Murder in Park Lane

by Karen Charlton

  Read sat back in his chair and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What a tangled mess this case is!’

  ‘Yes,’ Lavender said grimly. ‘And to be honest, I think there’ll be a few more nasty surprises ahead. Heaven knows what the exhumation will reveal.’

  ‘Did you say that Sir Richard’s sister facilitated this extraordinary arrangement between her lodgers and her friends? And his mother-in-law is one of these wicked old women with a penchant for younger men?’

  ‘Yes, although I heard last night that Mrs Willis has been out of town for a few weeks, nursing her sick brother in the country. If this is correct, I won’t need to question her.’

  ‘Sir Richard should be able to confirm this,’ Read said. ‘I’ll ask him at the inquest.’

  ‘He’ll be shocked,’ Lavender warned. ‘I don’t think he knows the full extent of what his female relatives have been up to.’

  Read shrugged. ‘Well, he’ll have to be told. But I don’t feel we need to mention these shenanigans in court at the inquest. Just stick to the main facts about your investigation at this stage, Lavender.’

  ‘Mr Howard requested that we try to keep his granddaughter’s name out of the investigation.’

  Read grimaced. ‘That may be harder, but you can try.’

  Lavender picked up his hat, pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you now, sir. I want to catch Ned Woods before I visit the bank.’

  ‘Ah yes, Woods. Is he ill, do you think, Lavender? He fainted clean away in the stable yard yesterday. We can’t do with an officer with the fainting sickness.’

  Lavender smiled. ‘He’s fine, sir. He was just hungry, that’s all – he’d missed a meal.’

  Read’s eyebrows shot up in shock. ‘Woods missed a meal? Have the four horsemen of the apocalypse ridden into town? Is the end of the world nigh?’

  Lavender laughed. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again, sir.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lavender found Woods in the stable yard talking with a couple of the bleary-eyed night patrol officers. Hard-faced and powerfully built men, their boots and uniforms were splattered with the mud of the outlying roads of the capital where they had spent the night on patrol. The group laughed at something Woods said and Lavender wondered how his starving constable managed to remain so cheerful despite the gnawing ache in his belly. But when he drew nearer, he saw the glimmer of pain and something akin to disorientation in Woods’ brown eyes. His fleshy cheeks had shrunk into his round moon of a face.

  ‘Mornin’, sir,’ Woods said brightly. ‘Oswald Grey tells me he’s organisin’ officers to arrest Billy Summersgill. Do you want me to join them?’

  ‘No, Ned, I want you to come with me.’

  Without another word, Lavender led his constable out of the stable yard and across Bow Street into bustling Covent Garden market.

  Despite the early hour, Inigo Jones’ grand Italian piazza was already a noisy, heaving mass of humanity and commerce. Stallholders shouted until they were hoarse to attract the shoppers to the mountains of potatoes, turnips, swedes, dried herbs and stringy beans piled high on their tables. Their customers argued about the prices and complained about the poor choice. The smell of fresh bread and stale ale wafted from the brick-built shops that lined the square, where bakers and retailers of genever and other spirituous liquors rubbed shoulders with haberdashers, ironmongers and cook shops. Housewives and servants jostled down the narrow aisles with their baskets. Drunks staggered out of the gin shops.

  ‘Where are we goin’?’ Woods asked.

  Lavender ignored him and scanned the crowds for Simple Simon the pieman. This wasn’t the man’s real name, of course. He’d been given the nickname by the Bow Street officers who’d merged the two characters in the popular children’s nursery rhyme. Simple Simon wore a battered hat with a mangy feather over his long, greasy hair. The victim of a minor seizure, the right corner of his mouth and his right eye drooped but, despite his unusual appearance, there was nothing simple about this Simon. He charged a good price for the famous pies he sold from a wooden tray slung around his neck.

  Lavender spotted Simon’s hat and feather bobbing about in the sea of heads on the western edge of the square, amongst the better-class fruiterers and florists. ‘This way, Ned.’ He led his constable past a couple of aristocratic ladies and their liveried servants who were examining a colourful display of exotic hothouse blooms. When they reached Simon, with his well-stacked tray of gleaming, golden-crusted pies, Woods hesitated and held back. The aroma of steak, gravy and warm pastry was tantalising.

  The pieman’s eyes flitted over Woods’ distinctive uniform and his lopsided mouth lifted into an awkward grin over his toothless mouth. ‘Good mornin’ to you, officers. ’Ow can I serve you today?’

  ‘Help yourself, Ned,’ Lavender said firmly. ‘I’m treating you to breakfast today. I presume you haven’t had any?’ He handed a couple of coins over to Simon, reached out for a pie and took a bite. The flaky pastry melted in his mouth and his tongue swirled through the meaty gravy. ‘Mmm, this is delicious.’

  Woods continued to hold back but Lavender could see the desperation in his eyes. His broad nose twitched furiously at the smell emanating from the tray. ‘It’s all right, sir, I’m not hungry.’ His voice caught as his rebellious throat – under instructions from his starving stomach – tried to strangle the lie.

  ‘Eddie came to see us yesterday evening,’ Lavender said between mouthfuls. ‘He told us about this ridiculous notion you have about starving yourself to lose weight.’

  Woods said nothing, his eyes still riveted on the tantalising golden mound of food on the tray.

  ‘Come along, guvnor,’ Simon said, ‘which one do you want?’ He thrust his tray towards Woods, who flinched.

  ‘I understand you were sprawled out unconscious on the stable yard cobbles yesterday too,’ Lavender continued. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that you’re killing yourself with this silly abstention?’

  Alarm flashed across the drooping face of the pieman. ‘Killin’ ’imself? Not wi’ my pies, ’e ain’t! I don’t know what this abstention thing be – but there’s nothin’ wrong wi’ my pies!’

  ‘It’s just for another day or two, sir,’ Woods said. ‘I already feel lighter.’

  ‘Lighter in the head, maybe,’ Lavender snapped. ‘You’re making yourself ill, Ned. This isn’t the way to do it. And a constable who faints on duty is no use to me. If you want to lose weight, try eating one pie instead of three – and use a normal bowl instead of Betsy’s mixing bowl for your porridge. Now eat a pie.’

  ‘Yes, eat!’ shouted the indignant pieman. ‘There ain’t nothin’ wrong wi’ my pies.’ His raised voice attracted the attention of a small crowd.

  ‘What’s amiss, fellah?’ someone asked.

  ‘’E’s refusin’ to eat my pies,’ Simon said.

  ‘Oooh, that’s bad, that. They’re right tasty, them pies of yourn.’

  Still Woods refused to move. Oblivious to the indignant crowd and angry pieman, Woods was caught in a trance, his eyes fixed on the tray of food.

  ‘Do you want one of my ruddy pies or not?’ Simon yelled.

  ‘Does ’e think they’re bad?’ asked a woman with a wicker basket full of posies for sale. The pieman looked like he was about to explode.

  Lavender shoved the last of the pie into his mouth, grabbed Woods’ arm and dragged him away. It was no use – and definitely time to leave. Smaller incidents than this had triggered riots in Covent Garden. ‘Keep the change,’ he yelled over his shoulder to Simon. The pieman responded with a string of curses, which rang in their ears as they pushed their way back through the heaving throng.

  ‘You’re a stubborn saphead, Ned Woods,’ Lavender said angrily.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Woods grinned cheerfully. A smile spread across his broad face. ‘But I’ll be a slimmer saphead soon.’

  Lavender shook his head and sighed as his anger faded. Ned would come to his senses soon
but in the meantime, he would have to keep him close. Ideally, he should have sent Ned out to the Seven Dials with the other officers to arrest Summersgill but he couldn’t risk it. Woods was now on the third day of his self-imposed fast. If he kept up this daft notion much longer he would become weak and disorientated. Lavender had failed in his promise to Eddie to make Woods eat something; the least he could do now was keep an eye on his father for him. He owed them both this much.

  Mr Underhill, the manager of the bank of Messrs Down, Thornton and Gill, was both obese and bald. His domed pate gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat and his chin sunk deep into the elaborate folds of his cravat. His small, sharp eyes were deep-set in his plain, fleshy face.

  However, he greeted them cordially and he’d taken the trouble to prepare for Lavender’s appointment. A full written summary of MacAdam’s account was spread out on the large mahogany desk that dominated his office.

  Underhill picked up a sheet of paper with his podgy hand and handed it to Lavender. His gold ring flashed in the sunlight pouring through the high window. ‘Mr David MacAdam has left ninety-six pounds, ten shillings and six pence in his account.’

  ‘That’ll please his widow,’ Woods said. ‘At least she’ll be able to afford his second burial now.’

  Underhill looked surprised by the comment but he didn’t ask for an explanation.

  Lavender grimaced. Woods wasn’t normally so indiscreet; he was trying too hard to appear normal. ‘Does this amount include the deposit he made recently of fifty pounds?’ He pulled out the crumpled receipt he’d found in MacAdam’s bedchamber and showed it to the manager.

  Underhill nodded. ‘Yes, I think Mr MacAdam was struggling with money. He’d recently approached us for a loan of one hundred guineas but he had no surety and we declined his request.’

  ‘That’ll have been to pay for that blessed ruby ring for Miss Howard,’ Woods said. ‘Once the bank turned him down, he’d no choice but to approach a moneylender.’

  Mr Underhill raised a greying eyebrow and pressed his lips tightly together.

  Lavender remembered Magistrate Read’s request for discretion at the inquest and made a mental note to keep Woods out of the witness box.

  ‘I believe this recent deposit was made by banker’s draft,’ Lavender said hastily. ‘Who paid him the money?’

  ‘The fifty pounds was drawn on the bank of Lady Tyndall.’

  ‘Well, the lyin’ old trot!’ Woods exclaimed. ‘She told me she hardly knew MacAdam.’

  Lavender was less surprised than Woods by her ladyship’s lies, but excitement still surged through him at this latest revelation. ‘Have there been similar deposits from Lady Tyndall in the past?’

  Underhill peered at the sheets in front of him through his piggy eyes. ‘Yes, he presented us with a draft to be drawn on her bank nearly every month since May. I understood she was his aunt?’

  ‘His aunt?’ Woods burst out laughing.

  Lavender kicked him in the ankle to shut him up. ‘Were they always for the same amount: fifty pounds?’ he asked.

  ‘No. They were mostly for twenty pounds.’

  Lavender nodded. With this and the occasional cash handout from Lady Louisa Fitzgerald and the other women, MacAdam would have had enough to tide himself over while he spent his time courting his little heiress.

  ‘There was one other deposit from Lady Tyndall back in January,’ Underhill continued, ‘but the payments didn’t become regular from her until May.’

  ‘That were when he left his job,’ Woods said.

  ‘Has he had any other source of income besides these payments from Lady Tyndall?’

  ‘Not that I can see,’ the manager said. ‘If he had received money from other quarters it never made its way into his bank account.’

  Lavender pushed back his chair to rise. ‘Thank you, Mr Underhill, you’ve been most helpful. I shall pass on the bank’s address to Mrs MacAdam so she can claim the remaining money in her husband’s account.’

  They blinked when they walked out on to the crowded street. Bright sunlight had chased away the early morning tinge of autumn and it promised to be another fine day. Excellent weather, Lavender thought sardonically, for taking a coffin in a cart to Chelmsford.

  ‘We need to pay a visit to that old harridan,’ Woods said.

  ‘We’ll go to her carriage house first.’

  ‘She’s fed me a pack of lies – just like Mrs Palmer lied to you. These old women have done nothin’ but obstruct this investigation from the start.’

  ‘Well, I’m just glad someone managed to feed you something over the last two days.’

  ‘There’s no need to get testy,’ Woods said.

  ‘I’m not testy – but you need to concentrate on what you’re saying. You’ve become light-headed with lack of food and your mouth’s running away with you.’

  Woods looked hurt and began to protest, but Lavender had already turned in the direction of Bow Street. ‘Come on, we need to return for the inquest. Hopefully, we’ll have time to deal with Lady Tyndall before we leave for Essex.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The coroner, Sir Edmund Sylvester, opened the inquest into David MacAdam’s death at nine o’clock prompt. Ten jurors were present in the stark wooden courtroom, along with Magistrate Read, Sir Richard Allison and his sister, Mrs Palmer.

  Tunnels of sunlight streamed in through the high windows down on to the gnarled wooden benches, but they did little to lighten the sombre mood. Cobwebs hung down from the rafters above the heads of the spectators and officials.

  Lavender glanced up to the public gallery and recognised the lanky frame and pock-marked face of Vincent Dowling, a reporter with The Day, amongst the other journalists and curious bystanders. This wasn’t good news; Lavender knew him for a perceptive man. Dowling had previously worked for the Home Department as a spy and their paths had crossed several times.

  The purpose of the inquest today was primarily to establish the identity of the deceased person, to explain how the death occurred and the cause of death and, if possible, to establish when and where the death occurred.

  Mrs Palmer was the first to be called to the imposing stand to give evidence. Dressed demurely in black, she bowed her head to hide her pale face in the shadow of her bonnet as she quietly confirmed that the dead man had been her lodger at number ninety-three Park Lane. She explained how she had seen MacAdam on the landing the night before and then found him dead in his room the next morning.

  Next, Sir Richard Allison took the stand. ‘Mrs Palmer is a patient of mine,’ he lied confidently, ‘and her lodger, David MacAdam, was also known to me. On Monday morning, I received an urgent request from Mrs Palmer to examine the dead man at her premises.’

  He explained to the courtroom how MacAdam had been stabbed with a thin, four-inch curved knife, which had penetrated his liver. ‘Initially, due to the fact he died in a locked room, I assumed the death was self-inflicted. However, it is now my belief the victim was deliberately stabbed by a person or persons unknown on his way home that evening.’

  ‘He died in a room that was locked from the inside?’ The startled coroner asked for clarification.

  Sir Richard pulled himself up to his full height and with all the confidence of a compère at a vaudeville performance, he explained to his fascinated audience how the dead man’s corset had restricted the blood flow and contained his injury until he’d undressed later in his room. A murmur of amazement rippled round the court. Lavender glanced up and saw the quills of the journalists in the public gallery working feverishly over their notebooks.

  ‘The cheeky whiddler made it sound like this was his deduction!’ Woods whispered furiously in Lavender’s ear. ‘He hadn’t a clue about how MacAdam died until you explained it to him.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lavender replied. He was called to the stand next and made a short statement about how the Bow Street inquiry had progressed so far.

  ‘Constable Woods and I discovered Mr MacAdam was
a commercial traveller from Chelmsford. We located his wife, who came to London yesterday and also identified the deceased. We now know Mr MacAdam visited the Howard family on Bruton Street the evening before his death. He enjoyed a brandy nightcap with Mr Howard and then left for home in a carriage, which I believe to have been borrowed from a friend. Somewhere between Bruton Street and Park Lane he received that fatal stab wound, administered by a person or persons as yet unknown. So far, we’ve been unable to establish where and when the attack took place. The inquiry is still ongoing but we’re treating this incident as murder.’

  Then the coroner asked the question that Lavender had hoped to avoid. ‘If both Mrs Palmer and Sir Richard had already identified the victim, why did you feel it was necessary to bring his widow over from Essex?’

  Lavender cleared his throat. ‘Because she already believed her husband to be dead. It has transpired that Mr MacAdam successfully faked his own death in June by sending a coffin home with one his acquaintances. The coffin was buried in St Mary’s church and is marked with a gravestone. Francis Collins, MacAdam’s accomplice in the deed, has since vanished. We’ve raised a hue and cry for his arrest.’

  The sombre courtroom suddenly burst into life. Gasps of shock and cries of indignation rippled round the public gallery. Journalists shouted down questions and the coroner had to bang his gavel to regain order. ‘Who – or what – lies in that coffin in Chelmsford, Detective?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know yet, sir. We’ve been granted a faculty for exhumation by the Bishop of London and the exhumation is to take place tomorrow at dawn.’

  Lavender heard the scratching of quills on parchment above and wondered how many of the reporters would turn up in Chelmsford for the exhumation. Such events were rare but they always caused a sensation amongst the public.

  ‘Is this killer on the rampage in London, Lavender?’ one of the jurors asked in alarm. ‘Do you think the same person who murdered MacAdam also murdered the victim in the coffin? Will he strike again?’