‘They were probably too spooked by these damn pictures to step over the threshold,’ Woods said with a scowl.
Lavender smiled. ‘What’s the other room across the landing?’
‘It’s the bedchamber of the late Mrs Sculthorpe,’ Clancy said.
‘How do you know this?’ Woods asked.
‘Their neighbour Miss Bennett told me.’ Clancy led the way into the final room in the house. ‘Miss Bennett came in here to help Mr Sculthorpe clear out his wife’s things after her death last August.’
This bedchamber had been ransacked by the thieves. Chairs were piled on a chest in one corner and the rug in the opposite corner had been pulled back, exposing the floorboards. Several of the boards had been prised up. Lavender and Woods walked across to the gaping chasm they had left exposed.
‘We’ve no idea what was in there,’ Clancy said. ‘Captain Rushperry thinks this is where Sculthorpe kept his money hidden.’
Woods dropped to the floor and shoved his hand into the hole beneath the floor. He drew it out empty. ‘Nothin’.’
‘Sculthorpe must have told the thieves about this hiding place before they knocked him senseless to the ground,’ Lavender said.
‘You think so?’ Clancy asked.
‘I know so,’ Lavender replied. ‘Why else come upstairs to this exact spot? Why else leave the rest of the house undisturbed?’
‘It makes sense, sir,’ Woods said. ‘If Sculthorpe hadn’t told them about this place, they’d have soon turned over the other rooms in the house. They’d have forced open the cupboard in his bedchamber for a start and soon discovered that reliquary thing.’
Lavender nodded, dropped down onto his haunches beside Woods and stared into the chasm as if searching for inspiration. He tapped on the floor with his fingers as his mind whirled.
‘They must have disturbed Billy Sculthorpe with the noise they made prising up the floorboards,’ he said. ‘Billy will have come out of his room onto the landing to investigate and they attacked him there.’
He stood up. ‘I think we have seen everything there is to see here. I’m disappointed we haven’t found any accounts ledgers. They might have told us how much money Sculthorpe kept in the house and how much was stolen.’
Clancy looked impressed. ‘Do you want to meet Constable Sawyer now?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Lavender glanced out of the window at the cottage opposite. ‘I want to meet the neighbour, Miss Bennett.’
Clancy’s eyes widened. ‘But she said she didn’t see anything!’
‘It can’t but help to ask her again, son,’ Woods said.
Clancy’s mouth dropped open slightly, then he clamped his lips together. Silently, he led them back down the stairs and out of the cottage.
Lavender rapped on the door. It opened immediately and the pinched face of a middle-aged woman peered out at them. She had a mop of frizzy grey hair beneath her white cap and a pair of spectacles balanced on her thin nose that magnified the size of her troubled brown eyes.
‘Miss Bennett? I’m Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street Police Office in London. This is Constable Edward Woods.’
‘Good mornin’, Miss Bennett,’ Woods said.
‘And I understand you already know Constable Clancy?’
She nodded and pulled her woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders. She swallowed hard and a muscle fluttered in the sagging skin of her neck.
‘May we come in?’ Lavender continued. ‘I would like to ask you some questions about the Sculthorpes and the night Mr Sculthorpe was attacked and murdered.’
She stood back and let them squeeze into the cottage. It was half the size of the Sculthorpes’ home and had only one tiny downstairs room. Two faded armchairs stood in front of the hearth and a table with more chairs was pushed up against the opposite wall. A steep wooden staircase climbed up the third wall to the bedroom upstairs. The table was piled high with clothes and a sewing box full of needles and thread stood open next to them. Miss Bennett must take in mending to survive.
Yet despite the overcrowding, the room had a homely feel to it that Sculthorpe’s cottage lacked. The mantelpiece and windowsill were cluttered with china knick-knacks. Clean lace curtains hung at the window and quilted cushions added a bit of comfort to the sagging chairs by the fireplace.
‘I don’t know how you think I can help you.’ Miss Bennett sounded strained. ‘I’ve already told you everythin’ I know.’
‘I’m sure you’ve done your best, Miss Bennett,’ said Woods gently, ‘but we know from experience, sometimes folks are so shocked after a terrible event like this that some details go right out of their minds. ’Tis only natural. Have you remembered anythin’ since?’
She sank into one of the chairs by the fire and fiddled with the fringe of her shawl. ‘No. I didn’t see or hear anythin’ apart from thunder and lightnin’.’
Woods sat down, unbidden, in the chair opposite, with concern and sympathy etched across his face. Clancy stayed by the door and watched quietly. ‘Did you know the family well?’ Woods asked. ‘Were it a dreadful shock for you?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve done my best to help out Mr Sculthorpe since his Bridget died. It’s not been easy with havin’ to care for Mother too, but I’ve tried to be a good neighbour.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Woods said. ‘What were the family like?’
‘He were very private,’ she replied. ‘He’d nod and say “hello” but Bridget were the friendlier one. She didn’t mingle with many folks in the village but we spent a bit of time together. She were quite ill when they moved here from Brighton and I were sorry when she died. She were Irish, you know?’
‘Irish?’ Lavender said, surprised. ‘Was Mr Sculthorpe Irish too?’
‘No, they’d met and married down in London and young Billy were born there. He were a Londoner like you. Mrs Sculthorpe were many years younger than him though. About thirty years, I think. She were only in her fifties when she died. I were very frightened when I heard what the Panther Gang did to the Sculthorpes. I lock my own door every night now – and never go out after dusk.’
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock above their heads. Miss Bennett glanced up at the wooden beams of the low ceiling. ‘It’s Mother,’ she said. ‘She’s awake. I must go up to her soon. She’s been bedridden since her last seizure and sleeps most of the time.’
‘Dorothy!’ The voice drifting down from upstairs was frail but insistent.
‘You must be a great comfort to your ma,’ Woods said. Miss Bennett nodded again. ‘I don’t suppose your ma saw anythin’ on the night of the attack, but did she hear anythin’ in the alleyway outside? May we go upstairs and ask her?’
‘Dorothy! Dorothy? Who are those men?’ Miss Bennett glanced uneasily at the staircase.
There was nothing wrong with the old woman’s hearing; their voices must have carried upstairs.
‘Would you mind if we questioned your mother ourselves?’ Woods asked.
Miss Bennett stood up. She looked like she was about to refuse.
‘It’s important to our investigation,’ Woods said quickly. He also rose to his feet. ‘We’d be grateful for your help.’
‘Very well,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But you mustn’t stay long or you will tire her. Please give me a moment to make sure she’s respectable before you go up.’
The elderly Mrs Bennett wore a fraying bed cap over her white hair and a shawl over her bony shoulders. The hand that clutched the quilt up to her neck was like a bird’s claw. She reminded Lavender of a little sparrow, sharp and alert.
Woods introduced everyone and asked the questions.
‘Yes, I heard them scoundrels,’ the old woman said immediately.
‘You never said so before!’ her daughter exclaimed.
‘Well, no one asked me, did they?’
Ignoring her daughter, the old woman turned her head back to Woods. ‘The storm had both of us awake – and she got up to use the pot.’
‘Mother!’ Mo
rtified, Miss Bennett sat down on the second bed in the room. Her face crumpled with distress and she wrung her hands in her lap. The three men stared at her.
‘I heard them – and so did she,’ the relentless old woman continued, ‘but she didn’t know I were awake.’
Woods turned back to the old woman in the bed. ‘It would be a great help, Mrs Bennett,’ he said, ‘if you could tell us exactly what you heard.’
‘Voices,’ she replied immediately. ‘They were excited voices. I heard them voices drift down the street when they left the house.’
‘How many voices did you hear?’ Lavender asked.
‘I think it were three, yes, definitely three.’
‘Do you know what time this was?’
A bony finger pointed to the scratched wooden clock on her bedside table. ‘It were half past ten,’ she said. ‘I saw the hands of the clock when the lightnin’ flashed.’
Lavender took out his own pocket watch and flicked it open.
‘I thought it were strange for the old man to have company so late at night,’ Mrs Bennett continued. ‘He normally went to bed by nine. Ask her.’ She pointed at her daughter. ‘She’ll tell you the same.’
Silence fell in the room. Lavender turned back to Miss Bennett, who sat hunched forward on the bed, her head lowered.
‘It were like Mother said.’ Her voice crackled with emotion. ‘When I rose . . . when I rose . . . I looked out of the window and I saw three men leavin’ the Sculthorpes. They were laughin’ and went up onto the high street.’
‘Where a few moments later they bumped into Constable Sawyer,’ Lavender said.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ Woods said. ‘This has been very helpful.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t say somethin’ before.’ Miss Bennett turned her face towards the policemen. Her large eyes were wet with tears behind their spectacles. ‘But I were so frightened by what had happened. I thought if I spoke out, those Panthers would come back to hurt us.’
‘Silly goose,’ said her mother.
Chapter Six
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Clancy as they walked back into the village high street. ‘I never thought for a minute Miss Bennett were withholdin’ information from me when I questioned her.’
‘Sometimes a bit of persistence is needed, lad,’ Woods said kindly.
Lavender halted in his tracks and glanced around the quiet road with its terraces of light-stone cottages. The smell of fresh baking still permeated the air and his stomach rumbled. It was a long time since breakfast and the long horse ride had sharpened his appetite. ‘Is there a bakehouse in the village?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Clancy replied. ‘Mrs Tilley at Willow Cottage – her who lets out the rooms – she also runs the bakehouse.’
‘Take us there,’ Lavender said. Woods’ eyes lit up at the mention of food.
‘It still doesn’t make sense, though,’ Clancy said. He led them across the road and back down the street in the direction from which they had first arrived in the village. ‘There were five men who attacked Constable Sawyer, and this was before the tavern shut at ten o’clock. So how did two women see and hear three men leave Sculthorpe’s cottage at half past ten?’
‘They didn’t,’ Lavender said. ‘Their bedroom clock is fifteen minutes fast; I checked it against my own pocket watch. They saw the thieves leave Sculthorpe’s house at a quarter past ten.’
‘My goodness!’ Clancy glanced at Lavender with fresh respect. ‘I’m learnin’ a lot today.’
They approached an L-shaped stone building set back from the road. A weather-beaten sign reading ‘Willow Cottage Rooms to Let’ swung in the breeze above their heads. A pretty garden bordered the short path to the front door, full of yellow primroses and tall, large-leaved lemon and pale lilac hellebores.
‘Oh, we haven’t started yet,’ Woods reassured Clancy. ‘Stay by our side, lad, and you’ll be amazed.’
When Lavender pushed open the low door a tiny bell jangled to announce their arrival. They ducked below the lintel and entered. The bakehouse was the converted kitchen of the cottage. A large black range and several bread ovens filled most of the rear wall. In the middle of the warm room stood a long, well-scrubbed oak table, covered with loaves, pies and tarts of every size, shape and description. Behind the table stood a neat, brown-haired and heavily freckled woman in a frilled white cap, a striped dimity dress and a large white apron. Her sleeves were rolled up and her forearms were speckled with flour and freckles. ‘Good day, Constable Clancy,’ she said, smiling. ‘Hungry again, are you?’
Clancy grinned.
‘Who’s yer friends?’
‘Mrs Tilley?’ Lavender asked. She nodded. ‘I’m Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street in London and this is Constable Woods.’
She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. You’ve come to catch the gang who murdered poor Mr Sculthorpe, I suppose? How can I help?’
‘Is Doctor Wallace at home?’ Lavender asked. ‘I understand he lodges here. I would like to have a word with him, if possible.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid Doctor Wallace is out at his surgery in Market Harborough. There’s only Mrs Wallace here at the moment.’
Lavender bit back his disappointment. ‘The doctor practises medicine in Market Harborough?’
‘That’s right. They’re just lodgin’ here for a few months while their new house is made ready in the town. They’ve recently moved down here from Glasgow with their son, Jack. I’m afraid Doctor Wallace doesn’t return home until about seven in the evenin’.’
‘I’ll call on him tonight,’ Lavender said. ‘In the meantime, Mrs Tilley, I understand Billy Sculthorpe is recovering from his injuries here in your care.’
‘Yes. Captain Rushperry is payin’ for his lodgings until they sort out his father’s affairs. The poor soul has had a terrible ordeal.’
‘Would it be possible for us to speak to him?’
She narrowed her eyes and scrutinised him coldly. ‘I don’t think all of you should go up to him – you’ll scare him witless if you all troop into his room.’
‘I understand,’ Lavender said, nodding. ‘Constable Clancy can remain downstairs but we’ll eat first.’
‘Can I interest you in a pigeon pie, perhaps?’ Her face brightened. ‘They’re fresh out of the oven and still hot.’
The men nodded, handed over their coins and gratefully took hold of the warm pies. Unwilling to go back out into the cold street, they moved to a corner of the shop and enjoyed their meal. The pies were crammed full of thick gravy and tender chunks of pigeon breast with its distinctive livery taste. The warm, flaky pastry melted in their mouths.
‘That were very tasty,’ Woods said. Mrs Tilley beamed.
The doorbell tinkled again and two women with wicker baskets entered the bakehouse. They cast curious glances at the three men in the corner as they chatted with Mrs Tilley. When they had gone, Mrs Tilley wiped her floury hands on her apron and led Lavender and Woods through the rear door of the kitchen out into the cool hallway of the main house. They climbed the staircase and stopped outside a room on the first floor.
Mrs Tilley knocked tentatively on the door. ‘Billy?’ she called. ‘Billy, there’s some gentlemen to see you. Can they come in?’ There was no reply. Lavender heard something shuffle across the floor.
Mrs Tilley sighed. ‘He’s not used to company,’ she said. ‘They kept him hidden at home and he never went out. He stays in this room all the time and draws things, horrible things.’ She shuddered. ‘He’s used every piece of paper I have in the house.’ She knocked again, sharper this time. ‘Billy, we’re comin’ in now.’
The drapes were drawn across the window but a fire crackled in the grate of the darkened room and gave off a warm glow. In the gloom they saw a small, chubby figure in a voluminous nightgown seated on the floor surrounded by crayons and paper. Although he was seated, Lavender could tell Billy Sculthorpe was probably less than four foot tall. Billy glanced up t
owards them and Lavender heard Woods take a sharp intake of breath.
‘Now, Billy! What have I told you about closing the drapes?’
‘It will damage my eyes if I draw in the dark,’ Billy replied in a flat, monotone mumble.
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Tilley said. ‘And you won’t be able to draw if you damage your eyes.’ She marched across to the windows and pulled back the drapes. Light flooded into the room and Billy blinked rapidly. A podgy hand shot up to protect his upward slanting eyes from the glare.
Mrs Tilley walked back to him and ruffled the thin, fair hair poking up out of the bandage encircling his flat forehead. ‘Now you be a good lad and answer this gentleman’s questions.’ She walked towards the door. ‘I’ll be downstairs in the bakehouse if you need me, Detective,’ she said.
For a moment Woods and Lavender just stared at Billy Sculthorpe. Apart from the bandage on his head wound, the man before them still had a mass of yellow bruises across his flattened face from the attack of the previous week. Unabashed, Billy stared back at them through his strange eyes. His mouth drooped and his jaw was slack. His thick tongue, the cause of his strange speech, protruded slightly from his mouth.
Billy Sculthorpe had some form of cretinism. Lavender had seen several of these disfigured and stunted creatures before, but he had never known one to survive into adulthood. Most cretins died in infancy or ended up hidden in asylums by their families. Worse still, some were smothered at birth by their parents. He had pulled the body of one out of the Thames last year. That baby girl had looked only a few hours old.
‘My mammy says it’s rude to stare,’ Billy said suddenly. ‘She calls me Billy-Boy.’ He had a slight Irish lilt to his flat tone.
‘Yes, she’s right about the starin’,’ Woods said. He didn’t correct Billy’s use of the present tense when he talked about his mother. ‘I’m called Ned. Can I talk to you for a moment?’
‘I’m a cretin,’ Billy said. ‘But you’re fat.’
Woods laughed and moved across the room. ‘You may be right there, young man,’ he replied. ‘I eat too many pies. Do you like pies?’ Woods sat down on the bed and leant a bit closer to the man on the floor. Billy twitched and shuffled back a fraction. Lavender caught a glimpse of his bare foot as he moved. There was a large separation between the young man’s big toe and his second toe, another symptom of his condition. ‘Ah sure, I like pies,’ Billy said warily.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 5