The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1)

by Karen Charlton

  ‘They don’t. It must belong to one of the other men.’

  ‘Lavender,’ George Carnaby said abruptly, ‘this is Mr Ralph Emmerson and Mr Lawrence Ingram. They were guests at Linn Hagh on the night of my sister’s disappearance.’

  Lavender made a short bow.

  ‘Yes, it was a rum do, that,’ the man called Emmerson commented. ‘Quite the mystery.’ He had thick bushy sideburns and a bristling ginger moustache. His wool waistcoat strained over his huge belly.

  The other man, Ingram, helped a plain, dark-haired woman climb out of the carriage.

  ‘Miss Isobel Carnaby, I assume?’ Lavender bowed again. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Izzie,’ Carnaby said.

  The woman looked pleased with Lavender’s manners, but her dark eyes examined him shrewdly.

  ‘George tells us you want to speak to us regarding the gal’s disappearance,’ Ingram said. He was thin, with a poor complexion and lank, greasy hair. Flecks of dandruff spotted the shoulders of his expensively tailored coat.

  Lavender nodded. ‘When would be convenient, sir?’

  ‘Ingram is staying over at Greycoates Hall with Emmerson at the moment. I’m riding over there tomorrow,’ George Carnaby said. ‘You can call on us all at eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  The Carnabys’ party swept past him into the church. The corpulent Ralph Emmerson offered his arm to Isobel Carnaby. She simpered like a young girl as he escorted her inside the church.

  The next family group to arrive were the Armstrongs. There were dozens of them. Lavender suspected that the entire family had turned up in Bellingham to celebrate Mr Armstrong’s seventieth birthday. They swarmed up the path to the church, chattering noisily. Two middle-aged men—clearly his sons—helped the frail Mr Armstrong along the icy flagstones.

  A gloved female hand tapped Lavender lightly on his arm with a prayer book. Sharp-eyed Katherine Armstrong had spotted them at the edge of the crowd.

  ‘Don’t forget, you promised Papa that you would call on us after dinner,’ she reminded him.

  He bowed again.

  When Woods and Lavender finally entered the heaving church, they managed to find a seat right at the back amongst the poorer members of the congregation. But despite the squash, Lavender still had a good view of the family pews ahead, which contained the Carnabys and the Armstrongs.

  The service began with a desultory hymn accompanied by three screeching fiddle players and a breathless man on a harmonica. Lavender grimaced as the congregation and musicians massacred the music, but he distracted himself by scanning the faces and backs of the rest of the congregation. Beside him, Woods belted out the hymn in a rich, deep baritone that bounced off the vaulted roof and white plastered walls of the church. He was surprisingly tuneful. Only the wealthy, literate churchgoers at the front had hymn books. Most of the people around Lavender and Woods just shuffled or chatted during the song, although several were clearly mesmerised by the singing policeman from London.

  After the last notes had died away, the vicar gave out a few notices: the fee charged for the family pews was to be increased by two shillings; Mr Armstrong was to be congratulated on reaching his seventieth birthday; new worshippers were welcome (here his gaze seemed to linger on Woods). Next, the sullen man launched into a tirade about several church members who had not attended a service for three weeks. Woods and Lavender shuffled uncomfortably.

  The vicar took around the collection plate himself. Lavender tossed a few coins into the plate and looked away. Woods made the mistake of pausing over his handful of change, trying to select an appropriate amount, and then looking up at the vicar. The small man glared back. Hastily, Woods tipped the entire handful of coins into the plate.

  Lavender recognised the theme of the sermon instantly; like many others in the Church of England, the vicar in Bellingham was upset at the number of his flock who had left to join the Methodists. The man spat out his disgust with vitriolic fervour.

  ‘I see this coming up everywhere—a belief in simplicity, services held in the open air—or a lazy resting in squalid homes because the worshippers are too slothful to attend church! Bible reading undertaken by the unordained and uneducated who then lead their misguided followers in prayer. Children are baptised without holy water! Worship for God, undertaken without altars, fonts or churches consecrated by a bishop and blessed by God!’

  ‘He’s upset,’ Woods whispered.

  ‘This is veneration for modesty that borders on the hypocritical!’ shouted the vicar. ‘A veneration so profound that we must not venture upon a remark, for straightway of sinners we are chief.’

  Now the clergyman lowered his voice until the tone became deep and menacing. ‘Here is the essence of Lucifer, peeping up under the garb of a decent respect for sacred things. It is impossible but that this creeping Methodism must spread, when we, who are watchdogs of the fold, are silent and let them be.’

  Suddenly, he brought his hand crashing down onto the pulpit.

  ‘It’s the Devil’s work, I tell you!’

  He roared so loudly that a small girl began to cry.

  ‘Lucifer himself is gently and smoothly turfing the road to perdition for these fools, and making it as soft and smooth as possible, that those converts to Methodism may travel down to the nethermost level of hell!’

  ‘Blimey!’ Woods said when they stumbled, blinking, back into the wintery sunlight an hour later and headed back towards The Rose and Crown. ‘It’s a while since I’ve heard a service where so many folks are damned to hell.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ Lavender said, smiling, ‘because you’re going back again tonight—for the evening service. With any luck, you’ll get to hear it again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mistress Norris, the cook, was not with the Carnabys. I guess she has remained at Linn Hagh to cook their dinner and will probably attend the evening service. I need you to question her away from Carnaby.’

  ‘If she has any sense, she will sneak off to join the Methodists,’ Woods muttered grimly.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was mid-afternoon when they called on Mr Armstrong. The rooms of the large house overflowed with chattering, well-dressed Armstrong relatives and gangs of noisy, rampaging grandchildren. Led by the maid who had answered the door, they manoeuvred their way down the packed hallway past a large group of men in scarlet uniforms, whose brass buttons and leather boots gleamed. Most clutched a china plate of food in one hand and had their regimental hat tucked beneath the other arm. Interspersed between the men, women floated around in a sea of muslin, perfume and bonnet ribbons.

  The elderly Mr Armstrong had retired to his study for some peace and quiet, but he greeted the policemen warmly and pretended to be annoyed with his guests.

  ‘I had ten children of my own, Detective,’ he pouted, ‘and looked forward to the day when they would all leave and I could have some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, Katherine seems determined to move them all back in again.’

  ‘Nonsense, Papa,’ Miss Armstrong chided. ‘You know how much you enjoy company.’

  ‘What news of Helen?’ Armstrong demanded.

  ‘In a couple of days, I believe that I may be able to explain to you—or demonstrate to you—how Miss Carnaby got out of her locked bedchamber,’ Lavender said.

  Father and daughter looked startled and leant forward with their mouths opening, to demand more information. But Lavender had not finished.

  ‘However, it’s still too early to be sure, and I need a couple more days. Please bear with me. I’m sure of one thing, though. I believe that she walked out of that room unharmed and went of her own volition. I suspect that wherever she is, she is probably safe.’

  He paused. Miss Armstrong glanced at the silent, grim face of her father.

  ‘That is some
comfort—is it not, Papa?’

  ‘Yes,’ Armstrong said shortly, but he still looked despondent.

  ‘I need to know if the authorities in Whitby and her friends there at the school were alerted to her disappearance.’

  ‘It was one of the first places we checked,’ Armstrong told him. ‘I had a lovely letter back from the headmistress of the school; she told me that no one had seen anything of Helen since she returned to care for her mother last February. Apparently, Helen was invited back in September to resume her position at the school, but declined.’

  ‘So she chose to stay at Linn Hagh instead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I also need to ask you if anyone in the family has visited Esther Carnaby’s grave recently?’

  Katherine Armstrong threw up her hands in frustration and blushed.

  ‘Oh, I forgot!’

  ‘What did you forget, Miss Armstrong?’

  ‘It was Esther’s birthday three days ago—I meant to visit the grave and leave some flowers. But with all the fuss of arranging this party for Papa, it went clean out of my mind.’

  Lavender pulled the small bunch of wilting flowers out of his pocket and held them out. ‘So you’re not responsible for laying these at her grave?’

  She took the flowers from him and examined them closely.

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Would somebody else in the family have remembered Esther Carnaby’s birthday and perhaps taken these flowers?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘I doubt it, Detective. We’ve all been so busy—and I was the closest to Esther. Poor Esther.’

  ‘What about Miss Isobel at Linn Hagh? Do you think she may have taken them to her stepmother’s grave?’

  Katherine Armstrong snorted in an unladylike manner. ‘Highly unlikely, Detective—Izzie Carnaby was not kind to poor Esther.’

  For a moment, silence descended upon the room. Lavender was conscious of the buzz of indistinct conversation and laughter emanating from the hallway outside.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ Miss Armstrong said slowly, ‘it could have been Helen who laid the flowers at her mother’s grave?’

  Lavender could sense hope rising like sweet-smelling bread dough. Even Armstrong suddenly roused from his torpor, lifted his head and looked keenly at Lavender.

  ‘Good God!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘That would mean Helen is still somewhere in Bellingham—and walking around.’

  ‘These flowers could have been laid on that grave by anyone,’ Lavender warned. ‘I would be very grateful if you could discreetly ask your other relatives if any of them have visited Esther Carnaby’s grave in the last few days. We’ve got to eliminate all other possible explanations. Please send me a note at The Rose and Crown with your findings.’

  Katherine Armstrong nodded.

  ‘I think we need to keep this a secret among ourselves. If anyone else finds out about this latest development and goes to St Cuthbert’s looking for Miss Carnaby, they may frighten her away. Whatever it was that scared her into hiding in the first place is clearly still worrying her. In the meantime, Woods and I will stake out the graveyard—particularly at night—and keep our eyes open for young ladies.’

  ‘Whatever you think for the best,’ Katherine Armstrong murmured.

  ‘You’ve done well, Lavender,’ Armstrong commented. ‘That is the first lead we’ve had in our search for Helen.’

  ‘It may still come to nothing,’ Lavender warned.

  ‘I hope not.’ Armstrong sighed. His voice cracked with emotion, and his eyes moistened. ‘I want Helen found so badly.’

  There was an embarrassing pause while the old man struggled with the anguish that wracked him. ‘I blame myself for her disappearance,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Papa,’ Miss Armstrong soothed. She reached out and stroked his bony hand.

  ‘I cannot accept that, Katherine. You see, Lavender, on the last occasion I saw Helen—at Cecily’s wedding—she asked us if she could come and stay here for a while . . .’ His voice trailed away with grief.

  Miss Armstrong squeezed his hand tighter, then turned to Lavender.

  ‘Helen never said why,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, two of my sisters are staying with us at the moment with their children—their husbands are fighting in Spain. We just didn’t have the room.’ She looked as miserable as her father.

  ‘I still blame myself,’ Armstrong said. ‘I should have recognised that Helen was in trouble of some kind and welcomed her into our home. I’ve failed her in her hour of need.’

  ‘Neither of you should blame yourselves,’ Lavender informed them. ‘George Carnaby was responsible for his sister after his father’s death. He is the one who has clearly failed her.’

  Mr Armstrong went for a rest in his bedchamber, and Lavender and Woods had a private interview with Cecily Derwent, the young woman who Miss Armstrong had told them was close to Helen Carnaby. Unfortunately, the distressed Mistress Derwent could tell them very little else to their advantage; she was as baffled as everyone else. No, Helen had not confided in her that she was unhappy at Linn Hagh or given her any indication that she was planning to run away. Nor had Helen ever mentioned a secret lover—or any young man at all—to her closest friend in Bellingham.

  Lavender was disappointed. If Helen Carnaby’s confidante and cousin—a young woman who claimed to be like ‘a sister’ to the missing heiress—had been excluded from her plans, then Lavender doubted if anyone would have been privy to her thoughts in the days leading up to her disappearance. Anyone else, that is, except the person who harboured her.

  Lavender and Woods began to make their way back through the heaving crowds towards the front door, but they were suddenly called back into the study by a flushed and excited Katherine Armstrong.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something,’ she told them. ‘This Wednesday—the twenty-fourth—is the anniversary of Baxter Carnaby’s death. If Helen is still in Bellingham and placed the flowers on her mother’s grave on her birthday . . .’

  Lavender finished the sentence for her.

  ‘Then it’s likely that she might return on the twenty-fourth to visit her father’s grave.’

  ‘Yes, Detective! Exactly!’

  The evening service at St Cuthbert’s was every bit as grim as the service Woods and Lavender had sat through in the morning. However, Lavender had been right; the Linn Hagh cook attended the service. Woods watched her for a while, then set his face in his most pious expression, rubbed his hands for warmth and tried to block out the rants of the vicar by admiring the pointed Gothic arches and windows of the old church.

  It was pitch-black when they finally left the building. He watched Mistress Norris pull her shawl tightly round her shoulders, then scurry down the road in the direction of Linn Hagh. He began to follow her at a discreet distance, but suddenly the vicar seized his arm.

  ‘Your piety has been noted, my son,’ the reverend declared loudly.

  Woods thanked him and shook the elderly cleric’s hand. Unfortunately, the vicar wanted a few more words; the man was curious about how long they intended to remain in Bellingham. It was several minutes before he could break away. By this time, Mistress Norris had disappeared from view, but there was only one road to Linn Hagh—and he doubted the cook would try to return home through the woods.

  When they had left the lights and coal smoke–laden air of Bellingham behind, he caught up with the woman and hailed her. She stopped and stared suspiciously in his direction.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked when he moved to join her.

  It was a clear moonlit night, freezing cold but brighter than the previous night when he had thundered back from Linn Hagh in near blackness.

  ‘Good evening, Mistress Norris. I saw you in the church and thought to myself, “Why, this poor lady has a long and arduous trip back to Linn Hagh in the dark!”
I presumed to come and offer you me protection fer your journey.’

  ‘Where’s yer horse?’ she demanded. ‘Am I not to get a ride on that?’

  Ah, obviously Anna has been talking.

  ‘I’m afraid that windbag of a horse is back in the stables—or possibly on its way to the knackers yard where it belongs. However, I’m happy to walk with you, ma’am, and should we be attacked by gypsies or vagabonds—fortunately, I’m armed.’

  ‘Ye’ve a pretty way of speaking,’ she said, ‘despite yer funny accent, but if you try to tell me that ye’ve got a daughter named Gladys like me, I won’t believe you.’

  ‘Er, no. Sadly, I don’t have a daughter named Gladys. Charmin’ name,’ he lied.

  She snorted, turned away and set off back towards Linn Hagh. For a woman so badly affected by arthritis, she was very quick on her pins. He fell into step beside her.

  ‘I have three daughters: Rachel, Tabitha—and Anna,’ he told her, with his fingers crossed behind his back. ‘And two sons: Eddie and Dan.’

  ‘And your wife—what does she think about you gallivantin’ all over the country and leavin’ her alone with the bairns?’

  ‘To be honest, Mistress, my Betsy hates it. She appreciates the money my job brings home, but she struggles without me help with the lads.’

  ‘Handful, are they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  An owl hooted deep inside the woods. He waited for her next comment.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘Despite the trouble you’re havin’ wi’ your lads.’ Her voice had softened, become wistful. ‘We never had any bairns. When my husband died, I had no one to turn to. I were real grateful when Mistress Carnaby took me on at Linn Hagh. I’d have been in the poorhouse, else.’

  ‘Was this Martha Carnaby or Esther Carnaby?’

  ‘Esther, of course. Martha Carnaby were too mad to run her own home properly. I’ve bin at Linn Hagh fer twenty years.’

  ‘Ah, you must have seen the younger Carnabys grow up.’

  ‘Miss Helen, maybe—but Master George were nigh on fifteen when I first went to Linn Hagh, and Miss Isobel weren’t that far behind him. They were already far too wise fer their years at that age—they’d seen too much, I reckon,’ she added. ‘Master Matthew were a nick-ninny even back then.’