‘This is the last payment you old bastard. Leave me alone. J.W.’
The resentment and anger in that message bothered him. The author of this curt note hated William Sculthorpe with a vengeance. More than any other of Sculthorpe’s five blackmail victims, Lavender desperately needed to get to the bottom of the mystery of J.W.
Hopefully, Woods would have plenty to report to him by now. He glanced at the door, expecting to see the burly figure of his constable walk through it at any moment. Woods knew Lavender was returning to Market Harborough tonight. They needed to meet and speak as soon as possible.
Lavender took out his pocket watch and saw it was now after ten o’clock. Where on earth was Woods? Had some accident befallen him between here and Middleton? Lavender’s gut tightened. Had Woods stumbled into the path of one of the dangerous gang of thugs they sought? Had Alby Kilby tried to silence his brother?
Lavender rose to his feet. ‘Landlord!’
Fred Newby broke away from his discussion with the noisy farmers and turned his sharp face towards him. He scowled when he recognised Lavender as the one who had hailed him.
‘Where’s my constable? When did you last see him?’
‘I don’t know where your man is,’ Newby replied, ‘but I can make a fair guess.’
‘You can? Why?’
‘I think you’ll find your constable foxed in The Angel Inn along with the dirty bargees and that Alby Kilby.’ The farmers around him burst out laughing. ‘Your constable has spent most of the last two days in there – drinkin’ and fightin’.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t be hard to find unless he’s crawled off into a gutter somewhere,’ said one of the farmers.
‘Oh, he’ll find the tosspot,’ replied the landlord, pointing a finger in Lavender’s direction. ‘He’s a detective. That’s what they do, those detectives: find folks. Mind you, it’s a rum do when they have to spend their time findin’ each other.’
The farmers laughed again and made some ribald comments, but Lavender didn’t listen. He was on his way out of the door.
It was only a short distance across the market square from The Bell Inn to The Angel, and Lavender strode briskly. But by the time he leapt up the steps beneath the crumbling portico at the entrance of The Angel, his imagination had worked him up to a fevered state. Kilby had done something to Woods. His friend’s murdering brother had slit Woods’ throat to silence him and then buried the body. Kilby had pickled the body. Kilby had strangled Woods with those great hands of his and thrown his body in the canal . . .
His head pounded as he burst through the door of the tavern and every sinew of his flesh knew Kilby had harmed Woods in some way.
Woods and Kilby were sitting in the nearly deserted taproom, leaning close together over a table. They held tankards of ale and laughed at some shared joke. Relief and anger flooded through Lavender in equal measure.
‘Sir!’ Woods beamed at him across the taproom. His large, round face was flushed with liquor and his eyes shone. ‘You’re back! Good to see you. ’Tis well met. Come here to meet . . .’
‘I know who he is.’ Lavender snapped as he strode across the taproom. His voice cut through the mellow atmosphere like a blade and he knew it. The last two customers glanced across at them.
‘You said he were smart,’ Kilby said to Woods.
Woods nodded enthusiastically. The drink exaggerated his movements. ‘Oh, yes. He’s a clever detective. Very clever.’
Seeing them side by side and nodding in agreement, the two brothers were like peas in a pod. One was just a bit riper and larger than the other and both of them were covered in purple and yellow bruises. Woods’ left ear was bright red and grotesquely swollen, and Kilby had a magnificent black eye. Had they been fighting? If so, why so close now? What the hell had been going on?
He turned to the two gawping customers at the other table. ‘This tavern is now closed for the night. Put down your drinks and leave.’
The two farmers glanced at Kilby for confirmation but Kilby did and said nothing.
‘Who the hell are you?’ one of the men asked.
‘I’m Detective Stephen Lavender with the Bow Street Police Office and I’m shutting down this tavern for the night. If you don’t get out this door – now – I’ll have you both thrown in the stocks for interfering with a police investigation.’
‘Oh, all right, fellah.’ The older man of the pair hastily pushed back his chair. ‘Don’t lose yer shirt. We were just goin’ anyhows.’ He knocked back the last of his ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, stood up and left the room with his companion. They slammed the door behind them. Lavender turned back to Woods and Kilby.
‘James Albert Woods,’ he said loudly, enunciating each name slowly and deliberately. ‘You’re wanted for murder back in London.’
‘Yes,’ Woods slurred. He wagged a finger in the air. ‘But he didn’t do it.’
Lavender turned to him. ‘How do you know this, Ned?’
Surprise flashed across Woods’ face. ‘’Cause he said so, that’s why.’
For a moment, Lavender was stunned. He’d known Woods get bowsey with liquor before but he didn’t usually lose his wits when in his cups. This nonsense came from more than just inebriation.
‘Do you realise his initials are J.W.?’
‘Ah,’ Woods said, ‘he were allus known as Bert Woods.’
‘For Christ’s sake! Kilby is a suspect in the murder inquiry we’re conducting in Middleton.’
‘Oh, ’tis all right,’ Woods beamed up at him. ‘He’s hardly been out of town for months.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘He told me.’
Lavender grabbed hold of Woods’ shoulders and dragged him to his feet. If Lavender had owned the strength, he would have dragged his drunken constable out of the damned tavern and as far away from Kilby as he could. He thought for a second that Kilby might intervene but the giant man stayed still in his seat and watched the two policemen argue with impassive eyes – one of them blackened and half closed.
‘Whoa, sir!’ Woods laughed, swayed unsteadily on his feet and shook him off. ‘How were your trip back to London . . . ?’
‘Damn London.’ Lavender pushed his face up close to Woods until he could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘Ned, listen to me – listen to me. You’re a constable with twenty years of experience of villains. You never take the word of suspects for granted, you know this.’
Woods shook him off and smiled. ‘’Tis all right, sir – he’s my brother.’ He screwed up his face in an exaggerated wink. ‘I’d know if he were a lyin’ wrinkler.’
‘He’s a suspected murderer, Ned!’ Lavender yelled. He was losing control of this situation and he knew it. ‘And he hasn’t been your brother for over thirty years! He’s a stranger who has come back into your life with a load of flannel and he’s gulled you into believing his version of events – only a jury can decide if he’s innocent or guilty!’
A flicker of doubt glimmered in Woods’ eyes for a second. Then it vanished and he beamed again. ‘’Tis all right, sir. He’s a good man, sound.’
Lavender stepped back. This was getting them nowhere. He needed Woods on his own – and sober. He needed him back at The Bell Inn, sleeping off the effects of the ale and brandy. Only then would he be able to reason with him. Either that or he would have to grab Woods’ head and bang it against the wall in order to knock some sense into him. ‘Pay your bill, Constable,’ he said. ‘We’re going back to The Bell Inn. You’re going to sleep off this illusion and sober up.’
Woods opened his mouth to protest but at that moment Kilby pushed back his chair and stood up.
Lavender tensed. Even with the table between them he felt intimidated by the landlord’s height and muscular frame. He knew Kilby wasn’t as drunk as Woods.
‘Wait,’ Kilby growled. ‘I can see there’s trouble between you. I never intended for this to happen. I may be able to help.’
‘Hand yourself
in to the authorities and make a full confession,’ Lavender snapped. ‘That would help.’
Kilby shook his white head. ‘I can’t do that for I weren’t the guilty one,’ he said. ‘A’ve never killed no one. But I’ll give you some news, sommat you’d probably want to hear.’
‘Good for you, Alby,’ Woods slurred. He fell back into his chair and his head rolled backwards and then jerked forwards again, much to his evident surprise.
‘What news?’ Lavender asked.
‘A’ve had one boatman tell me he saw five figures lurkin’ at Saunt’s Bridge this evenin’. Five fellahs who didn’t want to be seen.’
‘So?’
‘And A’ve had news from a wharf hand that there’s a barge not properly laden with timber moored in the basin tonight called The Swan. She’ll leave at dawn tomorrow. “Leave a gap in the timber,” the boatman said to the wharf hands. So they did. They’ve left a space – a space big enough for men to lie down. Men who don’t want to be seen.’
Lavender frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Kilby?’
‘At dawn, The Swan will leave Market Harborough with a light load. By the time she gets to Saunt’s Bridge, she’ll have a full load. A’ve heard you’re lookin’ for a gang of five men. I’m tellin’ you they’re here – in Market Harborough – at Saunt’s Bridge. There’s two different fellahs given me two different pieces of news and A’ve put it together and made one.’
‘Are we talking about the Panther Gang? Here? In Market Harborough?’
Kilby nodded.
‘’Tis time we caught those big cats in a trap,’ Woods slurred as he swayed.
Lavender’s tired brain raced. He couldn’t believe what Kilby was saying. Then again, the Panthers wouldn’t be the first fugitives from the law who had chosen to disappear and hide on England’s waterways. Kilby knew more about this than any man.
Lavender looked Kilby straight in the eyes. ‘Do you swear on your mother’s memory this information is true?’
Steady as a rock, Kilby stared back at him out of Ned’s soft brown eyes. ‘I swear,’ he said.
Lavender grabbed Woods by the shoulder again and heaved him back up onto his feet. His eyes never broke away from Kilby’s. ‘I’m taking Ned back to The Bell Inn,’ he said, ‘and then I’m going straight to Captain Rushperry. I’ll ask him to rouse the militia and we’ll go to Saunt’s Bridge at dawn to catch these five men.’
Kilby shook his head. ‘No. The bank is too open round there. They’ll scarper before you get near them. You’d be better to wait for them at the next bridge at Bowden Hall. They’ll be on the barge and easier to trap.’
Lavender hesitated, then nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll take your advice. Bowden Hall Bridge it will be. You can meet us there – just before dawn.’
The landlord started with surprise and scowled. ‘What, me? What do you want me for?’
‘If you’ve told me the truth, you’ve nothing to worry about. If you’re lying to me, Kilby, and sending us on a wild goose chase, then, so help me God, I’ll have you clapped in irons and transported back to London for trial before you can blink. And if you don’t turn up tomorrow, I’ll have you arrested anyway. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’
Kilby glanced from Lavender to his brother. Woods was now half asleep and swaying gently in Lavender’s grasp with his eyes closed.
‘And if I’m speakin’ the truth?’
Lavender lowered his voice. ‘Then you and I have an understanding.’ He refused to promise anything more.
It was enough. Kilby nodded. ‘I’ll be there at Bowden Hall Bridge afore dawn.’
Relief flooded through Lavender. Without another word, he headed for the door of the tavern, dragging his inebriated constable in his wake.
Chapter Thirty-One
Wednesday 7th March, 1810
Bowden Hall Bridge, Market Harborough Canal Arm
Lavender shivered and stared eastward along the dark stretch of still water. His eyes strained against the gloom for any movement at the distant bend in the canal. Below him, shadowy figures crept along the towing path on his left before disappearing beneath the dark arch of the bridge. Each of them clutched a musket. On the overgrown right-hand side of the canal, the undergrowth rustled and cracked as more militia men moved into position. There would be no escape for the Panther Gang this time. It was just a question of waiting for The Swan to glide into their ambush.
The first red smudges of dawn appeared on the horizon and the smell of coal smoke drifted across from the scattered cottages that made up this small rural community. Out in the fields, sheep began to bleat. Crows called to each other from their nests in the treetops, then rose, circling and wheeling in pairs and groups of three and four before heading off to their favourite feeding grounds.
How long until The Swan appeared around the bend, Lavender wondered? How fast did these horse-drawn barges move?
Kilby had been as good as his word and turned up astride a huge horse called Meggie. The gigantic pair made a dramatic sight, silhouetted against the glimmering wall lamps of the market square. The Swan would leave the basin at Market Harborough at dawn, Kilby told him and Rushperry. The boatmen never wasted daylight when they had a load. They would have to slow down at Saunt’s Bridge so the Panther Gang could leap aboard and hide themselves in the cavity beneath the tarpaulin, but this shouldn’t delay them for long.
Lavender’s sharp ears picked up the jangle of harnesses and the impatient stamping of restless hooves further along the road to his right. Woods and Kilby stood with the horses. He heard Woods murmuring to the beasts to calm them. Kilby rarely took his eyes from his younger brother’s face and seemed happy to let the garrulous Ned do most of the talking. Lavender had seen that look before on the faces of men gazing at their newborn children for the first time. Kilby clearly couldn’t believe that his brother was back in his life again.
Lavender had only managed to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep last night. He had left Woods snoring in his bed and spent the next few hours rousing Captain Rushperry and the militia. Woods had woken up in a cheerful mood, with no recollection of their argument in The Angel and a far better head than he deserved. Lavender had not been so lucky. His temples pounded with lack of sleep and exhaustion.
The dark-coated bulk of Captain Rushperry joined him on the bridge and followed his gaze towards Woods and Kilby over by the horses. The two brothers had their heads close together again and were deep in conversation. Lavender held his breath and hoped Rushperry wouldn’t see the incredible resemblance between the two men. ‘Woods and Kilby had better be right about this, Lavender,’ he growled.
‘They have my confidence.’
‘Huh!’ Rushperry cast him a sideways glance. ‘I’d heard Constable Woods spent a lot of time drinking and fighting in The Angel while you were away in London.’
Lavender smiled. ‘This was how he gained Kilby’s trust – and that of the canal boatmen. It’s what they teach us down in London. We get more information this way.’
‘It’s a strange way of doing police business, in my opinion,’ Rushperry frowned, but he didn’t ask any more questions.
Moorhens squabbled in the reeds down in the canal and a solitary swan glided into view, searching for breakfast in the still water. Slowly daylight spread across the countryside. Trees, distant farmhouses and the spire of a church took form as the darkness receded. Dew glistened on the damp ground.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first, Lavender saw movement. A plodding horse rounded the bend in the canal, accompanied by a solitary man. In their wake followed a barge with another man at the tiller. Weighed down with its cargo, the boat floated low in the water.
‘Take your positions!’ Rushperry hissed at the militia. ‘Hide the lights!’
The last of the militia men scurried into their places. Two of them crouched next to Lavender and Rushperry behind the parapet of the bridge, their lanterns still burning at their sides. The bridge arch below echoed with the qu
iet but chilling sound of men pulling back their musket hammers and ramming their shot down the barrels. Lavender thought of his own pistol in his coat pocket, loaded and ready to use.
Lavender and Rushperry remained on the crest of the bridge, pulled their hats low over their faces and watched the slow-moving procession of man, horse and barge. The man on the bank walked behind the horse, occasionally clipping its flanks with a hazel switch to keep it moving. Only the blackbirds broke the silence that now fell over Bowden Hall Bridge.
‘It’s Davy George with the horse,’ Rushperry whispered to Lavender. ‘He’s one of the Panther Gang. I’d recognise his insolent face anywhere. I saw him in the dock last summer at the Northampton Assizes when they sentenced him to transportation.’
Lavender nodded and felt a surge of satisfaction. ‘Who’s the man steering the barge?’
Rushperry shook his head. ‘I don’t recognise him. He’s probably the boat owner. The rest of the gang must be under the hatch or the tarpaulin.’
The barge glided through the water with barely a ripple. They heard the jangle of the great harness and the steady plod of the horse on the stony path. Lavender held his breath. The procession was almost at the bridge when the magistrate yelled, ‘This is Captain Rushperry. Hold fast and surrender yourselves to the law!’
Davy George turned and sprinted back down the towing path like a hare. The well-trained horse continued to plod forward but the man at the tiller yelled after George and so did Rushperry. ‘Stop! Or we’ll open fire!’
Some of the militia must have misheard their captain. On the words ‘Open fire!’, several of them did. A deafening volley of musket shot followed the fleet-footed George down the path. The man at the tiller lifted the hatch by his feet, dived down into the cabin and slammed the hatch shut above him. Musket fire rained down onto the stern of the boat after him. Jagged splinters of wood flew into the air. The acrid smell of gunpowder floated up on the breeze and the barrage of fire echoed beneath the bridge arch.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 23