The truth hit him with the velocity and ferocity of a lightning bolt.
Billy Sculthorpe wasn’t Billy Sculthorpe and he wasn’t Billy Ahearn either.
Billy was William, Viscount Milton. He was the eldest grandson of Lady Anne Fitzwilliam and the child of her son, one of the greatest landowners in the country.
He was also the rightful heir to two earldoms.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday 5th March, 1810
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
It was late and dark when Woods finally clattered into the cobbled yard of the livery stables in the high street and threw the reins of his sweating horse to the ostler. But for once at this time of night, the town square of Market Harborough was a hive of activity. Drovers had arrived with their livestock, ready for the market the next day. Barking dogs steered flocks of sheep into the pens, tethered cattle lowed softly and farmers hailed each other across the street. A couple of drunken, gaudily dressed whores leant on each other for support as they laughed and stumbled across the cobbles. The stench of the livestock and their excrement was stronger than ever.
Woods glanced at the bustling activity, frowned and stomped towards The Angel Inn. He’d forgotten about the ruddy market. The tavern would be full of drunken farmers and drovers tonight.
He leapt up the steps in front of the brightly lit inn and glanced at the sign above his head. ‘Albert Kilby – Licensed to sell beers and strong liquors’. Albert Kilby? His arse.
The noise hit him the moment he pushed open the door. As he had feared, the tavern was packed. Groups of powerfully built, windburnt and animated farmers now competed for space and the attention of the mobcapped barmaids, along with the usual crowd of coal-blackened boatmen and wharf hands. Half a dozen tired sheepdogs sprawled across the wooden floor like a matted black and white carpet. Apart from the usual hum of body odour, tobacco smoke and alcohol, the inn now reeked of wet dog.
No one glanced up at Woods tonight as he hesitated in the entrance. All the glazed eyes in the room were trying to focus on their slurring neighbours. He caught the faint whiff of hot pastry and his stomach rumbled. He picked his way through the crowds, found a small table and a single stool in the corner and sat down. The crowds briefly parted and he caught a glimpse of Alby Kilby smiling and pouring out ale behind the bar. Kilby hadn’t seen Woods but his wife had. Rosie Kilby arrived at his table with a jug of ale and a pewter tankard.
She placed the tankard on his table and pointed towards his head. ‘My! You look like ye’ve been in the wars, Constable.’
He tossed a coin onto the table. ‘Leave the jug,’ he growled, ‘and bring me two of your steak pies with gravy.’ If he was going to confront Kilby, he might as well do it on a full stomach.
She frowned at his abruptness. ‘As you wish, sir.’ She turned on her heel and disappeared into the swaying and drunken throng.
Woods poured out his drink and leant back against the wall and glowered in Kilby’s direction. It was going to be a long night.
Just before midnight Alby Kilby instructed the last few of his customers to get themselves home to their beds. Kilby’s suggestion was greeted by growls of derision from a stubborn table of drunken farmers. Woods leant back on his stool in the shadows and watched. It was darker now. The wicks of the tallow candles that lit the inn guttered in the draught from the door and the fire in the hearth had all but burnt out.
Rosie Kilby sidled across the ale-soaked floor and picked up Woods’ empty plate and tankard. ‘Did yer enjoy yer supper, Constable?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Kilby,’ he replied. ‘If Mrs Kilby is actually your real name.’
She started, returned to her husband behind the bar and whispered something to him. Kilby frowned, and glanced in Woods’ direction. He turned back to his wife, spoke to her and pointed to the last group of farmers in the bar. Rosie Kilby went over to them and after a bit of cajoling managed to persuade them to their feet. They staggered in the direction of the hallway that led to the front door of the tavern. Rosie followed them out.
Now only Woods and Alby Kilby remained in the room.
He rose to his feet and glared at Kilby. ‘We need to talk. Come outside, now.’
Kilby shrugged, put down his cloth and followed Woods towards the rear door of the tavern, which led out into the stable yard. An image of the landlord’s huge hairy fists shot through Woods’ mind and he realised his mistake immediately. It would be pitch-black outside in the yard. Those cobbles could be slippery and it was unfamiliar territory for him – although not for Kilby. Far better to deal with Kilby inside.
Woods swung round, clenched his fist and thumped the landlord hard in the face. Blood spurted from Kilby’s nose and lip but the huge man barely swayed. He raised his left hand to his bleeding face. ‘What the . . . ?’
Woods’ second punch hammered into Kilby’s ribcage. This time the landlord staggered backwards, overturning a table and stool and crashing into the side of the bar. Glass shattered onto the floor.
‘Give over, Neddy!’ Kilby spluttered. He leant forward and spat out blood.
‘Don’t you bloody call me that!’ Woods launched himself at Kilby, swung him round by the lapels and slammed him up against the tavern wall. More furniture overturned and Rosie Kilby screamed.
Woods’ hands gripped Kilby’s thick neck and he squeezed with all his strength.
Now Kilby fought back. He swung an iron fist at Woods’ head but Woods leapt back and ducked, catching a glancing blow to his cheekbone. Summoning every last ounce of his strength, and driven by the fury of the Devil himself, Woods lashed out at Kilby’s face. He struck home twice – then leapt forward and grabbed Kilby by the throat again.
The landlord struggled to breathe. His hands clawed at Woods’ throat, then fluttered back to try and release the pressure on his own windpipe. Their sweating faces were inches apart. Woods saw shock in Kilby’s wide eyes. He smelt the stale ale on each rasping breath . . . and he felt the fear in the man.
It was enough. He stepped back, raised his knee and jabbed it as hard as he could into Kilby’s testicles. ‘And that’s for what you did to our mother!’
The landlord wheezed, exhaled a huge grunt of pain, then fell forward onto his knees to nurse his injured balls. A huge surge of satisfaction shot through Woods, who stood back to watch him suffer and regain his breath.
The next second, Rosie Kilby’s broom appeared out of nowhere and whacked him on the skull. Its hard edge caught the delicate tissue of Woods’ damaged left ear. He swore, staggered and clutched his head as the searing pain exploded in his ear once more and bounced around his skull.
‘What the hell do yer think yer doin’?’ The furious landlady waved the broom in their faces. ‘Are yer bloody Cain and Abel now? Why don’t yer just sit down and talk to each other like normal family?’
Woods couldn’t respond. He clamped his jaw shut to stop himself from screaming in agony. Blood oozed over his fingers as he grasped what remained of his tattered and swollen ear cartilage. Tears stung his eyes. ‘I’ll see you thrown in gaol for that, madam!’ he spluttered when he finally found his voice. It cracked with pain. ‘There’s ruddy laws against attackin’ police officers.’
‘Aye, for them that’s on duty, maybes,’ she yelled. ‘But not for them that’s simply thumpin’ the hell out of their brothers! And you!’ She gave Kilby a hard shove on the shoulder with her broom. ‘You great saphead! Why the hell didn’t you fight him back?’ She slapped him again, then placed her hands on her hips in a gesture of furious defiance.
Woods’ gaze shifted between his sister-in-law and the bowed, white head of his grimacing brother, who was still nursing his balls delicately in his cupped hands.
Kilby finally broke the awkward silence. He spoke slowly, and with a slight squeak. ‘Actually, Neddy – sorry, Ned. It were Ma who helped me the most. She helped me to escape . . .’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday 5th March, 1810
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London
Lady Caroline sank down onto the carriage seat in a flurry of green velvet and ostrich feathers and turned her sad face in the direction of her young lover and sighed heavily.
‘Caro!’ Duddles exclaimed in alarm. ‘Are you unwell?’ He reached out to take her hand in his own.
‘No, no, Henry – but I’m so exhausted! Police work is utterly exhausting. I don’t believe I have had to concentrate so hard in years. I could barely follow the detective’s line of questioning.’
‘My poor, poor Caro!’ Duddles said. ‘You must rest when we return home. I shall dab your temple with a sponge of aromatic vinegar to chase away the megrims.’
‘Oh, would you, Henry darling?’ She leant towards him affectionately. ‘I would be so grateful.’
Lavender grinned, shut the carriage door behind him and sat back on the seat opposite her and Duddles. The coach jolted and slid back into the stream of traffic. ‘You were magnificent, Lady Caroline,’ he said.
‘Was I?’
‘Yes. I would never have managed without your help. Your assistance has been invaluable. Thank you.’
‘See, Henry?’ she said. ‘We little women can play an important part in men’s business if necessary. Just think – today I may have solved a murder! Have we solved the murder, Lavender?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, Lady Caroline, you have solved the murder.’ She was so excited it would have been rude to disappoint her with the truth.
‘I always knew you would be splendid in everything, Caro.’ Henry Duddles beamed from ear to ear.
‘But we haven’t finished yet!’ She raised her hand in the air and pointed at Duddles. ‘You must help Detective Lavender too, Henry. You can help. He needs to know the truth about Danvers – Bishop Douglass doesn’t understand the man.’
‘Danvers?’
‘Yes, Lionel Danvers from Southerly Park.’
‘Oh, the Middlesex Danvers?’
‘Yes, yes. I know you’ve joined him on the hunt and been to house parties at the manor.’
Duddles flushed as he turned to address Lavender directly. His wide eyes looked sheepish and were half hidden by his thick fringe of blond curls. ‘Yes. Lionel Danvers, a swell chap. He serves a damned fine port wine from Portugal and there’s plenty of chinks to be won at his card table.’
‘No! No!’ Lady Caroline rapped Duddles’ hand with her fan. ‘Never mind the wine and the gambling. Tell the detective what you told me about how he treats his horses and his dogs.’
Duddles nodded. ‘Oh, he’s a brute on the hunt – I’ve seen him lame a horse with no shoe rather than miss the kill. He’s a bit too ready with his whip too – and not only with animals. He was arrested once for thrashing a footman. Nothing came of the charge, of course.’
Lady Caroline leant forward towards Lavender. ‘Bishop Douglass has no notion of the man,’ she said crossly. ‘He thinks him a saint because he donates to the Church – but he’s not.’
A frown creased Lavender’s forehead. ‘Do either of you know anything about his wives?’
Duddles started. ‘He has more than one?’
Lady Caroline laughed and tapped him playfully on the arm. ‘No, you silly boy – but he’s had more than one. His first wife died . . . some years ago, I think.’ Duddles sat back in his seat, happy to let Lady Caroline do the rest of the talking. ‘Lady Eliza is the current Baroness Danvers but she’s very unsociable and I hardly know her. There have been rumours, of course . . . but there always are.’
‘What sort of rumours?’ Lavender asked.
‘That he beats her.’ Lady Caroline’s voice was quiet now, her tone grim. ‘No one ever knows, of course, what really goes on behind the closed doors of any family home, but I’ve seen her shivering in church on a sweltering August day.’
‘Shivering?’
‘Yes, shivering – or quivering. One can’t always tell the difference. Anyway, she wore a dark blue silk taffeta gown with full-length sleeves and a high neck on that day, which is always significant.’
‘It is?’
‘Good heavens, Detective, you need a lady assistant. I can see Doña Magdalena will be very busy in future.’
‘I normally rely on Constable Woods to provide me with relevant information about the fairer sex and their clothes . . .’
‘Well, no wonder British justice is in such a pickle!’ Lady Caroline shook her head of auburn ringlets and tutted in frustration. ‘Lavender,’ she said slowly, as if explaining something to a young child. ‘Baroness Danvers wore a high-necked gown with full sleeves on that sweltering day to hide the bruises and lacerations on her skin.’
‘Ah.’
‘The cad!’ Duddles spat out the words in anger, then looked away in embarrassment and anger, fixing his interest on the flower sellers, hawkers and shoppers ambling along the pavement outside. There was a short silence as the two men absorbed the full meaning of her words.
So this was what Lady Caroline wanted to tell him about the ‘devout’ Baron Danvers when she’d squeezed his leg back in the bishop’s office. He felt guilty for assuming she’d had an affair with the brute. Suddenly, he understood her preference for smooth-cheeked young bucks like Duddles who were barely out of the schoolroom. It was easy to instruct these enthusiastic, panting puppies in the niceties of how to treat a lady with love and kindness. Perhaps he should offer to dab Magdalena’s temple with aromatic vinegar the next time she had a headache.
‘I sincerely hope you’re going to tell me there is a warrant out for Baron Danvers’ arrest,’ Lady Caroline said with feeling.
‘Didn’t she kill herself?’ Duddles asked.
Lady Caroline’s black ostrich feathers swished as she swung her head towards him. ‘Who?’
‘Danvers’ first wife. I thought she’d drowned in the River Brent on their estate. Walked into the water naked, or something, didn’t she? I remember some of the chaps tittering about it.’
‘Good grief!’ Lady Caroline’s face lit up and she leant forward, forgot herself and gave her consort a pat on his breeched leg. ‘Well done, Henry! I’d forgotten all about that!’
A wide grin spread across Duddles’ handsome young face.
‘This will be the Judith Debussy you asked about.’ Lady Caroline swung round to face Lavender. ‘I remember it now – it was a terrible scandal.’
‘What happened?’ Lavender asked.
‘They had been married for barely a year. She walked into the river and drowned herself, leaving her clothes on the bank. Danvers tried to hush it up, of course. He told everyone his wife had been ill and died but it was impossible to keep a secret like that in our circle – everyone soon knew about it. It didn’t help that Danvers dredged half the River Brent looking for her body. You can’t do things like this without attracting comment.’
‘Did he beat her too?’ Duddles asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Lady Caroline said. ‘Once the truth was out, Danvers told the coroner and the rest of the world that his wife had been insane. He said drowning herself had been the act of a madwoman.’
‘If he did beat her, I can see why the poor gal threw herself into the river,’ Duddles said.
‘Danvers was furious rather than grief-stricken after her disappearance, if I remember rightly.’
‘Why do you think he was so angry?’ Lavender asked.
Lady Caroline threw up her hands and shrugged. ‘It was the situation with the heir, of course.’
‘The heir?’
‘Yes. Danvers didn’t have one. Her body was never found and Danvers had to wait seven years before he could marry again in order to produce an heir. I believe Lady Eliza has now borne him two sons.’
Her body was never found . . . Lavender sat back in his seat and allowed himself the luxury of a slight smile. At last the complicated pieces of this puzzle were beginning to fit together.
The carriage drew up outside Lady Caroline’s home and he leant forward again. ‘Thank you, both of you.
Your help has been of immense value. I couldn’t have solved this murder case without your assistance.’
The cheeks of both Lady Caroline and Duddles turned pink with pleasure.
Lavender helped Lady Caroline down from the carriage. She held onto Duddles’ arm as they mounted the steps to the front door and gave him a brilliant smile when he said something that amused her. She turned back to Lavender when she reached the top. ‘I look forward to hearing you have arrested the brute,’ she said.
Lavender said nothing and waited beside the carriage until they had disappeared into the house. She would be disappointed, of course. There had been no complaint about Baron Danvers from his current wife or from anyone else but information like this was always useful. One of these days Baron Danvers would get his comeuppance. One of these days . . .
Lavender pulled out his pocket watch and checked the hour. Good. He still had time to make one last call before he had to board the return coach to Market Harborough.
The coachman turned round on his seat on the box. ‘Where to now, guv’nor?’
‘Tooley Street, Southwark,’ Lavender said, as he climbed back into the rocking carriage.
There was just time for a cup of coffee and a chat with the wisest, cleverest and most astute woman Lavender had ever had the pleasure to know.
His mother.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday 5th March, 1810
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
Woods and Alby Kilby sat opposite each other at a table in the deserted tavern. An opened bottle of brandy stood on the table between them. Kilby. Alby Kilby. This wasn’t Alby Kilby, he told himself. This was Bert. His brother Bert. His only brother. The brother he hadn’t seen since he was nine years old and whom he barely remembered. The brother who had fled from London thirty-six years ago after killing a man.
‘Yer a mean scrapper, Ned,’ Kilby said. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
‘In the same streets as you,’ Woods snapped.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 20