Woods knew that if Kilby went for trial, his brother would hang for sure. Whatever defence Kilby might have had thirty-six years ago, it was in tatters now. Could he do that to his brother?
He felt his mother’s presence at his shoulder. Don’t do it, Neddy, she was saying. Let sleepin’ dogs lie . . .
And, after all, who was to know? It had all happened so long ago. Provided Kilby stayed out of Rotherhithe, it was unlikely anyone would ever recognise him and associate him with the unsolved murder.
‘I wouldn’t ever hurt you,’ Kilby had said. Woods believed him. Could he hurt Kilby?
No, he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. His shoulders relaxed and he smiled as everything fell into place. This would be his secret – his and his brother’s. No one else would ever find out and there would be no harm done.
‘Well, thank you, Rosie. A warm comfy bed is just what my old bones need right now – and I’d welcome a fine breakfast in the mornin’.’
Relief flooded across both of their faces. They knew the significance of his decision to accept their roof over his head for the night. Kilby got up and began to lock up the tavern. Rosie picked up a lamp to lead him upstairs to his bedchamber.
They didn’t ask him any more questions and he was glad. He didn’t want to talk any more.
As he trailed in the wake of Rosie’s flickering candle, another thought lightened his step. He didn’t know why, but Woods knew there’d be no more nightmares. It was over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday 5th March, 1810
Southwark, London
Alice Lavender was sitting by the fireside in the front parlour, her grey head bent over her sewing, when Lavender walked into his parents’ house.
Unlike many of their neighbours, who kept their parlours for funerals, Christmas and Easter, Alice had always insisted her family used theirs every evening. They ate their evening meal at the kitchen table but once the dirty crockery and pans were cleared away, they would retire into the parlour. John Lavender would smoke his pipe and read out extracts from the daily news-sheet to the family. Lavender’s mother and sisters would sit at their needlework. Sometimes the girls would play cards or one of them would play a tune on the scratched old pianoforte.
When he wasn’t up to mischief with little Elizabeth, the young Lavender would curl up in an armchair with a book, pretending to read but secretly listening to his parents’ discussion of national events and politics and to the older girls gossiping about their friends and neighbours. He knew he had been a quiet child – and his bookish ways had been a disappointment to his active and boisterous father – but his childhood had been a happy one and many of his favourite memories came from this well-lit room, with its comfortable but worn old furniture and the ancient longcase clock ticking quietly away in the corner.
‘Stephen! What a wonderful surprise.’ Alice put down her needlework and rose stiffly to her feet. Her patchwork knitted blanket slithered off her lap and formed a brightly coloured pile on the floor. He kissed the soft, lined cheek she offered him. As always, she smelt faintly of violets. He loved her scent.
‘I saw Magdalena two days ago,’ Alice said. ‘She didn’t say you were expected home.’
‘I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘The case in Northamptonshire has taken an unexpected twist and I’ve had to return for a brief visit. Unfortunately, I must be on the four o’clock mail coach back to Northamptonshire.’ He picked up the fallen blanket, handed it to her and sank wearily into the soft, padded armchair on the other side of the hearth – his father’s chair. ‘Are you well?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you, Stephen. There are a few pains in my joints and a few more grey hairs on my head but Elizabeth and your father look after me very well.’ She lowered her head and regarded him silently over the top of her spectacles. Many people had commented that her wide-set, slightly hooded brown eyes were virtually identical to his own. ‘You look tired, Stephen,’ she said. ‘You work too hard – and you need to visit the barbers.’
‘I’m fine, Mother,’ he said, smiling.
‘Would you like something to eat and drink?’
‘Yes, please.’ He glanced around. ‘Where are father and Elizabeth?’ Lavender’s older sisters were married but his youngest sister Elizabeth still lived with their parents.
‘Your father is out with a friend this afternoon and Elizabeth is shopping.’ A wry smile curled up her lips. ‘I was enjoying a rare moment of peace.’
‘How is your pain?’ he asked. Alice suffered from severe arthritis.
She shrugged and smiled. ‘I barely feel it.’
‘I’ll make the coffee,’ he said, and rose from his seat.
His mother held up her hand to stop him. ‘No, you won’t. You shall have a few minutes of rest. I may be a bit slow but I can still make my favourite son a bite to eat when he comes visiting.’
He smiled at their old joke. ‘I’m your only son,’ he reminded her.
‘Well, fancy that!’ she said and hobbled out of the room.
He knew better than to try and argue with his mother. He settled back in his father’s armchair. For a moment, his eyes rested on the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Alice’s collection of porcelain shepherdesses was surrounded by the oval miniature paintings of a young Stephen and his pretty sisters. His proud father had commissioned these miniatures from a local artist. Then he closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the fire. The room smelt of coal smoke and beeswax polish mingled with his mother’s violet scent and his father’s aromatic tobacco. Smells of his childhood . . .
The next thing he knew, his mother was back in the room, lowering a tray onto the side table. His eyes lit up at the sight of the loaf of fresh bread, the pot of savoury meat paste and the seed cake on the tray. Assorted crockery including a cup and the coffee jug already stood on another table by his elbow. The coffee smelt delicious and strong.
‘You should have let me help,’ he said guiltily.
‘I can manage,’ she said, as she handed him a plate. ‘Besides which, you need a rest. Didn’t you sleep last night?’
‘Are we toasting the bread?’ Lavender reached for the two brass toasting forks that hung with the rest of the fire irons in the hearth.
‘We can if you want. Have you seen Magdalena since you returned?’
‘Yes, I called on her briefly last night. She’s well.’ He stabbed the thick slices of bread with the long metal forks and held them over the flames in the fire. ‘We’ll probably hold the wedding when Sebastián comes back from school in Hertfordshire at Easter. I think Magdalena wants him to be there.’
While he toasted the bread, Alice poured the coffee and arranged the plates and asked him further questions about their wedding plans. She spread the meat paste onto the toast and told him the latest family news while he washed down his food with several cups of strong coffee. He felt reinvigorated.
‘Have you met Magdalena’s son yet?’ She passed him a generous piece of soft, newly-baked seed cake.
‘No, but I’m looking forward to it. He sounds like a lively and interesting young man.’
‘He must favour his mother in his temperament.’ Alice lowered her head to hide the smile twitching at the edge of her lips. ‘I’m sure that you and Sebastián will soon learn to love each other. You will make a good father, Stephen. You’re naturally kind and considerate – and a great listener.’
‘I think you may be biased in my favour, Mother.’
‘No, those are your qualities. They’re what make you such a good son, brother and friend and it’s those qualities that will ensure you’re a good husband and stepfather to young Sebastián.’
The mention of the word ‘friend’ reminded him why he was here. He put his empty plate to one side and cleared his throat. ‘That is an excellent cake,’ he said. ‘Please pass on my compliments to Elizabeth.’ Alice didn’t reply. She was watching him through those soft eyes that never seemed to blink. Had he ever seen his mother blink?
‘I nee
d to ask you about Tilda Woods.’
‘Tilda Woods?’
‘Yes, I need to know about her eldest son Bert. The one who vanished.’
‘My, that’s a long time ago.’ Alice put her own plate down on the side table. She looked troubled.
‘But she did tell you about him, didn’t she?’ He paused and waited until his mother nodded a confirmation. ‘You knew Tilda Woods for . . . how long?’
‘I first met Tilda over twenty years ago but she only had Ned with her by then. Stephen, why do you need to know about Bert? Have you found him?’
Her question caught him by surprise for a moment. ‘Yes. I think I may have found him.’
‘How?’
‘It’s staring anyone in the face when they see the two of them together. Bert is a slightly taller but white-haired version of Ned. If you catch them in the right light, as I did, they’re very similar in features and expression.’
‘Good gracious! Does Ned know about this? Where is Ned?’
‘Mother, may I ask the questions, please?’
‘But Ned . . .’
‘Ned is safe.’ At least, I hope he is.
She sat back in her chair. ‘I’m sorry, Stephen. Please carry on.’
‘Can you remember what Tilda told you about Bert? I need to know everything.’
‘It’s such a long time since we last talked about Bert . . .’
‘Please just try.’
She sighed and stared into the dancing flames in the hearth for inspiration. ‘Bert had already vanished by the time Tilda moved to Southwark with Ned. The two of us didn’t become friendly until Ned started to work at Bow Street with your father. You know how it is with the police families.’
Lavender did know. The Bow Street Police officers weren’t popular in London and were regarded with great suspicion by most of the population and often isolated. As a result of this, the families tended to live close to each other for support.
‘Please try to remember what you can. It’s important.’
Alice sighed again and shifted her unblinking gaze onto the lacy curtains of the window. Lavender sensed she was trying to pluck the old memories from the dark recesses of her mind.
‘His full name is James Albert Woods,’ she said eventually. ‘He was called James for his father but everyone called him Bert to avoid confusion.’
James Albert Woods. James Woods. J.W.
‘When he was a young man, he ran with a bad crowd. He got into trouble, a lot of trouble, and broke Tilda’s heart. He escaped arrest by the skin of his teeth, she told me. Then one day there was a hue and cry.’
‘Why? What had happened?’
‘The constables who came to her door said Bert had killed a man down on the coal wharf and he was now a fugitive from justice.’
‘Had he? Killed a man, I mean?’
Alice shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Tilda never believed the accusation. She said Bert had been framed for hanging by some of the others in his crowd.’
‘How did he escape?’
Alice smiled. ‘Tilda kept him hidden for a while in the cellar, then she smuggled him out of London on a barge belonging to one of her family members. Kilby, I think they were called. Bert told her his version of the events on the wharf and she believed him. She always claimed he was innocent. I’m sorry, Stephen. I can’t remember anything more about his story.’
Lavender nodded. ‘That’s all right. What happened next to Tilda and Ned?’
Her face became serious again. ‘Ned was ill.’
‘Ned – ill? With what?’
‘Well, that’s the mystery. It was as if his nerves were upset. He screamed and cried all night with bad dreams – ’
‘Bad dreams?’
‘Yes. He was listless and silent during the day. He stopped eating and Tilda became anxious for him.’
‘Ned stopped eating?’
Alice nodded and frowned. ‘Yes – it’s not amusing, Stephen. Poor Tilda was beside herself with worry. She’d just lost one son and now she thought she was about to lose another. Ned adored Bert and missed him dreadfully after he fled, but the doctor said Ned’s listlessness and nightmares were a symptom of something else, something physical. In the end he pronounced that the foul air of Rotherhithe had affected Ned’s wits. Tilda moved them both here to Southwark. It worked. Ned recovered.’
Lavender nodded but he’d stopped listening. His mind was with Ned, alone up in Market Harborough, and the fear that first jolted him when he recognised Kilby now returned to gnaw at his guts. Brother or not, Alby Kilby was wanted for murder. He’d successfully covered his tracks and hidden from the authorities for over thirty years. How would Kilby react if Woods made the connection and confronted his brother with the past? Would Kilby turn violent?
Lavender’s stomach churned again. He had to get back to Market Harborough as soon as possible. He had sent a note for Woods on the mail coach but he might have been too late. ‘Was Bert Woods a dangerous man, do you know?’
Alice shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Stephen.’
‘And as far as you know, Tilda never saw her son Bert again?’
‘No.’
He brushed a few crumbs off his lap and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said, ‘but I must go now.’
‘I know you must.’ Leaning heavily on the arms of her chair, she raised herself to her feet. ‘It’s been lovely sitting and chatting with you, Stephen – just the two of us. Your father and Elizabeth will be sorry they’ve missed you.’ A smile creased across her pale face. ‘But I’ve enjoyed having you all to myself for once.’
He went to kiss her cheek but she drew him into her arms and held him to her breast for a moment. ‘Please take care of yourself, Stephen.’
‘I will.’
‘Take care of Ned.’
‘I will.’
‘And,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘when you arrest Bert Woods, remember to tell him that his own mother loved him and thought about him every day until she drew her last breath.’
He kissed her lightly on her cheek. ‘I will,’ he promised.
Chapter Thirty
Tuesday 6th March, 1810
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
Lavender clambered stiffly out of the mail coach into the dark, cobbled yard of The Bell Inn. He was exhausted after the overnight dash from London. It was raining and a large crowd of people, some of whom stank of liquor, were already at the carriage door, desperate to claim a place on the inside of the vehicle for its onward journey, rather than get drenched by travelling on the outside. Lavender forced his way through the crowd and walked straight into the backside of a fat, wet sheep. ‘What the devil . . . ?’
The animal bleated mournfully and shuffled back into the huddled flock tethered outside the tavern entrance. Lavender wrinkled his nose. The strong gamey odour of wet lanolin emanated from the animals. Then he remembered: Tuesday was market day in Market Harborough. Everywhere would be busy.
The inside of the tavern was as crowded as the courtyard outside but thankfully the only four-legged animals were a few exhausted sheepdogs sprawled beneath the tables, while their inebriated owners talked and argued with each other or attempted to play cards or dice. Lavender took his luggage upstairs and noticed that Woods’ shaving equipment and carpet bag had gone. Perhaps he was pursuing some lead or clue over in Middleton and had stayed at the village for a few nights? Hopefully he should be back soon.
Lavender returned to the taproom and pushed his way through the drunken farmers until he found an unoccupied table in the corner. He ordered ale and a large plate of meat and potato pie and gravy from the barmaid. He asked the young girl if she had seen or heard from his constable today but she shook her head and looked confused. He glanced around for the landlord with the huge sideburns and saw Fred Newby on the opposite side of the room taking part in a heated debate with several of his customers about the price of corn.
When she brought him his supper, the barmaid also gave him tw
o letters, one of which he recognised instantly as the note he had sent Ned warning him about Alby Kilby. It was unopened. The other was from Captain Rushperry and was addressed to both him and Constable Woods. It was still sealed. The barmaid told him they had both arrived the previous afternoon. Obviously Woods hadn’t been here since then. Lavender frowned, pulled out his pocketknife and slit open the letter from Rushperry.
Rushperry wrote that Lavender had been right about Caleb Liquorish. The Cottingham churchwarden had been in trouble with the law in his youth. While perusing the court’s records for the name ‘Liquorish’, Rushperry’s clerk had discovered that the churchwarden had been sentenced to thirty days’ hard labour back in 1782. Liquorish had wilfully exposed his manhood to a startled group of women returning home from the Kettering horse fair.
Lavender laughed and wondered why he wasn’t more surprised to learn Caleb Liquorish was a lewd fellow. A sense of satisfaction welled up in his chest. The complicated strands of the tapestry of this mystery were beginning to untangle and a clearer picture was emerging.
William Sculthorpe had a compulsion about money and when he lived in London he resorted to blackmail to keep his coffers topped up with gold coin. He needed to speak to Caleb Liquorish again to confirm his suspicions, but his theory that Sculthorpe had been blackmailing his Middleton neighbours was becoming more and more credible. For all Lavender knew, he’d probably been blackmailing folks down in Brighton too when he lived there.
Lavender didn’t know how Sculthorpe had found out about Liquorish’s past crimes, but nothing surprised him any more about the former priest. He had no doubt that the wily old man had approached Liquorish, threatened to reveal his sordid little secret and demanded money in exchange for his silence. One guinea a month was a hefty demand – no wonder the two men were seen arguing – but Liquorish had no choice. If the truth came to light about his youthful perversion, his standing in the community, especially at the church, would be ruined.
Liquorish needed William Sculthorpe to keep quiet but would he have been prepared to murder the old man to ensure his permanent silence? Lavender shook his head. No, Liquorish wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty – but he could afford to pay someone to do the deed for him. Would he turn a blind eye if he knew that others planned to rid the village of the blackmailing old rogue? Who amongst Sculthorpe’s victims would be prepared to become part of such a conspiracy? He sighed.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 22