red-faced and on his feet. Kilby’s shaggy eyebrows met across his wrinkled forehead as the player banged his fist down on the table.

  ‘My old ma always said she had family on the Oxford canal,’ Woods informed him. ‘She moved down to London. They were Kilbys too. Do you think we’re related?’

  The landlord shrugged, his eyes still riveted on the arguing dice-players. ‘Mebbe. There be half a dozen or more Kilby families workin’ the cut out of Coventry. What were her name?’

  ‘Tilda. Matilda Mary Kilby.’

  The huge man suddenly tensed and his broad shoulders jerked. ‘A’ve never heard of her.’ Abruptly, Kilby turned away and went to warn the dice-players to behave.

  ‘Shame that,’ Woods said and resumed his assault on his second pie.

  They finished their drinks, pulled down their hats and returned through the chilly marketplace to the empty taproom at The Bell Inn. Their zealous host was at their side within seconds of their return. ‘Gentlemen! Good to see you back from your business. I have taken your luggage up to your room and a fire has been lit. Now what can I get you? We have a lovely mutton stew and dumplin’s or there’s lamb cutlets.’

  Woods grinned. ‘I feel partial to a bowl of mutton stew.’

  ‘I’m afraid I seem to have lost my appetite,’ Lavender murmured. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps just a glass of brandy for me?’ He had known Woods for twelve years but he still found himself in awe of his constable’s gargantuan appetite.

  Lavender took a guttering candle from one of the windowsills and removed himself to a table in the quietest corner of the tavern. Unbuttoning his coat, he pulled the coroner’s report out of his pocket and spread the loose papers out on the table before him. His tired eyes had trouble deciphering some of the handwriting in the poor light but he wanted to start on the case.

  Woods chatted awhile with their host, then sat down opposite Lavender to eat his third supper of the evening.

  ‘I don’t know where you put it all,’ Lavender said. ‘I’d have had indigestion after the second pie.’

  Woods belched, grinned happily and slapped his thigh. ‘Hollow legs,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what’s in those there papers?’

  Lavender pushed back a lock of dark hair with a weary hand. ‘I’ve only read the result of the autopsy on William Sculthorpe, so far,’ he admitted. ‘The old man’s heart gave out two days after the attack; this was the cause of death. The doctor who carried out the autopsy said Sculthorpe took a severe blow to the face and had deep lacerations on the back of his head as well. The laceration and swelling down the right-hand side of his face made the old man unrecognisable.’

  Woods’ spoon of stew hovered momentarily in midair before continuing its steady rhythm towards his mouth. Lavender noted his constable’s hesitation and the corners of his mouth twitched with humour. ‘The bleeding had been severe,’ he added wickedly. ‘Sculthorpe was slumped in a large pool of blood when they found him.’

  Woods’ spoon paused again and he grimaced. ‘The right-hand side of his face?’ he asked. ‘Was the assailant caudge-pawed, do you think?’

  ‘Left-handed? That’s a good observation,’ Lavender said thoughtfully. ‘But it depends on the angle of the attack. The only other thing of note in this report is that Sculthorpe’s fingers were black – presumably with ink.’

  ‘Perhaps he were writin’ something the day he died?’

  Lavender shrugged, laid the paper on the table and pulled out another sheet. ‘This is a statement from Doctor Wallace, the physician who attended the dying man.’

  ‘Is he one of them who saw the murderers?’

  ‘No. Despite his own injuries, Constable Jed Sawyer raised the alarm and after his neighbours discovered Sculthorpe unconscious and bleeding in his home, they fetched Doctor Wallace. At first, everyone feared the old gentleman was dead. But Doctor Wallace discovered Sculthorpe’s insensibility arose from the wound he had received to his head and face and the large quantity of clotted blood which had settled in his mouth.’

  Once again the spoon hovered in midair, then Woods dropped it back into the bowl with a clatter. ‘I think I’ll leave the rest,’ he said.

  Lavender hid his smile. ‘With proper assistance, Sculthorpe recovered slightly, although he never regained his wits. Doctor Wallace describes similar injuries to those mentioned in the autopsy but he adds that Sculthorpe was half conscious, covered in blood and appeared to be having palpitations. The doctor was alarmed at the bright redness of the old man’s complexion – oh, and Sculthorpe lay in a pool of his own vomit.’

  Woods shoved the bowl firmly away from him across the table. ‘I’m surprised he could see Sculthorpe’s face beneath all the blood,’ he said.

  Lavender didn’t respond. His eyes focused on the last paragraph of Doctor Wallace’s report and he frowned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Woods asked.

  ‘It looks like Captain Rushperry forgot to tell us something important.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After Doctor Wallace had done what he could for the old man, he went upstairs and attended to Sculthorpe’s injured son.’

  ‘Son? What son? Rushperry never mentioned a son.’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Lavender agreed, ‘which is rather strange. Sculthorpe’s son is known as Billy Sculthorpe. He was also viciously attacked by the villains.’

  Woods frowned. ‘Were he badly hurt?’

  Lavender nodded. ‘He’d been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head.’

  ‘Heaven and hell! So there’s three of them injured by these thugs: the two Sculthorpes – and Constable Sawyer.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lavender shifted through the papers on the table looking for something. ‘Most strange. And there’s no witness statement in this report from Billy Sculthorpe, either. The only other thing is a statement from Constable Sawyer.’

  ‘Perhaps Billy Sculthorpe were too badly beaten to give one?’ Woods suggested.

  Lavender gathered up the pile of papers and replaced them in his inside coat pocket. ‘That’s enough for tonight, Ned,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll read Constable Sawyer’s account of events tomorrow and we’ll learn more when we arrive in Middleton. We shall seek out Billy Sculthorpe and gain a first-hand witness account from him ourselves.’

  Chapter Four

  Friday 2nd March, 1810

  Market Harborough, Leicestershire

  They had shared a room on many occasions before while out of London on a case and Lavender was accustomed to sleeping through his constable’s heavy snoring. But neither man slept well that night. Woods was restless, very restless. He tossed and turned in his creaking bed. He murmured and called out in his sleep. At one point, Lavender heard him calling out for his mother.

  At the first sign of dawn, Lavender gave up trying to sleep and sat up on the edge of his bed. He sighed wearily and pushed back a lock of stray hair. He might need to find a barber while in town, he realised. He’d needed a haircut for a while now and there had been no time back in London. Magistrate Read had sent them straight out to Leicestershire the moment they had solved their last case. On top of this, his last few days in London had been frantic. He had organised the banns for his forthcoming nuptials and taken a whirlwind tour of the shops with Magdalena to purchase furniture for their new home in Marylebone. They hoped to marry at Easter.

  His hair had a tendency to cu
rl if he let it grow out which he didn’t like, although Magdalena had once hinted she found it attractive. The thought of Magdalena made him feel better and he imagined her in their new bed with her black hair strewn across the pillow and her long, dark eyelashes resting gently on the flawless golden skin of her cheeks.

  He walked across to the window and pulled back the thin drapes. The red fingers of dawn reached across the overcast sky above the smoking chimneys of the houses on the other side of the street. Roof tiles gleamed with moisture from last night’s rain. A few night lanterns still glimmered on the dripping walls of the houses but an occasional warm pool of light from an uncurtained window spilled down onto the cobbled road below. Market Harborough was rousing itself for the day.

  He washed himself, pulled on his breeches and shirt against the cold and set up his shaving mirror on the washstand. A pair of inscrutable, hooded brown eyes stared back at him in the mirror. He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw and picked up his shaving cup to lather the soap. Woods suddenly let out a bellowing roar, sat bolt upright in the bed and began to fight with his blankets. He lunged too far – and promptly fell out of bed.

  Lavender burst out laughing. Woods scrambled to his feet, clenched his fists and glared at him across the room, his eyes still glazed with sleep and confusion.

  ‘What the hell are you dreaming about now, Ned?’ Lavender asked. ‘You’ve been thrashing about all night.’

  Still dazed and muddled, Woods sat down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. ‘’Twere one of those bodies we dragged out of the Thames,’ he mumbled from between his fingers. ‘They’d accused me of the murder and chased me across Westminster Bridge.’

  ‘It serves you right for eating three suppers,’ Lavender said, as he lathered his chin. ‘How you manage to sleep with all that food swirling around in your belly is beyond me.’

  Thick, fair hair framed the boyish face of Constable Sam Clancy. A wide grin spread across his features when Lavender and Woods approached and he extended his hand towards them. ‘Sam Clancy, sir,’ he said. ‘Captain Rushperry has asked me to accompany you today. Can I say what an honour it is to be workin’ with a Bow Street detective, sir?’ He had the bluest eyes Lavender had seen for some time and they shone with excitement.

  ‘You may say that,’ Lavender said. ‘This is Constable Ned Woods, a horse patrol officer, also with Bow Street.’ The cuffs of Clancy’s dark coat reached well over the hand that shook Lavender’s but despite being too big for him, the coat was well-brushed and his shirt and plain waistcoat were also clean.

  ‘Horse patrol officer?’ Clancy’s eyes widened. ‘It’s an honour, sir, an honour. I’ve taken the liberty to organise three horses for our trip to Middleton today. We breed the best horseflesh in the country in these here parts. I hope they’ll meet yer approval.’

  ‘I hope they will too,’ Woods growled. ‘We ain’t used to riding queer prancers.’ Despite his gruffness, Lavender knew the young man’s excitement had amused Woods. They’d had to deal with a large amount of resentment and jealousy from provincial constables in the past and Clancy’s enthusiasm was a welcome change.

  At the stables, Woods made a great show of inspecting the horses Clancy had picked out for them. He ran his hands over their flanks and fetlocks and lifted up their hooves to inspect the shoes. For a moment Lavender thought he would force open their mouths and inspect their teeth too. Finally, Woods stood back and announced that they were a decent set of gallopers.

  Young Clancy, who had been hovering behind him, bristled with pride. ‘You’ll have to come back for the horse fair at Northampton, Constable Woods,’ he said. ‘You can buy some real beauties there for yer horse patrol.’

  They mounted the horses and clattered out of the stable yard. Clancy led them down the high street, chattering over his shoulder as he went. The streets were busier now with wagons and people.

  ‘We’ll take the Rockingham Road to Middleton,’ Clancy said. ‘It’s about seven miles to the village.’

  ‘Rockingham?’ Lavender suddenly remembered Lady Anne Fitzwilliam’s interest in the case and his summons to the Castle. ‘Isn’t this one of the seats of Earl Fitzwilliam, the Whig politician?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clancy replied. ‘Most of the villagers in Middleton and Cottingham work on his estate.’

  ‘Is that what William Sculthorpe did in his youth? Was he a farm labourer?’

  Clancy glanced back at Lavender, a troubled expression on his face. ‘I can’t rightly say,’ he said. ‘Sculthorpe and his family didn’t move into the village until three years ago. They came here from Brighton. I don’t know anythin’ about his work or trade.’

  Lavender nodded. This made sense. Common labourers didn’t amass large fortunes – or usually attract the interest and concern of dowager countesses. Sculthorpe probably wasn’t a common labourer.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ the lad continued, ‘it’s been difficult to find out much about him. Mr Sculthorpe and his wife lived quietly and didn’t mix much with the rest of the village. They didn’t even go to church on a Sunday.’

  He broke off to point out the ancient stocks and the whipping post in the Church Square but Lavender had stopped listening.

  Alby Kilby stood at the side of the road in a greatcoat, hunched up against the cold and glaring at them. He had pulled his hat down over his face but there was no mistaking his huge frame. Had Kilby already learnt who they were? Policemen weren’t popular and many people distrusted him and Woods once they knew of their occupation. The contrast between the genial host of the previous night and this rigid, scowling man couldn’t have been greater. But something else niggled at the back of Lavender’s mind. The way Kilby crossed his arms across his broad chest, clamped his jaw and held his head reminded Lavender of someone, although he was damned if he could remember who. With an inexplicable sense of unease, Lavender searched through his memory, trying to place the landlord’s face. He failed. They’d never met before, he was sure of that. He’d never forget a fellow as physically distinctive as Alby Kilby.

  Clancy led them down a narrow street to the east of the town and on to a meandering country lane. ‘The River Welland is the border between the two counties,’ Clancy said, pointing to the bridge ahead. ‘Once we cross the river we’ll be in Northamptonshire.’

  ‘Tell us about them Panthers,’ Woods said.

  ‘Constable Sawyer is convinced it were them who attacked him and the Sculthorpes.’ Clancy’s voice rose in excitement.

  ‘Is he now?’ Lavender said. But his sarcasm blew away in the breeze and didn’t register with the enthusiastic young man.

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s quite convinced it’s them. They roam the two counties attackin’ innocent folks in their own homes.’

  ‘We’ve heard about the robbery and assault at Preston Deanery,’ Woods said. ‘What else do you know about them?’

  ‘Four of them met up in Northamptonshire County Gaol last year,’ Clancy explained. ‘David George and Bill Minards were old mates, and a nasty pair of criminals. But they weren’t successful. They’d been arrested for burglaries and robberies and sent to the county gaol to await trial. In gaol they formed an association with Ben Panther and John Taffs, who were also awaitin’ trial, havin’ been arrested for theft at Rothwell.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Woods said. ‘Are you tellin’ us you already had these villains locked up last year?’

  Embarrassment flitted across the young constable’s face. ‘Yes. Four of them appeared at the Summer Assizes. George and Minards were both found guilty and sentenced to transportation. But Ben Panther and Taffs were released because of lack of evidence.’

  ‘So Panther and Taffs were on the outside, and George and Minards were on the inside of the county gaol?’ Woods asked. ‘What happened next?’

  Clancy shuffled uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘Ben Panther and Taffs brought along one of Panther’s mates, Ted Porter, and the three of them sprung George and Minards from prison by forcin’ op
en their cell window.’

  ‘Ha!’ Woods’ snort of disapproval startled a rabbit in the undergrowth at the base of the hedge. It disappeared in a flash of white cottontail.

  ‘They’ve been on the run ever since,’ Clancy added miserably.

  ‘Ruddy useless provincial gaols,’ Woods chuckled. ‘I’d have liked to see them try to break out of Newgate in London! What a farce!’

  Crestfallen at the criticism of his constabulary and judiciary, young Clancy fell silent.

  The road stretched out for miles before them, lined with a high hedgerow of hawthorn and hazel, entwined with the fresh green shoots of honeysuckle. On the other side of the hedge, a vast expanse of flat, brown, furrowed fields stretched away for miles beneath the overcast sky. Even the sheep were mere dots in the distance. Far away in the north, mist shrouded a long ridge of dark forest. A stone church tower peeked out from the treetops, suggesting a hidden village at its base.

  Occasionally, Lavender caught sight of farmers toiling behind their ploughs, but for the most part the landscape lay empty of people. Shy creatures scurried into hiding in the hedgerow beside the road as they passed. Vivid yellow primroses at the base of the hedge broke up the monotony of the different shades of green and brown. The silence was deafening. Even the birdsong was distant and muted.

  Lavender shuffled restlessly in his own saddle. ‘Let’s quicken our pace,’ he said to the others. Clancy rose in his stirrups, leant forward and urged his horse into a gallop. Lavender and Woods followed.

  A rush of cold wind lashed against Lavender’s face. This, and the exertion needed to keep his seat on the powerful animal, revived him. It shook out the tiredness from his mind and body and sharpened his senses.

  They slowed their pace as the lane climbed up the side of a wooded ridge. At the summit of the hill, they reined in their tired horses and took in the magnificent view below them. Weak sunlight forced its way through the clouds overhead and Lavender appreciated the quiet beauty of the green- and gold-tinged rolling landscape before them.