‘How are you, Magdalena?’ he asked.
‘Happy to see you.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘It has been a good day. This morning I also received a letter from Sebastián.’
‘Is he well?’
Sebastián, Magdalena’s young son, was away at boarding school in Hertfordshire.
‘I think so.’ She frowned. ‘He writes to me in English this time but I can’t decipher some of the expressions he uses. We may need your investigative powers to translate the letter.’
‘Ah, schoolboy slang.’ Lavender shook his head in mock solemnity. ‘I’m sorry, Magdalena, but this task may be beyond the skill of a Principal Officer. Even Bow Street’s finest can’t penetrate the mystery of the language and codes of a British schoolboy.’
Magdalena laughed and led him over to the fireplace, where Lady Caroline remained seated, with her silver-topped walking cane resting against the side of her chair.
Lavender bowed and kissed Lady Caroline’s hand. ‘Good evening, Lady Caroline. As always, it’s a pleasure to see you.’ And it was. Caroline Clare had walked with the aid of her cane since the coaching accident that killed her first husband but she was an attractive, witty and intelligent redhead who turned heads in every room she entered. Tonight she wore black ostrich feathers in her pearl-studded turban, reminding him that she was in mourning following the unexpected death of her stepdaughter.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Detective,’ she said.
Lavender appreciated the comfort of the soft upholstery of the cushions on his aching bones as he sank down into his chair next to the fire.
‘Have you eaten, Stephen?’ Magdalena asked.
‘Mrs Hobart is preparing me a cold platter as we speak,’ he reassured her. ‘I’m afraid this is a brief visit, ladies. The case I’m investigating has brought me home but I must return to Northamptonshire as soon as possible and I have to confess I’m exhausted through lack of sleep. I shall have to return to my rooms in Southwark very soon.’
‘What a shame,’ Lady Caroline murmured. ‘You work too hard, Detective.’
‘Would you like a brandy, Stephen?’ Magdalena asked.
‘That would be very welcome.’
She rose gracefully and glided across to an elegant rosewood console table where she poured him a generous measure. The candlelight caught the gleam of the glossy black curls on the top of her bowed head as she leant over the crystal decanter. The candlelight also revealed the translucent quality of her diaphanous white gown. Lavender caught a tantalising glimpse of her slender waist and curvaceous hips as she moved.
Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from Magdalena and turned his attention back to their guest. ‘I’m relieved to see you here tonight, Lady Caroline,’ he said. ‘I need to ask for your assistance with my current case.’
The finely arched eyebrows over her sharp, grey eyes rose in astonishment. ‘My goodness! How on earth can I assist you, Detective?’
‘I need an introduction,’ he said. ‘I seek an audience with Bishop John Douglass, the Vicar Apostolic of the London District. I know he won’t like police officers but I hope you can persuade him to speak with me.’
‘Good grief!’ Lady Caroline’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Why? What has the old devil done?’
Lavender smiled. ‘Nothing criminal that I’m aware of,’ he replied. ‘I simply hope Bishop Douglass might remember something about an elderly priest called Father William Sculthorpe. It’s Sculthorpe’s murder I’m investigating in Northamptonshire.’
‘What a disappointment! John Douglass is such a dry old stick. For a moment I thought you were going to tell us something interesting and scandalous about the man.’
He smiled again. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
Magdalena returned with his brandy and he took a long drink. The tension eased from his tired body and mind as the amber spirit hit the back of this mouth and warmed his throat and stomach.
‘Bishop Douglass is easy to find,’ Lady Caroline said. ‘The London Catholics use the chapel at the Sardinian Embassy as their base and have done so for the last few decades. No doubt he will be there. He’s very old and rarely travels far.’
Lavender nodded. Old. This was good. The older the better. He desperately needed to talk to someone who remembered William Sculthorpe’s early life.
The brandy, warmth and comfort fired up a devil inside of him. ‘Does Bishop Douglass know who you are, Lady Caroline?’ he asked.
‘Of course he does!’ she exclaimed in surprise. ‘I’ve attended Mass several times – at least – well, several times this year. Bishop Douglass is very aware of who I am.’
Magdalena smiled. ‘I think Stephen is teasing you, Lady Caroline.’
Lady Caroline’s face relaxed into a smile. Lavender had no doubt the bishop would recognise Caroline Clare instantly. Even the most devoted and celibate priest couldn’t fail to be affected by the charm, confidence and elegance of her presence. Tonight she wore a black, see-through chiffon overgown above her exquisitely embroidered and decorated silk dress. Lavender had never professed to be an expert on women’s fashion but he suspected Lady Caroline was overdressed for taking coffee with Magdalena and wondered if she had another engagement later that evening.
‘Well, that’s settled, Detective,’ Lady Caroline declared. ‘I shall take you to meet Bishop Douglass in the morning.’
‘Shall I call for you at about nine o’clock?’ Lavender asked.
‘Good heavens, no! That is a most uncivilised time of the day. No, you may call for me at eleven.’
Lavender’s heart sank. He had another call to make after he had met the Vicar Apostolic and he wanted to take the mid-afternoon coach back to Northamptonshire.
‘Perhaps we should compromise and meet at ten o’clock?’ he asked.
‘Oh, very well,’ she said. ‘Although what my maid will think to such early rising, I can’t say.’
‘Shall I come too?’ Magdalena asked.
‘I’m not sure that this would be a good idea, my dear,’ Lady Caroline said. ‘The moment Bishop Douglass finds out you’re betrothed to Stephen, he will want you to arrange a Catholic wedding service. He may become distracted by the peril in which you’re placing your soul, which of course we all know will be nonsense.’
Lavender was pleased to see Magdalena nod in agreement. They had decided to marry quietly and simply in the Protestant faith at the Church of St Saviour and St Mary Overie in Southwark, where Lavender’s grandfather had been Dean. Out of respect for Lavender’s family connection to the church, the current Dean, The Very Reverend George Elton, had overlooked Magdalena’s Catholicism and agreed to perform the service. ‘It doesn’t matter in what building you take your vows, my dears,’ he had said to them. ‘God doesn’t mind. But he will be watching to see you fulfil them.’
‘In fact, Detective,’ Lady Caroline continued, ‘Bishop Douglass may try to convert you to Catholicism – with or without Magdalena in the room.’
‘I will bear this in mind,’ he said wryly.
‘Talking about our wedding, Stephen,’ Magdalena said. ‘They called the banns at St Saviour’s for the second time this morning – and no one objected.’
He laughed and smiled at her fondly. ‘Did you think someone would?’
‘Well, not everyone is happy you’re marrying a Catholic,’ she said awkwardly. ‘Magistrate Read at Bow Street, for example.’
‘Magistrate Read wants me to remain married to my job,’ he interrupted, more sharply than he intended. He softened his voice when he saw the surprise in her eyes. ‘Read will come around to the idea. And as for the rest of our friends and my family . . .’ He paused and smiled. ‘They’re so relieved I have finally found a woman who will have me – that they will object to nothing. They’re just so happy to see me settling down in marital bliss.’
The two women smiled. ‘We shall marry as soon as I finish this case in Northamptonshire and return to London,’ he promised her.
> ‘Ah, the joys of a union across the faiths,’ Lady Caroline said. ‘You may be interested to know, Magdalena, that Bishop Douglass once had the audacity to inform me that because my first husband was Jewish and we’d eloped, my marriage wasn’t a true marriage in the eyes of God.’
Magdalena’s dark eyes became troubled. ‘What did you reply?’
‘I fixed him with my most piercing stare, my dear, and told him if God had opened his eyes and looked into our bedroom he would have been left in no doubt that ours was a true marriage of both body and soul.’
Magdalena’s hand fluttered over her mouth and she stifled a laugh. ‘What did he say to that?’
The jewels in Lady Caroline’s rings flashed in the candlelight as she waved her hand dismissively in the air. ‘Oh, he shuffled away and never mentioned it again. But this is why I think you need to keep Bishop Douglass ignorant about your relationship with Detective Lavender and your forthcoming marriage at St Saviour’s.’
‘I understand,’ Magdalena said again.
Lady Caroline reached out for her silver-topped cane and rose stiffly to her feet. ‘Anyway, I shall leave you two lovebirds in peace for tonight. I can see you only have eyes for each other and I’m now in the way. Besides which, I agreed to dine with Henry Duddles at Almack’s and I’m already half an hour late.’
There was a tap on the sitting-room door. Mrs Hobart had arrived with Lavender’s supper tray. She placed it on a side table and went to fetch Lady Caroline’s cloak and hand muff. When she returned with the garments, Lavender helped Lady Caroline into her cloak and escorted her outside to her carriage.
Once back in the drawing room, he sank wearily back into his fireside chair and pulled his supper tray towards him. ‘Please excuse me, my darling,’ he said, ‘I’m ravenous.’
‘Enjoy your food, Stephen.’ She picked up her embroidery basket. While he ate, she sewed with her eyes lowered and her dark eyelashes highlighted against the deep golden skin of her flawless cheeks. They chatted for a while about domestic matters and the arrangements for their wedding.
Contentment flooded through him as he watched her. The soft candlelight made Magdalena look younger than her twenty-nine years. He watched the soft movement of her breasts as they rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing. His loins stirred and his heart swelled at the prospect of a lifetime of evenings spent by this fireside with this beautiful, vivacious and intelligent woman – and soon he would be able to wake up every morning with her in his bed. He was a tactile and physical man and she was his feminine equal.
He wanted a marriage of deep intimacy with Magdalena. He wanted it to stretch out interminably into their old age. He could see them in twenty, no, thirty years’ time, finally exhausted with passionate lovemaking and napping companionably by this fireplace. He would have his arm around her and she would rest her greying head on his shoulder. He still couldn’t believe he had persuaded this amazing woman to be his wife. Many years ago he had loved another woman but death had cheated him of his bride and taken Vivienne for its own. ‘Not this time,’ he murmured softly to himself. ‘Not this time.’
She glanced up at him and smiled. ‘Did you say something, Stephen?’
He shook his head, sat up straighter and sighed. He knew he would have to leave soon to protect her reputation.
Pushing aside the empty supper tray, he strode across the carpet and joined Magdalena on the sofa. He pulled her towards him, encircled her body in his arms and pressed his lips onto hers. The softness and scent of Magdalena’s skin sent a fresh wave of passion coursing through his veins. She moaned softly and writhed in his grasp, exciting him further. Finally she wriggled free and looked up at him, laughing. ‘You told Lady Caroline you would soon return to your rooms in Southwark,’ she whispered.
‘I may have lied,’ he replied and winked.
Her smile broadened and the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. ‘Mrs Hobart has gone home – but please don’t forget that Teresa is still in the house, Stephen.’
What did this mean? Was it an invitation to stay for the night, provided he was careful of her reputation? Would he have to pick up his boots and creep out of the house in his stockinged feet at dawn to avoid scandalising her maid?
He decided to test the water with his caresses. He lowered his head and kissed her neck, her earlobes, her soft cheeks and closed eyelids before planting his mouth onto her lips once more. His arms encircled her waist briefly before his hands took on a life of their own and started to explore the voluptuous curves of her body.
She broke away from his embrace once more. ‘Stephen! Let me breathe! Let me rest a moment!’ Her eyes smiled up at him and she nestled her head against his shoulder. He held her there, savouring the intimacy, the scent of her hair and her warmth. His exhausted body was torn between his desire for Magdalena and his desperate need for sleep. But his traitorous overactive mind wasn’t ready to relax yet.
‘Magdalena?’
‘Mmm?’ She had closed her own eyes now.
‘You were born in July, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you named for your Saint’s Day? The Feast of St Mary Magdalene?’
‘Mmm.’
‘What date is it?’
‘July 22nd.’ Her eyes flashed open and she smiled again. ‘Why do you ask me about my name day, Stephen? Are you already planning my gift?’
He smiled back down at her. ‘I met a man who was also born on your Saint’s Day.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said, closing her eyes again. ‘Is he called Magdalena too?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday 5th March, 1810
Middleton, Northamptonshire
Woods’ rumbling stomach woke him well before dawn. He knew that it would. His supper had been so poor the night before it was inevitable he would be famished by early morning. Ignoring his hunger, he pulled on his coat against the cold and relit the candle. He left his bedchamber in his stockinged feet and quietly retraced his steps back out onto the cold landing. Dropping down onto his haunches, he held the candle a few inches above the floorboards.
He could only just see the outline of footsteps in the fine powder against the age-darkened and filthy wood but he saw enough to satisfy himself. A pair of man’s footsteps led to the door at the bottom of the attic staircase – and a second pair had returned via the same route. Susie Dicken had received a nocturnal visitor in the night but her visitor was already back in his own bed. Carefully, Woods followed them to the door of Isaac Bunning’s bedchamber.
Woods grinned. ‘Naughty boy,’ he whispered beneath his breath. Gently, he brushed away the powder into the cracks between the floorboards.
It looked likely that William Sculthorpe had been blackmailing young Isaac. And now they knew why.
Isaac Bunning was laying with the woman his uncle intended to marry.
Woods devoured the meagre, greasy breakfast served up at The Woolpack, then beat a hasty path down the main street to Mrs Tilley’s bakery for some proper food. Woods also suspected that Mrs Tilley might be able to help him with the next part of his inquiries. Lavender wanted him to identify the owners of the initials in Sculthorpe’s account book and he’d suggested Woods use the parish registers in St Mary Magdalene’s Church in Cottingham to help him with this process. But Woods knew Mrs Tilley’s bakehouse was the pulsating heart of the village. If anyone could tell him who owned the initials M.T.T., J.D. and J.W., it would be her.
The doorbell tinkled above his head when Woods entered the bakery. The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries wafted from her ovens. There were no other customers and Mrs Tilley was kneading dough at the large wooden table in the centre of the warm shop. The sleeves of her striped dimity dress were rolled up, revealing her strong, freckled forearms. She thrust her hands into the soggy dough, raised it in the air, then dropped it back onto the table with a resounding slap. She gave him a welcoming smile. ‘Good mornin’, Constable. What can I help you
with today?’
‘I’m hopin’ you might be able to help me with our investigation, Mrs Tilley.’
Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘Oooh, I’ll do what I can.’
‘We’ve uncovered some initials in an old notebook owned by Mr Sculthorpe,’ Woods told her, ‘and we’re tryin’ to work out who he were writin’ about.’
‘What are these initials?’ Using a large flat knife she deftly sliced the dough into quarters and shaped each piece into a loaf.
Woods reeled off the list of initials they were investigating.
‘M.T.T.?’ A smile lit up her face. ‘Well, that’s easy! It’s Morgan Turnbull-Thatcher. He owns the haberdashery in Cottingham.’ She covered the loaves with cloths, pushed them to one side of the table, then wiped her floury hands on her apron.
‘Really?’ Woods’ face flushed with delight. His quest for information rarely met with such immediate success. He remembered the draper. He had met Morgan Turnbull-Thatcher on Saturday while traipsing around the two villages with Sculthorpe’s money bag. Come to think of it, Mr Turnbull-Thatcher had been unusually nervous while Woods was in his shop. The man’s hands had trembled when he examined the tatty cloth bag. Woods pulled out his notebook and pencil and made a note of Morgan Turnbull-Thatcher’s name.
‘Yes, he just calls himself Morgan Thatcher but his full name is painted above the lintel of the shop door,’ Mrs Tilley continued. A shadow passed across her face beneath her frilled white cap. ‘He hasn’t done somethin’ wrong, has he?’
‘No, no,’ Woods reassured her. ‘We’re just tryin’ to work out who Mr Sculthorpe were writin’ about in his notebook.’
Satisfied, she nodded. ‘Oh, and the J.W. will be Doctor Wallace, of course. He attended young Billy a few weeks back when he were ill. That’ll be why Mr Sculthorpe wrote about him.’
Woods bit back his disappointment. ‘Isn’t there anyone else hereabouts with the initials J.W.?’
She paused and screwed up her broad face as she tried to remember. ‘I don’t think so. There were a woman called Jane Webb – but she left the village last year.’
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 16