The Sculthorpe Murder

by Karen Charlton

  The sky was angry because of the man. The man who lay at his feet.

  He leant down and shook the prostrate man’s shoulder with his coal-blackened hand. The throbbing in his head increased. Its rhythm became a loud and terrifying beat.

  ‘Wake up!’ he yelled, his voice high-pitched with fear. ‘Wake up, will yer? We’ve got to get out before the wharfinger finds us!’

  The body obligingly rolled over. Its bloodied grey brains oozed out from the terrible gash down the side of its head and slithered down the coal like a repulsive reptile.

  Woods screamed and lurched forward. He clawed at the empty air as he fell from the top of the coal heap . . . faster, faster.

  The image vanished in a flash. Bathed in sweat and confused, Woods sat bolt upright on the mattress and blinked in the poor light.

  A dark-haired demon sat across the room eyeing him coldly. A quill poised motionless above his notebook, a guttering candle by his side. ‘What the hell are you dreaming about now, Ned?’ Lavender asked.

  Woods groaned and lowered his head into his hands, waiting for the garish images of his nightmare to fade and sink back into the dark recesses of his mind. ‘I were just . . .’ he mumbled.

  ‘Shh!’

  Woods’ ears strained against the unearthly silence of the night.

  Outside on the landing, a metal latch clicked open. A door swung on its hinges. Quiet footsteps from stockinged feet padded over the floorboards. Another door opened and shut softly.

  ‘Mmm,’ Lavender whispered. ‘Someone’s abroad tonight.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday 3rd March, 1810

  Middleton, Northamptonshire

  Lavender woke as the first tentative fingers of dawn poked through the ragged drapes of their room. His back ached from the uncomfortable mattress and he still felt weary. At the other side of the chamber, Woods continued to toss and turn and murmur through the bad dreams that had haunted him all night and disturbed his own sleep. Lavender sighed and rose stiffly to his feet. A glance through the dirty window cheered him up. The sun was steady in a cloudless sky. Did it promise spring warmth today?

  He suddenly got the urge to walk off his aches and pains. Donning his coat, he descended the twisting wooden stairs of the deserted tavern and went outside, grateful to leave the smell of woodsmoke, tobacco and stale ale behind. He welcomed the fresh air and the warmth of the morning sun. Somewhere in the valley, sheep bleated and cattle lowed hungrily. Crows called to each other from the treetops on the hill. They rose, circling and wheeling, before heading down to their favourite feeding grounds. It promised to be a brilliant day with a sky of white light and ice-blue arched over the world.

  Lavender decided to repeat the pleasant walk he had taken the previous day and he set off up the cobbled hill towards the meandering path that led back to St Mary Magdalene in Cottingham. The smell of smoke drifted down from the chimneys of the silent village. He relished the peace and quiet of early morning.

  As he retraced his steps, he saw things he had not noticed the first time he walked this way. Red squirrels scampered up the trunks of apple trees in an orchard. Fat wood pigeons cooed above his head in the budding branches of the elms. Primroses sprouted amongst the exposed roots of the trees and muted yellow cowslips peeped out from the swathes of lush grass in the meadow. A row of beehives hummed gently against an ancient stone wall.

  He was struck again by the fertility and fruitfulness of this part of England. Dense woodland teeming with game, fat cattle and sheep, fresh garden vegetables and lush agricultural farmland: this was a land of milk, honey and plenty. Yes, some of the residents of Middleton knew poverty. Miss Bennett, for example, eked out a meagre existence for herself and her mother, and the labourer Harry Goode had a mountain of debt. But not one of the inhabitants of Middleton had the skeletal frame or hunger-ravaged features that haunted the faces of those who lived in the filthy and unhealthy slums of the Seven Dials in London. No wonder the residents of this lush valley enjoyed such longevity.

  He paused in a meadow at the top of the hill and took in the wonderful view below him where the river cut its course through the soft, marshy clays. The grey rainclouds of yesterday had vanished. Now seen beneath the shimmering clarity of a dazzling sky, the sweeping valley was magnificent.

  A woman walked across the field towards him, a wicker basket hung on her arm. The long grass parted silently before her skirts. It took him a moment before he recognised Judith Wallace’s face below the black shadows cast by the ruffles of her bonnet.

  He bowed. ‘Good morning, Mrs Wallace. You’re another early riser, I see.’

  ‘Good morning, Detective. Yes, I always think it’s a shame to lie abed when there is so much beauty in the world.’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed, it’s the best part of the day.’ His eyes lighted on the piles of creamy fungi in her basket. ‘You have been picking mushrooms?’

  Her eyes followed his own to the basket on her arm. She tapped it lightly with her gloved hand. ‘I like to gather a few for John’s breakfast.’

  ‘Those are field mushrooms, Agaricus campestris, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. You’re very knowledgeable, Detective.’ She sounded surprised. ‘I don’t suppose you’re able to pick your own mushrooms in London.’

  ‘I have an interest in the flora and fauna of the British Isles,’ he said. ‘I’ve read a lot of books on the subject. Tell me, do you ever come across ink cap mushrooms when you’re foraging?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve found quite a few recently.’

  ‘Did you ever give any to William Sculthorpe when you met him on your morning walk?’

  She took in a sharp intake of breath and seemed to recoil slightly. ‘Well, I only met him the once – ’

  ‘When was this?’

  She shook her head as she struggled to remember. ‘A few weeks ago . . .’

  ‘Just before he died?’

  ‘It may have been. I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

  ‘And did you give him some ink cap mushrooms?’

  ‘Yes, I think I did. Is there a point to these questions, Detective?’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘We found some rotten mushrooms in his kitchen and I wondered where they came from.’

  She seemed relieved. ‘Please excuse me, Detective,’ she said. ‘I must take these back. The flavour is never good unless they’re cooked almost immediately after harvesting.’

  He nodded his head in a short bow and she turned on her heel to walk back to Middleton. He watched her as she glided gracefully through the meadow and disappeared beneath the dappled shadows of the trees.

  Lavender returned to The Woolpack and joined Woods for breakfast. Susie Dicken served them a meagre plate of ham and greasy eggs.

  ‘Will you gentlemen be stayin’ with us another night?’ Frank Bunning asked.

  ‘I don’t believe we will,’ Lavender replied.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ Woods muttered as he poked sadly at his greasy egg with his fork.

  Lavender retrieved his horse from the forge and set off on the short journey to Rockingham Castle for his appointment with Lady Anne Fitzwilliam.

  The road meandered along the base of a steep, wooded escarpment and he soon saw the castle with its creamy, medieval stone walls perched on a rocky outcrop at the end of the ridge. It had a commanding view of the valley. The road twisted upwards towards a pair of castellated drum towers that guarded the arched entrance to the castle grounds. Arrow slits in the shape of a narrow crucifix reminded Lavender of the castle’s original military significance.

  Inside the grassy enclave of the walls stood a magnificent, three-sided and gabled Elizabethan mansion, complete with mullioned windows and tall round chimneys.

  A groom came out of the stables to take his horse and a footman gestured him in through a side doorway. The servant led him through the stone-flagged servants’ hall and past the bustling kitchens, where half a dozen white-capped and white-aprone
d women stirred huge copper saucepans on the range and rolled out pastry on the centre table. His stomach rumbled as the delicious aroma of fresh bread and simmering beef wafted into his nostrils and he remembered the inadequacy of his meagre breakfast.

  ‘You’re to wait for Lady Anne in the Panel Room,’ the footman told him as he led him through an arched wooden door into the main section of the house.

  The Panel Room lived up to its name. A massive medieval stone fireplace dominated one wall but the remainder were covered in deal panelling, now darkened and splitting with age. A fire had been lit in the great hearth, which seemed unnecessary considering the warmth of the day outside. To take his mind off the stuffiness and heat of the room, Lavender examined the armorial bearings carved into several of the wooden panels. He recognised the coat of arms and Latin motto of the Fitzwilliam family immediately; different branches of their family had lived at Rockingham Castle for seven generations. There were other coats of arms and mottos that he didn’t recognise. Some of these armorial bearings had small plaques bearing names: Manners, Montague and Debussy.

  Debussy. He frowned and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away the beads of perspiration on his forehead. Where had he heard the name before? Then he remembered the Middleton school register: John Debussy Wallace. Debussy was the second name of Doctor Wallace’s son. Could Debussy be the maiden name of Judith Wallace? Was she a distant relative of the Fitzwilliams of Rockingham Castle? If so, this would explain the close relationship between her and Lady Anne. He ran his finger around the edge of his cravat to loosen it and let more air near his hot skin. But such a family connection raised more questions than it solved, he realised. If Judith Wallace had been born into the lower echelons of the aristocratic class, why had she married a common doctor and not someone from her own social stratum?

  Suddenly, the double doors at the end of the room were flung open by a pair of liveried footmen. A third footman pushed a large, three-wheeled bath chair into the room. Seated back against the black hood was the tiniest and oldest woman Lavender had ever seen. Smothered in blankets, Lady Anne wore a long-sleeved, high-necked black silk dress and had a shawl draped around her thin shoulders. A black lace cap covered her thin, white hair. Richly ornamented with satin ribbon and decorative frills, it was far too large for her old, wrinkled face with its sunken cheeks. Yet despite her obvious frailty, she gripped the long steering handle attached to the front wheel firmly in her arthritic hands and looked him up and down with dark, disdainful eyes.

  She manoeuvred the vehicle around the furniture before it came to a halt in front of the huge fireplace. ‘Blankets, Erskine!’ she commanded, as the footmen bowed and retreated from the room.

  Lavender had been so intent on the strange procession winding its way in front of him that he had failed to notice the plain, middle-aged woman who trailed in the wake of the footmen and the bath chair. She now stepped forward and rearranged the plaid blankets around Lady Anne’s knees. She straightened up, pushed back a strand of grey hair that had fallen forward over her face and waited patiently by the side of her mistress.

  ‘This is Erskine, my companion,’ Lady Anne said. ‘You must be Detective Lavender.’

  He nodded politely towards Erskine and bowed low to Lady Anne. ‘At your service, your ladyship.’

  ‘Humph! Well, we shall see about that!’ Lady Anne replied. ‘Stop fussing, Erskine, and sit down, will you?’ Her companion seated herself in one of the low upholstered chairs in front of the fire. As he had not been granted permission to sit, Lavender remained standing on the other side of the fireplace to the two women.

  Lady Anne’s bony fingers tapped on the steering rod of the bath chair as she looked him up and down again. She seemed to find what she saw distasteful and turned her head sharply to her servant. ‘So, Erskine, Captain Rushperry wrote to Bow Street Police Office to ask for an active and intelligent officer to help investigate the terrible murder of poor William Sculthorpe.’ A trail of spittle seeped out of the corner of her thin mouth. She gulped as though she had a problem swallowing. With her head now in profile, Lavender noticed that her chin had virtually disappeared into the wrinkled, lined and sagging skin of her neck.

  ‘Indeed he did, ma’am,’ Erskine replied, ‘– and Bow Street have sent us Detective Lavender.’

  Lady Anne nodded. ‘This is most unfortunate.’

  Her companion nodded her bowed head. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Lavender’s mouth dropped open. He had been unsure about why he had been summoned here today but this was a strange reception.

  Lady Anne leant forward in her bath chair. ‘We have heard about Detective Lavender, haven’t we, Erskine?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We have read about him in The Times.’

  Lavender opened his mouth to speak but Lady Anne hadn’t finished. She turned her head and addressed him directly. ‘We read about the Portman Square riot which you dealt with, Lavender – and the furore you caused when you sent for the militia to quell the rioters.’

  Lavender’s mind raced as he desperately tried to remember the incident and how The Times had reported it the previous October. He also wondered what offence his handling of the event might have caused the Lady Anne.

  Fortunately, she soon enlightened him. ‘Despite the fact a magistrate lived only two streets away, you – a mere policeman – took it upon yourself to call out the militia.’ Her voice rose with indignation as she spoke.

  Ah, yes, The Times had made quite a fuss about this. She had an excellent memory if she remembered that.

  ‘I apologise for my presumption on this occasion, Lady Anne,’ he said quietly. ‘However, it was my strong conviction that urgent action needed to be taken to prevent further injury to both people and the property in Portman Square. There was no time to locate the magistrate. People were being hurt.’

  ‘Huh! You’re a nonconformist, Lavender!’ and a glob of spittle landed on the blanket as she spat out the words. ‘You’re a social heretic – with an arrogant disrespect for the natural order of law.’

  He bowed his head and hoped she would see the gesture as one of contrition, rather than an attempt to hide the smile in his eyes and the one that itched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Again I can only apologise for any offence caused by my actions in Portman Square last October. Please rest assured I will afford the current case my fullest attention and deal with it in line with the law.’

  There followed a short pause, which he hoped signified that the dowager countess was mollified. ‘Shall we believe him, Erskine?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so, ma’am,’ replied her companion. ‘I think he has shifty eyes.’

  Lavender glanced up at the dowdy woman in surprise. She sat hunched in her seat with her hands folded neatly on her lap and her own eyes lowered. Her grey head with its plain black cap was bowed towards her knees. He hadn’t been conscious of her scrutiny at all. She had kept her eyes averted from him throughout the entire conversation. He wondered just how long the two women had been together as mistress and companion. Erskine’s comments suggested she knew exactly what was going through her mistress’s mind and they also hinted at a high degree of familiarity between the two women; the ferocious old lady in the bath chair didn’t frighten Mistress Erskine.

  He knew that Lady Anne’s husband, the third Earl Fitzwilliam, had died young and she had never remarried. Their eight-year-old son became the new earl and the heir to Wentworth House, the largest mansion in the country, and to their other substantial estates. Erskine wore a wedding band but he wondered if she might also be a widow.

  ‘Well, Captain Rushperry tells me you’re good at your job,’ Lady Anne conceded eventually. ‘Didn’t he, Erskine?’

  ‘Yes, he did, your ladyship.’

  ‘So have you found out who murdered poor Bill Sculthorpe yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Lavender admitted, grateful the conversation had now turned onto the case rather than his own shortcomings. ‘However, we have made several discoveries
that may be relevant – and I don’t accept this is the work of that notorious Panther Gang from the south of the county.’

  She frowned, blinked and stared at him hard. ‘What discoveries?’

  ‘Did you know, ma’am, that William Sculthorpe was a practising Catholic?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’ She never flinched or exhibited an ounce of surprise at this news. ‘Have you found out anything else? I summoned your help because I feel that there is more to this murder than meets the eye.’

  Lavender raised a surprised eyebrow. The years had clearly not dimmed the sharp insight of this cantankerous old lady. ‘I agree with you,’ Lavender said.

  ‘You do?’ She leant forward in her chair.

  ‘Yes, I’m not convinced that it was simply a robbery gone wrong.’

  She hesitated for a second and Lavender sensed disappointment in the slight frown that wrinkled her forehead. ‘You think they murdered him because he was a Catholic?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think this attack was simply motivated by greed.’

  ‘Ah, intriguing, Detective.’ She looked relieved and tapped the steering rod of her bath chair again. The mottled skin on the back of her hand was paper-thin. ‘But pray tell me, are you against the victim because of his faith? Will this affect the dedication with which you undertake your inquiries?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ he replied. ‘I’m betrothed to be married and my future wife is both Spanish and a Catholic. I’m not against Catholics.’

  Her beady eyes never left his face. ‘And shall you convert to Catholicism before your nuptials?’ she asked.