Woods shrugged. It would all become clear in the end.
A brilliant flash of turquoise distracted Woods from his thoughts. He leant over the stone parapet and watched a tiny kingfisher dart in and out of the glistening water below, fishing for minnows.
‘Ar do,’ said a gruff voice beside him.
Woods straightened up sharply. Alby Kilby stood beside him with a fishing rod in his hand and a bag of tackle slung over his shoulder. For a large man, Kilby could move quietly.
‘Mornin’,’ Woods replied pleasantly. He stepped aside to let Kilby pass but the landlord wasn’t going anywhere. He stopped, leant over the parapet next to Woods and stared moodily at the canal below. The broad shoulders beneath his greatcoat hunched up around his thick neck. His face was now in profile and backlit by the sun. His thick mop of curls gleamed pure white but they did nothing to soften the scowl on his heavily lined face.
‘They tell me ye’ve become a Bow Street Runner,’ Kilby growled.
The question was phrased in a strange way, Woods thought, but the answer was simple enough. ‘Yes, I’m a horse patrol officer with the Bow Street Police Office in London.’
Kilby shook his head sadly. ‘I were never expectin’ that.’
‘What do you mean?’
The landlord roused himself and straightened up but he avoided eye contact with Woods. ‘When I first met you and the other fellah at The Angel, I never thought you were police. I didn’t expect that.’
‘Why should you? As I told your wife last night, I’m here with Detective Lavender investigatin’ the murder of William Sculthorpe in Middleton.’
Kilby nodded his bowed head slowly. ‘Yus. That were a bad do. Where’s this detective now?’
‘Detective Lavender has had to return to London.’
‘So yer alone?’ Kilby glanced up and Woods saw the excitement flash in his grey eyes. The drooping corners of the landlord’s mouth lifted into a half-smile.
Woods hesitated. A warning bell rang in his head. Kilby was a suspect in their investigation and he was behaving strangely. Conscious of the landlord’s closeness and powerful build, he assessed his situation carefully. He was alone in an isolated area with a colossus who would have no trouble flicking him over the edge of a bridge like a twig if he felt like it. He had no idea why Kilby might want to harm him but every instinct told him to be careful. To Woods’ relief, a plodding horse led by a small boy came around the bend in the canal. A barge soon appeared in its wake.
‘Is there somethin’ you want to tell me about the night of the great storm, when William Sculthorpe were murdered?’ Woods asked sharply.
The gleam in Kilby’s eyes was replaced with a flash of confusion. ‘No.’
‘What did you do that night? Where were you?’
Kilby shrugged. ‘We opened the tavern but shut her oop early because of the weather.’
‘What time were this?’
The landlord shrugged again and frowned.
‘Did you see or hear anythin’ unusual that might help us with our investigation?’
‘No, I didn’t. What you askin’ me for?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Aye, yer job,’ Kilby echoed. His throat slowly strangled his words. ‘Yer damned, bloody job.’
Woods’ mouth dropped open in surprise. Before he could ask what the other man meant, Kilby stepped back from the parapet, lowered his head again and held out a hand towards Woods. It was a second or two before Woods realised the landlord wanted to shake hands with him.
‘It’s been nice meetin’ up with yer, Constable.’ Kilby grasped Woods’ hand tightly in his great fist and squeezed. The landlord was reluctant to let him go. For a moment, Woods worried Kilby would squeeze the life out of his hand. ‘But A’ve to be on my way now.’ Kilby dropped his hand, turned on his heel and headed back down onto the towing path in the direction of Market Harborough, swinging his fishing rod alongside him. He shook his head as he walked.
Gawd’s teeth! What were all that about? Woods wondered.
A niggling thought took root in his confused mind. He had the strong impression that Alby Kilby had sought him out to tell him something but had lost his nerve at the last minute.
Woods shrugged. It would keep. In the meantime, he needed to track down some of The Angel Inn’s regular customers and try and establish exactly what time Kilby had shut the tavern on the night of the great storm. As yet, the man had no alibi for the time of the murder.
Woods enjoyed the Sunday service at St Dionysius’ Church. There were plenty of hymns, the musicians were accomplished and the acoustics in the high-vaulted, stone-arched church were excellent. He liked singing and belted out the words to the hymns in his rich, deep baritone, oblivious to the stares of his neighbours in the congregation who were mesmerised by the singing policeman from London.
After the service, he retrieved his horse from the stables and set out back to Middleton. A thin veil of silvery mist floated above some of the low-lying fields but the sun glimmered hazily in the sky above him.
It took him several hours to travel the seven miles between Market Harborough and Middleton because he called at all the cottages and farmhouses lining the road. The farmers and labourers who answered the door to him were surprised, polite but unhelpful. No one had seen or heard a gang of men riding to or from Middleton on the night of the storm. He knew the gang had disappeared on the Rockingham Road but he reasoned that as he had plenty of time before Lavender’s return, he might as well investigate every road in and out of the village.
It was growing dark when he finally handed over the reins of his horse to the blacksmith at the village forge and tramped wearily along the quiet street towards The Woolpack Inn. The tavern was quieter tonight and apart from the Bunnings, Susie Dicken and old Pete Jarman, Woods didn’t recognise any of the customers hunched over the low tables.
While he ate the thin stew and soggy dumplings served up by Susie Dicken, Woods watched the interaction between her and the landlord’s young nephew. Isaac Bunning didn’t miss an opportunity to fondle the woman every time she glided past his table, but then again, neither did half of the men in the room. The jiltish ladybird enjoyed the attention and flirted and giggled her way from table to table, stroking the men’s beards and sideburns, touching their hands and sometimes sitting in their laps. As soon as Frank Bunning appeared, everyone behaved with decorum around Susie and the woman became quieter, more dignified and less tactile.
Woods cursed as he jarred his tooth on a sharp piece of gristle. He spat it out and stared down at the unappetising slop before him. He didn’t recognise the meat and wondered if the damned woman had skinned an old cat for his evening meal.
As if on cue, Susie let out a peal of laughter. Frank Bunning was absent from the room and once again she was sitting on Isaac’s lap. The young man fondled her left breast. It was obvious to Woods that Isaac’s feelings for Susie weren’t those a nephew normally held for the woman betrothed to his uncle. But how far had lust led Isaac and Susie? Had they consummated their relationship, and if so, had William Sculthorpe known about this? Did he threaten to tell Isaac’s uncle and blackmail the young man for cash? Is that why I.B. was amongst the list of initials on Sculthorpe’s list?
Woods remembered again how Pete Jarman told him that William Sculthorpe liked to watch folks and listen to their conversations. He also remembered the movement they had heard out in the upstairs corridor during their first night at the inn. Smiling, Woods finally remembered the packet of black powder he had at the bottom of his old carpet bag upstairs. If Lavender wanted evidence, he would get it for him.
He pushed away the remains of his meal, glanced at the uncovered face of the battered old longcase clock in the corner of the drab room and ordered another tankard of ale.
Everything comes to him who waits . . .
Chapter Twenty
Sunday 4th March, 1810
Marylebone, London
Lavender breathed a huge sigh of relief when the hansom ca
b drew up outside his grey-bricked terrace house in Westcastle Square. He was starving, exhausted and every bone in his body ached, thanks to the twenty-four-hour dash down from Northamptonshire he had endured in the mail coach. Although he didn’t as a rule need much sleep, he had pushed himself to the limit with this journey, snatching only a few moments here and there in the uncomfortable carriage. Every time the vehicle had jolted, braked violently or swung into the yard of a coaching inn to change horses he’d been jerked awake.
He climbed out stiffly, paid the driver of his cab and noticed with curiosity another empty cab waiting outside his house. A light still burned behind the drapes of the ground-floor drawing-room window. Magdalena must be entertaining, he realised, and he glanced down at his creased, travel-stained clothing in dismay. His feisty, aristocratic beloved wouldn’t appreciate him appearing in her drawing room in this state. Thankfully, a light also still burned in the basement kitchen of the property. His housekeeper Mrs Hobart must still be here. He pushed open the gate in the iron railings that fronted his house and descended the steep flight of stone steps.
Mrs Hobart started with surprise as he entered the well-lit and cheerful kitchen but she recovered quickly. Her plump, friendly face beamed with delight and she bobbed him a respectful curtsey. ‘Why, sir, what a surprise! We weren’t expectin’ you home for several days yet!’
‘I didn’t expect to return so quickly either, Mrs Hobart.’ He peeled off his gloves and undid his coat. ‘My current case has unexpectedly brought me back to the capital.’ The lingering smell of roast meat and freshly baked bread in the kitchen made his mouth water and reminded him of his empty stomach. He glanced hopefully at the kitchen range.
Mrs Hobart intercepted his glance. ‘You must be famished with all that travellin’,’ she declared. ‘I’ve dampened down the stove for the night but I’ll make up a platter of cold meats, bread and cheese, if you like? And I can put on a pot of coffee.’
‘That would be excellent, Mrs Hobart,’ he said with relief. ‘And perhaps a glass of port to go with the cheese?’ She nodded, smiled and lifted the black iron kettle back onto the range. His eyes fell on her grey coat and black bonnet thrown over the corner of the well-scrubbed kitchen table. ‘I see you were about to depart home, Mrs Hobart. Perhaps Teresa can bring it upstairs?’ Normally Magdalena’s little Spanish maid spent her evenings down here in the warmth of the kitchen but there was no sign of Teresa tonight.
‘The poor gal has a terrible head cold,’ Mrs Hobart said, as she sliced a fresh loaf on the breadboard. ‘Doña Magdalena sent her to her bed this afternoon. Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll sort out your supper before I leave.’
Lavender had never had much to do with servants, apart from Mrs Perry, who had laundered his shirts, but he had mysteriously acquired Mrs Hobart along with the property the previous month. After a brief acquaintance, Magdalena had decided they should keep her in their employment. This had proved an excellent decision. Apart from making their comfort her main priority, the kindly old woman hadn’t raised an eyebrow when he had moved his foreign bride-to-be and her maid out of their dreadful lodgings in Cheapside and installed them in the house ahead of their nuptials. In fact, she didn’t seem unduly concerned that the master of the house had just let himself into her kitchen through the servants’ entrance.
Naturally, he had kept up his rooms in Southwark to keep up appearances and protect Magdalena’s reputation but he knew theirs was an unusual arrangement, despite being eminently practical. Prior to his departure for Northamptonshire, they had picked out furnishings for their new home and Magdalena’s presence in the house meant she was available to oversee their delivery and installation.
‘Has Doña Magdalena already eaten?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. She dined earlier.’
‘Who is our visitor?’ he asked.
Mrs Hobart’s face beamed with delight again. ‘Why! ’Tis Lady Caroline Clare!’ she exclaimed. ‘You never told me, sir, that we would be entertainin’ aristocracy when you purchased the house. My daughter Joan will be overcome when she hears I’ve served coffee to a real lady tonight!’
Lavender struggled to keep his face composed in the light of her excitement. He wondered wryly if Mrs Hobart and her daughter Joan would be quite so excited if they knew of Lady Caroline’s notorious reputation amongst the Beau Monde of London. Twice widowed, and with a penchant for younger men, Lady Caroline was often impoverished. Baron Clare had left his wife and daughters with very little income and Lady Caroline, a talented artist, was now forced to accept portrait commissions in order to survive.
But her presence in his home tonight was fortuitous – he had intended to call on her the following morning and ask for her assistance. Caroline Clare was also the Catholic daughter of an earl. If anyone could get him the introduction he needed to the British Catholic hierarchy, it was her. Besides which, she owed him a favour or two. A few years ago he had helped extricate her from a delicate situation when a former young lover had threatened to blackmail her, and only last month he had solved the mysterious and tragic death of her stepdaughter Harriet Willoughby.
He now needed to clean himself up and change as quickly as possible. Despite her notoriety, Lady Caroline liked her men clean and fresh. He didn’t want her aristocratic nose wrinkling in disgust at the smell of him.
‘Please excuse me, Mrs Hobart, while I use your scullery to wash myself and change my shirt,’ he said. ‘The road from Northamptonshire is very dusty.’
His housekeeper raised her grey eyebrows at such unconventional goings-on but the smile never left her face. Picking up his travelling bag from the tiled floor, he headed for the chilly scullery at the back of the kitchen.
Middleton, Northamptonshire
Back at The Woolpack, Frank Bunning was shutting up his tavern for the night. Woods downed the last of his ale and climbed the narrow wooden staircase up to the miserable bedchamber he had previously shared with Lavender. The room still seemed cramped even though he now occupied it alone. The smell hadn’t improved, he noticed. He lowered himself onto one of the lumpy mattresses and waited patiently by the light of his guttering candle, listening.
For half an hour or so, all he heard were the roof tiles shifting above his head in the breeze and tiny showers of soot slithering down the chimney. The last drunk left the tavern below and staggered up the street, singing raucously as he went.
Eventually, Woods heard the soft step of Susie Dicken’s heels on the narrow wooden staircase. A faint light flickered briefly in the crack beneath his door as she passed by. He heard the click of the latch as the attic door opened and closed and she went up to her own bedchamber.
Frank and Isaac Bunning came up the stairs together, talking quietly. The two men said ‘Goodnight’ on the landing and went into their rooms.
As the quiet of the night enveloped the building, Woods opened up his old carpet bag and rummaged through it. At the bottom, he found his old pouch of black powder. He weighed it in his palm and realised he would have to use it sparingly; there wasn’t much left.
His ears strained for any sound of movement, Woods took off his boots and quietly let himself out onto the landing. He left his candle in his room but with the door open he still had enough light to find his way to the men’s bedchambers at the end of the corridor. Frank Bunning was already snoring but he heard movement within Isaac’s room. A candle still burned; its light glimmered beneath the door.
Woods undid the pouch, stooped low and sprinkled the fine black powder along the floorboards. As he backed up the corridor, he silently prayed that neither of the Bunnings would leave their rooms and catch him bent double over the floor of the landing. That might take some explaining.
Only when the last of his precious powder had fluttered out of his pouch onto the floor in front of the door that led up to Susie’s attic bedchamber did he beat a silent but hasty retreat back into his own room.
There was nothing to do now except wait until dawn. Woods blew o
ut his candle and settled himself down for an uncomfortable night’s sleep on the stinking pile of mouldy straw these people called a mattress.
Just as he drifted off to sleep, he heard the soft click of a door latch and someone move stealthily down the landing. Woods smiled to himself in the darkness. What was that silly expression a toothless old Ethiopian sailor had once told him down at the docks?
Softly, softly, catches the monkey . . .
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday 4th March, 1810
Marylebone, London
Lavender pushed open the door of the drawing room. Washed, shaved and now wearing a fresh shirt and a burgundy cravat beneath his gold-striped silk waistcoat and a freshly brushed coat, he felt clean and refreshed.
Magdalena and Lady Caroline were draped elegantly across the dark blue velvet sofas in front of the blazing fireplace. They were leaning towards each other, engrossed in conversation like a pair of sisters, and he wondered at the close friendship that had sprung up between his beloved Spanish fiancée and Lady Caroline in such a short time. It was hardly surprising the two women had become such good friends, he realised. They were both widowed young, shared a love of Magdalena’s Spain and had their religion in common (although neither of them bothered God much with supplications). In addition to this, they were both impoverished aristocrats with plenty of determination, spirit and resilience in the face of adversity.
‘Stephen!’ Magdalena rose to greet him. Her beautiful face glowed with delight and the sound of her soft Castilian accent sent a wave of happiness coursing through his veins.
‘How lovely!’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t expect to see you for days.’ Her dark, smouldering eyes met his and a spark of mutual understanding and attraction flashed between them again. He wanted to embrace her and press his mouth over her soft lips but he had to be satisfied with kissing the hand she offered to him. We’re not married yet, she reminded him with her eyes – and we’re not alone.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 15