‘And what about J.D.?’ he asked.
‘Well!’ She laughed. ‘I’m not sure where to start there!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s the Dickens,’ she said. ‘The relatives of that Susie Dicken from The Woolpack. A whole tribe of them lives in those rundown cottages at the other side of Cottingham. Every one of them is as poor as a church mouse – and several of them are right villains!’
She raised her flour-whitened hand and checked off the Dickens using her fingers. ‘There’s old Josiah Dicken, his son, Jim – and Jim’s son, Jim. Then there’s Jack Dicken, his brother, Joseph Dicken – oh, and Joan and Jinny Dicken. Jinny has a son called Jerry – and there’s a cousin called Jacob too. He’s been up before the magistrate for poachin’.’
Woods tried to make notes of these different Dickens but gave up by the time she had reached Joan Dicken. He snapped his pocket book shut and put it back in his pocket with a frown. Investigating J.D. would be more complicated than he had imagined.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those Dickens had somethin’ to do with the robbery at Mr Sculthorpe’s.’ Mrs Tilley’s face darkened and she lowered her voice. ‘They’re a bad lot, that family. Jack Dicken hurt a man in a tavern brawl and he had another brother, called Simeon, who were transported for theft.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Tilley.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Constable.’ She waved her hand over the loaves, pies and tarts stacked high on her well-scrubbed oak table. ‘Now is there anythin’ else I can help you with?’
Woods grinned and asked her for a small loaf cut into chunks. He had a busy morning ahead of him by the sound of it and he needed to keep up his strength. Smiling, she obliged and cut up the loaf with her bread knife. ‘Would you like butter with it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that would be most kind of you, Mrs Tilley.’
She reached for her butter dish and spread the creamy yellow butter generously on his freshly baked bread. Woods took it outside to eat. The butter had already melted into the warm, doughy bread and each bite was like manna from heaven.
Woods licked his buttery lips and made a decision. Lavender didn’t want him to alert any of the owners of the initials in Sculthorpe’s book that they were of interest to their inquiry, but Woods had come across nervous, sweating types like Morgan Turnbull-Thatcher before and he knew how to handle them. They needed some answers to the mysteries in this case and Thatcher was the man to provide them. Brushing the last breadcrumbs from his coat, Woods turned and strode off towards Cottingham and the draper’s shop.
Woods marched up the short flight of stone steps between the two low-fronted, bow windows of Thatcher’s shop and pushed open the door. Another tinkling bell announced his arrival. Two pairs of magnified eyes glanced up from behind their wire spectacles as he entered. Miss Bennett was purchasing some reels of thread and a smile flitted across her thin face when she recognised Woods. Morgan Thatcher’s eyes also flashed with recognition but he frowned rather than smiled.
Undeterred, Woods walked towards the counter, passing the rolls of gaily coloured silk, woollen tweed and Manchester cotton leaning against the walls of the shop. Thatcher ignored him, pulled out a roll of cheap fabric and bent over the counter to cut a length for Miss Bennett. The hand holding the scissors shook, Woods noted.
‘How lovely to see you again, Constable,’ said Miss Bennett.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again too, Miss Bennett.’
‘This is Constable Woods from Bow Street in London,’ she told the draper. ‘He’s investigatin’ the murder of poor Mr Sculthorpe and came to ask Mother and me some questions on Friday.’ Thatcher grunted but didn’t glance up from his work. ‘Have you found out anythin’ yet?’ Miss Bennett asked. The spectacles magnified the kindness and concern in her soft, brown eyes.
‘Our investigation goes very well,’ Woods said. ‘Fresh information about William Sculthorpe – and those associated with him – comes to light every day.’ Was it his imagination or had the draper’s bowed bald head suddenly flushed?
‘Oh, that’s good news, isn’t it, Mr Thatcher?’ The draper glanced up at her, unsmiling. There were beads of sweat above his thin lips.
Woods was concerned Miss Bennett might decide to linger and gossip after she had paid for her purchases, so he offered to carry her parcels of shopping to the door of the shop. Once she had left, he dropped the latch and turned round the dangling ‘Open’ sign so it read ‘Closed’ from the outside.
Thatcher watched him silently from behind his counter. Was he trembling? He was a small-framed man and he had the hint of weasel about him.
‘We need to talk, Mr Turnbull-Thatcher,’ Woods said sharply. ‘Your name has cropped up in our inquiries in connection with William Sculthorpe.’ He planted both hands down on the counter and leant forward menacingly towards the draper. ‘Now stop bein’ a lyin’ wrinkler and tell me what you know.’
‘I told you on Saturday,’ Thatcher stammered. ‘I know nothin’ about that money bag.’
Woods fixed him with another glare. ‘I haven’t come here today to talk about the damned money bag. You know why I’m here.’
Thatcher averted his eyes. ‘What is it you think I can help you with, Constable?’ He took off his spectacles and started to clean them with the edge of his brown apron.
‘We’ve found evidence,’ Woods growled. ‘About your cash transactions with William Sculthorpe – and I’ll say this, Mr Thatcher, it doesn’t look good for you.’ Thatcher shuddered. ‘I’m givin’ you the chance to tell me your side of the story.’
‘I did nothin’ – it were a mistake!’
‘What were a mistake?’
‘He, he were a nasty old fellah.’ Thatcher’s voice rose plaintively. ‘He watched me – and made accusations. He said I were short-changin’ my customers.’ The draper glanced up quickly at Woods but dropped his eyes again when he saw the constable frown. ‘He said he’d seen it a couple of times and he . . . he . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He threatened to tell all my customers if I didn’t pay him money.’
‘Were you?’
‘What?’
‘Cheatin’ your customers?’
‘No! Of course not. It were a mistake – my, my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be.’
‘So he were blackmailin’ you?’
‘Yes – I had to pay him three shillin’s a week.’ Woods nodded to himself. That was the amount written in Sculthorpe’s account book next to the initials M.T.T.
‘He were an evil old man.’ Thatcher’s voice rose with anger. ‘He made my life a misery – and he enjoyed it. I couldn’t afford it – I didn’t deserve it! In fact, I had half decided to sell up the shop and move to Grantham to get away from him.’ Thatcher pushed his spectacles back on his long, thin nose and glared defiantly at Woods across the counter. ‘He didn’t care about the misery he were causin’ me!’
Woods never flinched. ‘And then he died.’
‘What?’
‘What were you doin’ on the night of the 20th February?’
‘What?’
‘The night of the great storm – when William Sculthorpe were attacked.’
Shock replaced the anger and defiance in the draper’s face. ‘Good God! Surely you don’t think I had anythin’ to do with that? I’m an honest, God-fearin’ man!’
‘Where were you that night?’
‘Here!’ Thatcher squeaked. ‘In our rooms above the shop – all night – with my wife.’
Woods stood back and a wry smile of triumph twitched at the corners of his mouth, desperate to spread across his face. ‘Don’t make that move to Grantham just yet, Mr Thatcher,’ he said. ‘I may want to talk with you again.’ He turned on his heel and walked out of the shop. Behind him, Thatcher let out a gulping sob.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday 5th March, 1810
Marylebone, London
Lavender’s hired car
riage arrived promptly at ten o’clock at Lady Caroline’s home in leafy Lincoln’s Inn Fields but she made him wait for another half an hour before she finally appeared at the door of her home. Today she wore a fetching green velvet coat with a matching bonnet and hand muff. Lavender leapt down from the carriage to greet her and saw a lanky young man in a bronze-coloured coat with a pristine white cravat trailing in her wake. It was Henry Duddles, Lady Caroline’s latest lover. Duddles reached out to take Lady Caroline’s elbow as she descended the stone steps of the house but she shook him off.
‘Don’t make a fuss, Henry,’ she snapped. ‘I can manage with my cane.’
‘Good morning, Lady Caroline,’ Lavender said pleasantly.
‘Good morning, Detective. Please excuse Duddles.’ She waved her gloved hand dismissively at the young man behind her. ‘The silly young fool insists on accompanying us. I have told him that we’re embarking on serious police business but – would you believe it? He thinks this is some sort of rendez-vous amoureux.’
Lavender bit back his grin and helped her into the carriage. ‘Good morning, Duddles.’
The younger man pushed back the thick fringe of blond curls from his face, flushed and nodded sheepishly at Lavender before clambering up behind Lady Caroline. In all the time Lavender had known Duddles, the nervous fellow had barely said a word in his presence. Although by the sound of it, he was saying plenty in private. Duddles seated himself beside the tight-lipped Lady Caroline. Lavender climbed up and shut the door behind him, sat down and waited patiently for the explosion.
The carriage jolted and slid off into the stream of traffic. Lady Caroline smoothed down the gleaming nap of her velvet coat and fiddled with the ebony buttons and black ribbon that trimmed her cuff. Suddenly, she spun round and pointed an accusing gloved finger at Duddles. ‘This is preposterous! This boy is jealous, Lavender! He won’t believe an eminent detective like yourself needs help from a mere woman!’
Duddles cowered in his corner of the carriage. He looked as though he wanted to disappear into the cracks in the faded leather seat beneath him. Lavender opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. Lady Caroline hadn’t finished.
‘I had to bring him with me to prove our assignation was genuine! What does he think we will get up to at such a ridiculously early hour? I can’t imagine.’ She threw up her hands into the air. ‘Who on earth plans a romantic tryst for this godforsaken hour of the day? My maid is quite put out at the early start and I’m sure she has done a poor job with my hair.’ She raised her hand to the auburn ringlets framing her face beneath her soft, green velvet bonnet and patted them tenderly.
Lavender heard his cue. ‘You look perfect, Lady Caroline,’ he said. ‘As always, you’re the picture of elegance and grace.’
‘You’re so kind, Detective.’ She sighed. ‘See, Henry? This is how a true gentleman behaves towards his lady. Why didn’t you simply compliment me on my bonnet this morning and let me leave with a kiss?’
Duddles opened his mouth to speak but Lady Caroline had already turned back to Lavender. ‘Right, now that this is settled, we shall ignore my jealous paramour and you can tell me about this dreadful murder we’re investigating.’
Smiling, Lavender told her about William Sculthorpe.
‘A priest?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘No, no – he should never have married. That is most strange. Are you sure the young man is his son?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Lavender admitted. ‘I don’t know who he is. William Sculthorpe was a priest in the London area about twenty-five years ago. I don’t suppose you remember a Father William Sculthorpe, do you?’
‘Good heavens, Detective! How old do you think I am?’ Her voice rose with indignation. ‘No, no, I was still a carefree child running wild on my father’s dilapidated northern estate twenty-five years ago.’
Lavender wasn’t entirely convinced but he knew better than to press the matter. Lady Caroline wasn’t in good humour that morning. Besides which, he knew she had only lived in London briefly before eloping to the continent with her first husband, Victor Meyer Rothschild. At this time in her history, her mind had clearly been on other things.
‘What about Lady Anne Fitzwilliam?’ Lavender asked. ‘Do you know of her?’
‘Lady Anne? The Dowager Countess Fitzwilliam?’ A slight frown creased her high forehead as she struggled to remember. ‘I have met her once or twice. She’s very old, isn’t she? I think she lives in the country and rarely comes to London. I know her son, of course, Earl Fitzwilliam. A charming man and very sympathetic to the notion of Catholic emancipation – although I don’t believe he’s converted to the religion like his mother.’
Lavender nodded and thanked her. ‘And what about the name Debussy? I suspect the Debussys may also be Catholic sympathisers, minor relatives of the Fitzwilliams. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She sighed wearily and turned towards the carriage window. Soft rivulets of rain now ran down the glass, obscuring their view of the pedestrians and shoppers on the crowded pavement outside.
‘You know, Lavender,’ she said, ‘I think there is too much fuss made about religious differences. After all, we all worship the same God, don’t we? No matter what we call him, Jehovah, God – or even Allah. I met some charming Arabs while travelling with Victor in Spain.’
‘I agree,’ Lavender said. ‘Men – and women – should be judged on their character and their actions – not on their beliefs. There are good and evil amidst the followers of every faith.’
Her mood lifted and she laughed. ‘And there speaks the detective whose job it is to track down the evil ones – which brings us back to your mysterious priest. He certainly sounds like a naughty boy.’
Their carriage drew up outside the cream facade of the elegant chapel behind the Sardinian Embassy. Lavender had not been here before and was surprised at its size. A large white dome rose up at the rear of the church into the cloudy sky and towered above the smoking, red-brick chimneys of the neighbouring buildings. Prior to the Relief Act of 1791, this chapel had been the only place in London where Catholic worship was legal for thousands of people who still followed the faith. It was the chief place of refuge for persecuted Catholic priests – and inevitably the focal point for several anti-Catholic riots. The rioters had set it on fire on several occasions. Bow Street constables, including his own father, were often sent to detain or harass the British citizens who attended Mass at this chapel.
Lavender decided it would probably be best to avoid mentioning this family connection to Bishop Douglass. His Excellency would have lived through those troubled times and the bishop would be very wary once he learnt of Lavender’s profession. There was no point in aggravating the man further.
‘You can stay in the carriage, Henry,’ Lady Caroline told Duddles firmly. ‘As you can see, Detective Lavender and I have some serious business to attend to. You’ll just get in the way with your chatter if you accompany us any further. Lavender, you may help me down.’ Crestfallen, the young man sank back into his seat while Lavender helped Lady Caroline out of the carriage and into the grey drizzle of the street.
They entered the chapel through a pair of great oak doors. Lavender removed his hat and was instantly struck with the brightness of the lofty white aisle and the French and Italian influences on its architecture. The glittering altar with its gold cross, crystal and silver candlesticks, and highly polished silver plate stood directly ahead of them beneath the white dome. The pungent smell of incense hung heavily in the air. There were no seats or pews on the black-and-white tiled floor but cream marble pillars held up overhanging galleries along each side of the chapel. He suspected the wealthier and titled members of the congregation sat up above. How much did a seat cost, he wondered?
They walked down the centre of the chapel towards the altar, passing the rows of wooden confessionals that lined the walls beneath the galleries. Each was embossed with the coat of arms of the Duke of Savoy. Lavender saw th
e red velvet drapes twitch in one of the confessionals and he heard whispering from within.
A cleric in a plain brown habit with a silver cross around his neck came over to greet them.
‘Please tell His Grace that Lady Caroline Clare is here to see him,’ Lavender said. The cleric bowed his tonsured head and disappeared into a side door of the chapel.
‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ Lady Caroline whispered, as they waited beside a large, painted statue of a mournful Madonna.
‘Please just be yourself,’ Lavender said. ‘I will ask the questions – and I will tell him I’m a police officer.’
She nodded.
A wizened old man in flowing white robes and a blue cape hobbled arthritically towards them. A large gold crucifix swayed across his chest as he walked. Bishop Douglass was bald beneath his blue velvet zucchetto and his pale face was criss-crossed with wrinkles. His Excellency was probably in his late sixties, or even early seventies, but the dark eyes that scanned Lavender and Lady Caroline were both sharp and alert.
Beside the detective, Lady Caroline leant on her walking cane and managed to drop the bishop a brief, but elegant curtsey. Bishop Douglass held out his gnarled hand towards her and she raised it to her lips, kissing the glittering amethyst stone on his gold ring.
‘Lady Caroline,’ Bishop Douglass said softly. ‘What a pleasure to see you. You have become quite a stranger to us recently.’
‘Oh, I still attend Mass every Sunday, Your Grace,’ she replied airily. ‘But you know how I hate to create a fuss. I prefer to mingle in with the crowd. You probably just haven’t seen me.’
The bishop’s thin lips tightened. Lavender knew His Excellency didn’t believe this any more than he did but this old man hadn’t survived religious persecution and the Gordon Riots without developing a large degree of tact. ‘How can I help you, my daughter?’ he asked.
‘I would like to introduce you to a very, very dear friend of mine, Your Grace.’ Lady Caroline waved her gloved hand in Lavender’s direction. ‘This is Stephen Lavender. He desperately needs your assistance.’
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 17