The doctor frowned. ‘I’m nae sure what I can add tae what I’ve already told the authorities. Have you read the statement I gave tae the inquest?’
Lavender nodded. ‘There are just a few issues I would like to clarify,’ he said. ‘Can either of you remember the exact time when Isaac Bunning came here to seek your assistance?’ This was his last hope of clarifying the muddied timescale of the night of the murder.
Doctor Wallace and his wife looked at each other across the hearth, then shook their heads. ‘I canna remember the time,’ Wallace said. ‘I dressed quickly, grabbed mah medical bag and followed young Bunning tae the Sculthorpes’.’ He coughed again.
‘And what about you, Mrs Wallace?’ Lavender asked, disappointed. ‘Can you remember the time?’
‘I’m afraid not, Detective. We had more pressing things to deal with than checking the clock.’ The woman’s voice was crystal clear, without a trace of any regional accent but with a slight tone of disapproval. She was a good-looking woman, despite the stiffness of her manner. The couple were in their late forties but Judith Wallace looked younger. Her dark hair had been discreetly dyed and her muslin gown had a high, lacy neck to hide any sagging skin.
‘I have seen where William Sculthorpe fell after the attack,’ Lavender said. ‘You mentioned in your statement there were also lacerations to the back of Sculthorpe’s head. Is it possible these were caused when his head hit the kitchen wall as he was knocked backwards into the space between the dresser and the corner of the room?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Aye, that’s the most likely explanation.’ His face dropped into a frown. ‘I’ll tell you this, Detective,’ he said. ‘I’ve been called tae attend the scene of some nasty murders in Glasgow, but it’s a long time since I’ve seen such a brutal attack on a helpless auld man.’
Lavender nodded. ‘What about Constable Jed Sawyer?’ he asked. ‘How bad were his injuries?’
Wallace smiled. ‘They’re not as bad as the man likes to make out,’ he said. ‘Yes, he had some nasty lacerations tae his face which had bled profusely when he was attacked – he was covered in blood when I saw him. But his arm’s nae broken – badly bruised, but nae broken.’
Lavender nodded. He had suspected this.
‘He enjoys being the village hero, I think.’ Wallace spoke Lavender’s own thoughts.
‘Had you ever been called out to attend to William Sculthorpe prior to the night of the attack?’ Lavender asked.
This time Wallace shook his head. ‘We’ve only been in Middleton for two months.’ A stronger, more violent fit of coughing consumed him and his body shook. Beads of sweat erupted across his forehead as he strained to control the irritation in his lungs.
‘We’re waiting for our house to be renovated,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘My husband’s new medical practice is in Market Harborough. We hope to move there soon.’
‘Mind you, this hasna stopped the locals in Middleton from takin’ full advantage of the fact they now have a doctor in their midst.’ Wallace smiled as he spoke. ‘Normally they have tae call on Doctor Roberts in Rockingham for medical assistance but there have been several occasions when mah presence has been requested instead.’
‘Some people are far too forward,’ Mrs Wallace said coldly. ‘They take advantage and forget you have a long ride to and from Market Harborough every day.’
Lavender hid his smile. Judith Wallace might be reserved but she was clearly very protective of her husband. ‘Did you ever get called out to attend to Billy Sculthorpe?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ Wallace confirmed. ‘The wee fellah had an infection and his father was worried about him.’
Lavender was pleased to hear William Sculthorpe had not baulked at the cost of a doctor for his son. Perhaps the old man had had a softer side to him after all. ‘On this occasion, how did William Sculthorpe senior seem to you?’ he asked. ‘I need a general idea of his health and lifestyle.’
‘He seemed in perfect health,’ Doctor Wallace said. ‘The man was sprightly for his age and walked a good deal.’ He turned towards his wife. ‘You met him several times on your morning walks, didn’t you, hen?’
Mrs Wallace shrugged. ‘Yes, but we barely passed the time of day. The man simply grunted and nodded in reply to any greeting.’ She bent her head back down over her needlework.
Lavender watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to her husband. ‘I understand young men with Billy Sculthorpe’s condition are often prone to infection,’ he said, ‘and they can have a number of other problems related to their condition: a weak intellect, for example, hearing problems and cloudy eyes caused by cataracts.’
Wallace smiled. ‘Well, I’ve niver found anythin’ amiss with Billy Sculthorpe’s eyesight or his hearin’, if that’s what you’re asking, Detective. However, his imagination runs wilder than a capercaillie in a pinewood.’
‘I’ve noticed.’ Lavender smiled.
‘There’s a good deal of debate in the medical world about the causes of cretinism,’ Doctor Wallace continued. Another coughing fit threatened to erupt but he paused, cleared his throat and it subsided. ‘And some professionals are undertakin’ research in tae this condition. So far they have discovered there may be several forms of cretinism, each with its own particular symptoms and causes.’
‘I once read a medical report that suggested this deformity was connected to stagnant air or bad water,’ Lavender said.
Wallace shook his head. ‘That’s disputed. There are too many cretins, too widespread across the population fer that tae make sense. We’re ten years in tae the nineteenth century now and the medical profession is takin’ great strides. It’s determined tae leave antiquated medieval notions behind. There have been new reports – and evidence – that this malformity is often inflicted on the children of older parents.’
Lavender’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘This is a new development,’ he said, genuinely interested. ‘And it would make sense regarding Billy Sculthorpe. His father must have been in his sixties when Billy was born.’
Wallace sat forward and shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me, Detective. This theory requires the mother to be elderly but the theory is not proven.’ He fought back another coughing fit.
‘May I ask what prompted your move to Northamptonshire?’ Lavender asked, although he thought he already knew why. Glasgow was a notoriously unhealthy and squalid city, rife with cholera and consumption.
Wallace glanced down awkwardly but his wife had no qualms about answering Lavender’s question. ‘My husband has not been well,’ she said. ‘The air in Glasgow and the conditions in the city do not agree with him. Lady Anne at Rockingham Castle secured John this position in Market Harborough. We hope this move will help him to regain his health.’
‘The coughin’ is always worse at night,’ Doctor Wallace said simply.
Lavender picked up his hat from the low table at the side of his chair and rose to his feet. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I have detained you both for too long already. You have been most helpful.’
‘Our pleasure, Detective,’ Wallace said.
As Lavender strode back towards The Woolpack he wished he had questioned the Wallaces further about their connection with Lady Anne Fitzwilliam. Why had she helped the Scottish doctor find a new position? The dowager countess seemed to have a finger in every pie and be involved in the lives of many of the Rockingham Estate’s tenants. He shrugged. Hopefully, his trip to Rockingham Castle tomorrow would answer that and several other questions that troubled him about Lady Anne’s involvement in the case.
Chapter Twelve
After Lavender left for his appointment with Doctor Wallace, Woods remained in the crowded tavern and enjoyed another tankard of ale beside the fire. A group of men stood in the centre of the room, blocking his vision, but he managed to keep one eye on the labourer Harry Goode, who became increasingly inebriated with ale as the night wore on. A pale young man with thick, curly blond hair and large, wide-set blue eyes joined
him at his table. Woods heard Goode refer to this babyface as ‘Isaac’ and realised this was the final member of the group who had gone to the aid of the Sculthorpes on that fateful night: Isaac Bunning, nephew of The Woolpack’s landlord.
He’s barely shavin’, Woods thought at first, but then he changed his mind. Young Bunning and Constable Clancy were probably about the same age and had similar blue eyes but Bunning lacked the open honesty of Clancy’s features. Bunning’s eyes drifted sideways and his lips curled cruelly at one side.
Susie Dicken flew to Isaac Bunning’s side when he appeared. A lot of raucous laughter ensued and when the woman leant low over Bunning’s tankard to pour his ale, she pressed her body into his shoulder in the same provocative way she had served Constable Clancy earlier in the day. Harry Goode made some lewd comment about her exposed cleavage and they all laughed. Woods watched Bunning’s hand slide down the woman’s back and caress her backside before it slid around her waist. Once his tankard was full, Bunning pulled the woman down into his lap and nuzzled her earlobe through her lank hair.
Woods wondered what her intended, the landlord Frank Bunning, made of his nephew’s behaviour. But there was no sign of him.
An elderly white-haired man in a threadbare coat shuffled up to a vacant stool next to the fireside. He clutched a tankard in his arthritic hand and lowered himself painfully onto the stool.
‘Mr Jarman?’ Woods asked, hopefully.
The old man nodded. ‘Who’s askin’?’
Woods smiled his friendliest smile. ‘I’m Constable Woods from Bow Street in London. We’ve been called up here to investigate the murder of your friend, Mr William Sculthorpe.’
‘Oh, aye? I’d heard yer were comin’. From London, aren’t yer?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Did the old man’s hearing fail him? ‘Can I buy you another tankard of ale, Mr Jarman?’
Jarman’s rheumy eyes crinkled up in delight as he smiled. ‘That’d be most kind of you, Constable,’ he said. He placed the tankard on the table in front of Woods. ‘That be mine,’ he said. ‘I’ve drunk from this tankard since I were a boy.’ Woods nodded and gestured across the room to Susie Dicken for service. She scowled and dragged herself up from Isaac Bunning’s knee. Once she had served them Woods turned back to Jarman.
‘I understand Mr Sculthorpe was an old friend of yours.’
The old man seemed to recoil slightly and frowned. ‘I can’t say we were friends. We’d just drink together sometimes, that’s all. Mind you,’ he added, ‘Bill Sculthorpe were old all right, very old. You’re right about that. He were the oldest man hereabouts.’
‘We’re tryin’ to find out some more about Mr Sculthorpe . . .’
‘He were eighty-six years old,’ Jarman said. ‘He were the oldest man hereabouts. I’m seventy-one next month. I’m the oldest man in Middleton – now Bill Sculthorpe’s passed.’ A toothless smile of pride spread across his face.
Woods relaxed and smiled back. This would take longer than he had anticipated. ‘Seventy-one years of age?’ he said. ‘Congratulations, Mr Jarman, that’s a considerable achievement.’
‘Aye, I’m the oldest man in Middleton now.’
‘Do you know about William Sculthorpe’s trade?’ Woods asked cautiously. ‘Did he ever talk about his work with you?’
‘Can’t say as he did. He hadn’t worked for years, hadn’t old Bill. He were eighty-six, you know?’
‘Why did he move his family here from Brighton?’
‘Can’t say as I know.’ Jarman paused for a moment and stared down at his drink. ‘His missus were from Ireland, if it’s any help.’
Woods hid his disappointment behind another smile. ‘Didn’t he tell you anythin’ else about his life at all?’
Jarman shook his head. ‘Why should he? He only called in here for a glass of brandy when he’d run out of liquor in the house.’
‘Did he drink brandy every night?’ Woods remembered the poisonous concoction of brandy and ink cap mushrooms Sculthorpe had taken on the night he died.
‘Aye, but I hadn’t seen him for a week or two,’ Jarman added. ‘I think he’d got another bottle.’
Woods decided to change tack with his questioning. ‘I understand you were in here on the night of the murder.’
‘Yes, I were.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw all manner of hell break loose.’ The old man sighed. ‘I saw Constable Sawyer burst through the door.’ He pointed a shaky hand at the entrance. ‘He were shoutin’ and covered in blood.’
‘What happened next?’ Woods asked gently. The toothless grin dropped from the old man’s face, and he looked a little distressed.
‘Frank Bunnin’ – and them two,’ he waved an arthritic finger in the direction of Harry Goode and Isaac Bunning, ‘dashed off with Sawyer to the Sculthorpes’.’
‘It must have upset you.’
Jarman nodded. ‘I were sorry though to hear what had happened. He didn’t have much conversation, didn’t William Sculthorpe, but I were sorry he died like that. He preferred to sit quietly, sip his drink and watch folks.’
‘Watch folks?’
‘Aye, he allus watched folks and listened to their chatter, did William Sculthorpe. He were the oldest man in Middleton, you know? A man shouldn’t get to eighty-six and then die like that.’
‘I agree.’ Another thought struck Woods. ‘Were Frank Bunnin’ and his nephew in here all night?’
‘Frank Bunnin’ were here, bobbin’ in and out of the room. His nephew came in later with Harry Goode.’
‘So Isaac Bunnin’ arrived later with Harry Goode?’
‘Aye, ’twere just before Frank started to shut up for the night.’
‘Was it?’ Loud laughter from across the tavern distracted Woods. Susie Dicken sat back down on Isaac Bunning’s knee.
‘I’m the oldest man in the village now,’ Pete Jarman repeated proudly.
Woods nodded, still distracted by the two men and the barmaid. Suddenly, the door opened and Frank Bunning entered the room. Susie Dicken leapt up from his nephew’s lap.
‘I’ll tell you one thing about that night, though,’ the old man said and leant forward conspiratorially.
‘Yes?’
‘He opened up late.’
Woods frowned and gave his full attention back to the old man. ‘Who did?’
‘Him. Frank.’ Jarman’s bony, crooked finger jabbed in the direction of the tavern landlord. ‘I had to wait outside in the cold for him to open up. His clock were slow. I told him so – but he wouldn’t have it.’
Woods frowned and glanced at the glassless clock in the corner of the room with its juddering and exposed hands. ‘It was slow on the night of the murder, you say?’
‘Aye.’
The loud sound of ripping made Woods glance up. Susie Dicken’s earthenware jug smashed onto the wooden floorboards and she screamed. The trailing hem of her oversized dress had caught beneath Isaac Bunning’s stool. Broken shards of pottery lay scattered in a dark pool of ale across the floor.
‘Yer blitherin’ idiot!’ she screamed at Isaac.
Every man in the tavern burst out laughing – including young Isaac. The barmaid let out a foul curse and flew at the young lad like a hell-cat. He hunched his shoulders and threw his hands over his head to protect himself from the assault.
‘Let the lad be, Susie!’ the landlord called out.
She ignored him, grabbed handfuls of Isaac’s blond curls and yanked his head backwards. Frank Bunning moved across, grasped the snarling woman around the waist and half lifted, half dragged her out of the door.
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Woods said quietly.
‘Aye, you’d be right there, Constable,’ Jarman said.
Lavender returned shortly after Pete Jarman left the tavern. Woods told him the information he had gleaned from the old man. ‘What do you think it means, sir?’ he asked.
Lavender glanced at the battered longcase clock in the
corner of the room. He frowned and shook his head wearily. ‘I don’t know, Ned,’ he said. ‘If this clock was slow on the night of the murder then Frank Bunning was wrong about the timing of events but the significance of this news eludes me. Perhaps in the morning I’ll be able to make more sense of it. Let’s retire for the night and make a fresh start tomorrow.’
The landlord led them up the narrow wooden staircase to a cramped bedroom with a low ceiling. It contained two mattresses and little else. Woods had seen more comfortable prison cells in Newgate.
Bunning pointed to the dying embers in the grate. ‘We lit a fire a few hours ago to take the chill off the room.’
It hasn’t worked, Woods thought.
‘I’ll be down the corridor if you need anythin’,’ Bunning added. He pointed to the door at the end of the corridor. ‘Isaac is the next room to mine and Susie sleeps upstairs in the attic.’
‘I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ Lavender said.
The landlord nodded and left them in peace.
Lavender held up his candle and looked round the miserable room with distaste. ‘No doubt this place has bugs,’ he said.
‘I don’t think I’ll notice.’ Woods yawned. ‘My old bones are that weary even Old Nick wouldn’t wake me tonight. I’m sleepin’ in my coat though.’ He flopped down onto his lumpy mattress and wrinkled his nose in disgust at the unpleasant smell emanating from the mouldy straw beneath him. He knew Lavender would sit for a while longer and even try to make a few notes by the dim light. Woods sighed heavily, thankful that the main responsibility for solving this blasted case didn’t sit on his shoulders.
Images floated into Woods’ exhausted mind as he struggled to get comfortable. Strange images of stagnant water and coal heaps. It was a river. The river stank. No, it wasn’t the river. The mattress stank. He heard the throb of a nearby forge. Woods sighed and rolled over. It’s your heartbeat in your ears, he told himself. It’s your heartbeat . . .
Woods shivered in the cold wind from the river. Today the docks were deserted. Massive coal heaps, higher than mountains, stood on the wharf, towering above him. He was a child again and struggled to climb up them. His feet – small feet – sank into the shimmering, slithering black pile as he half walked, half crawled on his belly to the top. The blast furnace roared behind him and scorched his back with its heat. He struggled to his feet, unsteady on the shifting coal. Above his head, towering metal gantries creaked, swayed and groaned in the wind and soot-blackened chimneys belched out filth and grime into the angry red sky.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 9