Doctor Robert Goddard was brisk, efficient and surprisingly confident for such a young man; Lavender estimated that he was in his late twenties. A handsome man with gleaming, wavy, chestnut hair tied back with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, his presence threw Mistress McMullen into a flurry of excitement.
Goddard felt Woods’ forehead, opened his mouth and peered down his throat. He then lifted his eyelids to examine the colour of his eyeballs. Finally, he took his pulse. When the doctor turned over Woods’ wrist, something caught his eye, and he called for a candle to be brought closer to the bedside.
The flickering light revealed the blistering hives that had swelled across the tops of Woods fingers. Doctor Goddard raised the candle to Woods’ pale and clammy face. More raised, red welts were visible around his mouth.
The doctor touched them, and the semi-conscious man moaned.
‘Dear me,’ the doctor observed. ‘I do believe the constable has ingested something that has caused his illness.’
‘Well, it’s not owt he’s eaten at my inn,’ Mistress McMullen snapped. ‘You tell him, Detective,’ she demanded of Lavender. ‘Ye’ve both had the same to eat today and there’s nowt wrong with you.’
‘Calm yourself,’ the doctor soothed. ‘No one is blaming your excellent cooking. For heaven’s sake, I’ve eaten here often enough myself, Mistress McMullen.’
‘They’ve bin up at Linn Hagh as well,’ the indignant woman pointed out. ‘Perhaps they had summat bad to eat there.’
‘Perhaps.’ The doctor smiled. ‘Although I’m sure that Gladys Norris would not appreciate you saying that. Tell me, Detective, did you travel back through Hareshaw Woods, or did you take the road?’
‘We used the woodland path on the way back. Is that significant?’
‘Only insomuch as whatever he has taken such a bad reaction to, he has had it in his hand as well as his mouth. I just wondered if you investigated any strange-looking plants. The woodlands around here are full of natural poisons.’
‘No.’
‘He’ll hev bin cursed—that’s what it is! They’ve bin up to the faw camp. Tha’ll need fairy ointment to cure him.’
Lavender frowned. He had been grateful for the woman’s help earlier, but now she irritated him. Sensing the detective’s impatience, Goddard smiled and intervened.
‘Would it be possible to have a glass of brandy, Mistress McMullen? Doctoring is thirsty work.’
The indignant woman scurried away down the narrow stairs in a flurry of starched petticoats, and Lavender breathed a sigh of relief. As if on cue, Woods groaned and groggily opened his eyes.
‘What happened?’ he croaked.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ the doctor instructed. ‘Your tongue and throat are quite swollen. You’ve passed out with shock and the difficulties you’ve had breathing. I’ll give you a salve to rub into your hand and face for the blistering. Otherwise, there’s nought to do except sleep it off, my good man.’
Woods nodded and closed his eyes gratefully.
‘He’s had a bad reaction to something,’ Doctor Goddard told Lavender, handing him the bill and a small glass bottle from his bag. ‘But he has a strong constitution. I think he will live.’
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, 23rd November 1809
Woods slept fitfully that night. When Lavender checked on him the next morning, he found his constable still groggy and pale. The sores around his mouth were still inflamed, itchy and shining beneath the doctor’s salve.
Lavender told Woods to stay in bed and rest. He decided to pay a visit to Greycoates Hall to interview George Carnaby’s two drinking companions.
But before he left the room, Woods called him back and reached into the pocket of his coat, which had been slung across a bedside chair. He fished out a small silver tin and slid it across the quilt towards Lavender.
‘I found it yesterday in Isobel Carnaby’s underwear drawer,’ he croaked through his swollen throat, ‘when I searched the closets with Anna. I stuck my finger in and licked it.’
Lavender raised his eyebrow. He flicked open the lid and stared at the flecks of green matter inside the tin.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know—I thought perhaps the doctor might be able to tell us. Anna said she thought it were sage—for seasonin’ .’
Lavender nodded.
‘You enjoy your rest, Ned. I’ll call on the doctor and see if he can identify this. In the meantime, try to keep your hands out of women’s underwear. This is the second time you’ve had a good grope amongst the lingerie of strange women in the last few weeks. You’re obviously developing a dangerous habit—and I doubt that Betsy would approve.’
When Lavender approached Doctor Goddard’s house on Bellingham’s main street, he noticed that the drapes were still closed. The maid, who showed him into the gloomy parlour, explained that Doctor Goddard was in mourning for his late mother. Lavender nodded and remembered the black cravat and armband the doctor had worn the night before when he had attended Woods.
It was a small but comfortable home. There were just a few rooms on the ground floor: one across the passageway, where the maid told him Goddard saw his patients; a dining room; and the parlour where he now stood waiting. The mismatched furniture reminded him of his own bachelor rooms in London, a place he seemed to hardly see. A pretty French clock ticked away gently on the mantelpiece between two pot dogs. Lavender held open the window drapes and looked out down the street. The windows offered a good view of St Cuthbert’s graveyard down the cobbled hill, he noted. That reminded him: one of them needed to stake out the graveyard at midnight—tomorrow was the twenty-fourth, the anniversary of Baxter Carnaby’s death.
The doctor appeared and gestured for Lavender to take a seat. Goddard wore a black frock coat and breeches along with the black cravat. Only a mauve silk waistcoat broke up the darkness of his attire.
‘You’re lucky to have caught me,’ the doctor said coldly. ‘I’m on my way out this morning. I’m busy sorting out my late mother’s estate. Your constable has not taken a turn for the worse, I trust?’
‘Quite the contrary,’ Lavender reassured him.
‘Constable Woods is making an excellent recovery; fortunately, he has the constitution of an ox.’
‘So, why are you here?’
Lavender ignored his rudeness and pulled out the small silver tin from his pocket.
‘I called by because I hoped you might be able to help us identify this.’
A frown creased the doctor’s broad forehead. He sniffed the small specks of plant material in the tin suspiciously.
‘Woods claimed he tasted some of this yesterday,’ Lavender told him. ‘He thought it was sage. I wondered if it was significant in the light of his illness.’
‘Where did he get hold of it?’
Lavender paused, surprised. He usually asked the questions. ‘What do you think it is?’ he persisted.
‘It’s shredded digitalis leaves.’
‘Foxglove?’ Lavender paled.
‘Yes, its leaves. It can be mistaken for sage. It’s one of the most virulent poisons.’
‘Poison.’ Lavender sank down, uninvited, into a chair next to the fire and pushed back the hair from his forehead.
Why did I not see this before? he thought. Poison: the preferred weapon of murderous women.
‘Where did you find it?’ Goddard asked again.
Lavender met the other man’s steady gaze. In their brief acquaintance, Goddard had impressed him with his humanity, humour and intelligence. His current antagonism was out of character, and probably owing to his emotional state following his mother’s death. Lavender made a snap decision to trust him.
‘From a drawer in Isobel Carnaby’s bedchamber.’
‘Good Lord.’ Horror flashed across the doctor’s handsome face. He walked over to
the fireplace and rested his hands on the mantelpiece.
‘Do you think—is it possible?—that Isobel Carnaby used this poison on her sister?’ The doctor’s voice was sharp. He looked wretched. Lavender’s mind raced.
‘Possibly. I don’t know for sure.’ Lavender’s tone was grim. ‘But no one keeps poison unless they’ve used it—or plan to use it. You’re the family physician, Doctor Goddard—did Miss Helen ever complain of ill health to you?’
‘Not once.’
‘Perhaps Helen Carnaby also had her suspicions. We’ve found out that she often left her meals uneaten and was generally regarded as fussy about her food. I’m increasingly convinced that Helen Carnaby was terrified of something at Linn Hagh and was desperate to escape.’
He could only see half of the doctor’s face, but he watched him closely for his reaction. The man was tight-lipped and frowning as he continued to stare down into the fireplace. His broad shoulders were rigid.
‘Maybe the poison wasn’t meant for Helen Carnaby,’ Goddard eventually said.
‘What do you mean?’
The doctor turned around to face Lavender.
‘Esther Carnaby died last February because of complications caused by perforated ulcers in the oesophagus—or so I believed. In the end, her heart could not take the strain anymore and gave up.’
‘What is the significance of this?’
‘Like you witnessed last night with your constable, the symptoms Esther exhibited—weakness, dizziness, vomiting and fainting—are exactly the same as digitalis poisoning. The end result of consistent digitalis poisoning is heart failure.’
The two men stared at each other across the room. The clock ticked patiently on the mantelpiece as the seconds passed and the two men absorbed the full horror of the idea slowly taking root in their minds.
‘Are you suggesting that Isobel Carnaby may have also poisoned her stepmother, Esther?’
‘It’s quite possible given her symptoms,’ the wretched doctor said quietly. ‘I’m appalled to think that I may have missed this.’
‘How long have you been physician to the Carnaby family?’
‘About three years.’
‘In your professional opinion, do you think that Isobel Carnaby is capable of murder?’
Goddard shook his head a little, shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘She is not insane like her mother was, if that is what you mean. She is completely rational.’
‘Mmm, insanity may be your area of expertise, Doctor, but the murderous and the evil are mine. You know the family far better than I. Could Isobel Carnaby sink that low, do you think?’
Goddard shrugged and emitted a hollow laugh.
‘Like you said yourself, why else keep digitalis if you don’t intend to do some harm with it?’ His tone was bitter. ‘For the record, she is in good company—George Carnaby thrashes the living daylights out of his younger brother Matthew. He is a sadistic bastard. I’ve regularly been called to Linn Hagh by Miss Helen to try to help the boy Matthew with his injuries.’
‘Dear God,’ Lavender gasped, ‘at last we are beginning to scratch beneath the surface of the truth about this family. Are you aware whether George Carnaby ever whipped Miss Helen?’
The doctor grimaced, frowned and sank down into an armchair. ‘I don’t know . . . I doubt it.’ He looked nauseated at the thought.
Lavender eyed him shrewdly.
‘You’re being very helpful, Doctor. I appreciate this. Is there any way of finding out if Isobel Carnaby tried to poison her stepmother?’
‘None that I can think of. Not now. Not now she is dead.’
‘I wonder if Helen Carnaby had any suspicions about her half-sister’s intention to harm her mother. It would have been difficult for Isobel Carnaby to poison Esther once the sharp-eyed Helen came home from Whitby.’
Goddard said nothing. He continued to frown and stare into space.
‘What if we exhumed Esther Carnaby’s body?’ Lavender asked suddenly. ‘Would you be able to anatomise the corpse and uncover evidence of digitalis poisoning?’
The doctor gasped and snapped his full attention back to Lavender. ‘You could—you would—order an exhumation?’ he asked.
‘If I had evidence that there was just cause, then yes.’
For a moment, a flicker of hope lit up the doctor’s eyes. Then it died.
‘No. No. I would not be able to tell if she had been poisoned. Digitalis is a natural product; it would have long since dissolved back into the mud of the grave. That kind of science—it is beyond the medical profession.’
Lavender was disappointed, but he didn’t give up. ‘Mmm, Isobel Carnaby would not know this, of course. I wonder how she would react to the threat of an exhumation?’
Goddard’s hazel eyes widened. ‘I should imagine that it would alarm her—if what we suspect is true,’ he said.
The two men mulled over the idea for a moment. Then Lavender stood up and pulled on his gloves.
‘I’ve taken up more than enough of your time, Doctor, especially as you’ve personal matters to deal with in Newcastle. Please accept my condolences, by the way, on the sad loss of your mother.’
‘My mother lived in Morpeth,’ Goddard said absentmindedly.
‘Ah, all roads lead to Morpeth this week. I shall be there myself on Friday at a prearranged appointment with Magistrate Clennell. I’ll be honest with you, Doctor; I shall now also be discussing with him the possibility of acquiring a warrant for the arrest of Isobel Carnaby on suspicion of murdering her sister.’
The doctor’s mouth gaped open in surprise.
‘I’m not sure that there is sufficient evidence for a warrant, but I shall certainly make enquiries. I trust I can rely on your discretion? No hint of this to the Carnabys—or anyone else for that matter.’
Goddard nodded glumly.
Lavender chose his next words carefully.
‘In the meantime, Doctor Goddard, I’ll share with you my opinion on another matter. If Miss Helen Carnaby is still alive, in good health and in hiding, I sincerely hope that she has the sense to remain where she is until I’ve had the chance to sort this out.’
Lavender took a short stroll around the graveyard of St Cuthbert’s Church before he picked up his horse at the stable. He spotted a large clump of rhododendron and elder that would give good cover and be an excellent vantage point during their long vigil observing Baxter Carnaby’s grave.
Ralph Emmerson and Lawrence Ingram were already half in their cups by the time Lavender reached the Elizabethan mansion, Greycoates Hall. Both men were red-eyed and sprawled languidly across the sofas when Lavender was shown into the drawing room. Dark and oppressively hot, it stank of liquor fumes, stale cooking and unwashed men. Platters of half-eaten food lay on the soot-stained Persian rug at their feet. A whippet moved between them, sniffing and licking at the leftovers.
Emmerson glared at Lavender from beneath his bushy ginger eyebrows. ‘You were supposed to call on us yesterday, God damn it,’ he said.
Lavender tore his eyes away from the stained waistcoat protruding from Emmerson’s open topcoat, and he bowed his head slightly. He had met their type before many times in the drawing rooms of London: the spoilt, indolent sons of wealthy fathers.
‘My apologies, gentlemen. Mr Armstrong had a pressing matter he wished to discuss with me at the same time. He’s paying the bill, of course, so I had to humour the old man. I trust I didn’t cause you great inconvenience?’ His apology sounded false to him—which it was—but the two drunken sots could not tell the difference.
‘George Carnaby were right put out that you failed to show up,’ Emmerson told him.
‘Carnaby’s allus put out about something or another,’ the lanky Ingram pointed out, and the two men laughed at some shared joke.
‘Again my apologies, ge
ntlemen—and I promise not to take up much of your time. I just have a few questions about the night Helen Carnaby disappeared.’
They fell silent and stared coolly in Lavender’s direction. Ingram pushed his long, greasy hair out of his eyes to see the detective better.
Lavender asked his questions, but their responses did nothing to add to his knowledge about events on that fateful night.
‘I don’t know if we’ll be of much help, man—we were all three sheets to the wind, including Carnaby,’ Ingram confessed.
‘Yes,’ Emmerson agreed. ‘I were that out of it, the Devil himself could have arrived and pitchforked everyone into hell, and I would have heard nothin.’ What do you suppose has happened to the damned gal, Lavender?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ the detective replied airily. ‘I’m sure the strumpet’s run away with a lover. She’ll probably turn up spoiled and abandoned on the road to Gretna Green soon enough.’
‘Really?’ Emmerson’s piggy eyes widened in surprised. ‘Well, Carnaby will be put out by that bit of news.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Strewth, it looks like you’ve had a narrow escape there, Ingram.’
The dark man nodded, and bits of dandruff detached themselves from his scalp and landed gently on the velvet collar of his coat.
‘How so?’ Lavender asked.
Emmerson raised himself slightly, then pointed a sausage-like finger at Ingram.
‘Ingram’s the heir to Baron Widesbeck,’ he slurred.
An expectant pause hung in the air. Lavender had the distinct impression that he was supposed to know the peer and the significance of the statement. He didn’t, but a reaction was needed if he was to keep these two idiots talking.
‘My heartfelt congratulations, sir.’
Ingram nodded, then sighed and looked pained.
‘The old guy has told him to get a wife and get her knapped,’ Emmerson continued. ‘The old baron wants more heirs.’
The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Page 13
