Lavender winced inwardly at his crudeness.
‘Ingram was considerin’ Carnaby’s offer to take his younger sister . . .’
Offer?
‘. . . but it’s a bloody good job you didn’t, Ingram. If Lavender is to be believed, it turns out the damned girl is a courtesan and a wanton jilt.’
‘Damn good-lookin’ gal, though.’ Ingram’s voice was full of regret and self-pity. ‘I’d have enjoyed dockin’ with her.’
‘That little ruse of Carnaby’s failed as well,’ Emmerson said. ‘Thanks to that ruddy door bar.’
Ingram nodded sadly.
Lavender’s eyes flashed between them both.
‘What “little ruse” was that?’ he asked. But the two men would not be drawn out and fell silent. Even their fuddled brains knew they had said too much; they had all but admitted that George Carnaby had been prepared to turn a blind eye to the rape of his sister. Lavender was filled with revulsion, but the professional within him forced him to keep his face impassive and his tone light. He decided to change tack.
‘It’s hard to find an honest woman these days,’ Lavender said, careful to add a sympathetic note. ‘How much was Carnaby prepared to pay you to marry his sister?’
Emmerson threw back his head and roared. His great belly shook with laughter. Even the doleful Ingram managed a wry smile.
‘Pay Ingram? You’ve got it wrong there, Detective—Carnaby doesn’t have two shillings to rub together most of the time. No. He said that for five hundred guineas he would make sure that there was no fuss in the church—that the girl would walk down the aisle docile-like.’
I’m sure he did.
‘She were worth ten thousand, as well,’ Ingram said sadly. ‘You don’t find many gals around here with that kind of chinks.’
‘It’s a good job Mr Carnaby still has another sister to sell off.’ Lavender’s tone was heavy with irony.
‘What, Izzie? That hatchet-faced old trot?’ Emmerson laughed. ‘Now Carnaby would have to pay us to marry that stale maid!’
Lavender bowed and left the men to their crude jokes about Isobel Carnaby. Their ribald laughter still rang in his ears when he crossed the gloomy hallway and walked out of the building towards his waiting horse. For one brief moment, he felt a twinge of sympathy for the eldest Carnaby daughter. Then he remembered the digitalis; the woman had probably murdered her stepmother. He sighed and felt the cold air bite into his lungs.
He had had enough. Carnaby’s cronies disgusted him. They had nothing new to add to the evidence he had already accumulated and his understanding of the characters involved in this case. It had been a wasted trip.
That George Carnaby was prepared to force his pretty sister into marriage with Ingram, and let the cad rape and impregnate her, didn’t surprise him. He had already decided that Carnaby was the lowest form of lowlife, who would sell his soul to the Devil for five hundred guineas—never mind his sister. Yet still, the thought disturbed him.
He paused for a moment before he mounted his horse, enjoying the animal’s warmth next to him and stroking its neck.
He wondered at what point the idea of murdering his sister had entered George Carnaby’s mind. Or had it been Isobel Carnaby who had first suggested the evil deed? After all, why settle for five hundred guineas from Ingram for an arranged marriage when they would inherit the full ten thousand pounds if she were dead?
He shook off the low spirits that threatened to overwhelm him, climbed onto his horse and whipped her into a gallop. The icy wind blasted his face. He hunched low over the neck of the beast, and his thoughts turned back to Magdalena.
Had hers been an arranged marriage, perhaps? He knew that this was common practice amongst the Spanish nobility. If Magdalena’s marriage had been arranged, then she must have agreed to it. Somehow he couldn’t imagine anyone forcing Magdalena to do anything she didn’t want to do, even her father, whom she clearly idolised. She didn’t have the browbeaten demeanour of a depressed woman trapped in a miserable marriage, so it must have been an amicable arrangement, if nothing else. A wave of jealousy surged through him.
He blocked out all thoughts of her husband and allowed his mind to dwell on the better parts of the evening he and Magdalena had spent together. His thoughts warmed him while he raced back through the desolate winter landscape towards Bellingham.
Chapter Seventeen
Woods managed to get down the creaking wooden staircase of the tavern at about ten in the morning. He still felt faint and queasy, and his stomach complained of hunger. Mistress McMullen fussed around him like a mother hen but seemed relieved when he ordered a mug of tea and a hearty meal of ham and eggs to make up for the supper that he had failed to finish the night before.
Unfortunately, once the greasy food arrived, he experienced the unusual sensation of losing his appetite. Determined that his mind was playing tricks on him, he picked up his cutlery and ate the food anyway. Ten minutes later, he rushed back into the privy and regurgitated his first meal of the day. Unabashed, he returned to bed for a while and then came back downstairs and tried again. This time he was more successful. Although plagued with the burps, he managed to keep down breakfast number two and felt far more like his old self. He sighed happily, closed his eyes and tried to rest his aching limbs on the hard wooden settle in front of the fire.
A few of the local farmers had begun to drift into the tavern for a midday meal. Most of them laughed and jeered when they saw Woods by the fire.
‘Why if it ain’t Constable Guzzle Guts!’ Jethro Hamilton jeered.
‘Still bowsey with the brandy, are you, Mr Bow Street Runner?’ Isaac Daly enquired with mock solicitude.
Woods ignored them and kept his eyes closed.
The farmers huddled in a corner over their drinks. Their mood changed, and they soon began complaining bitterly about the faws.
He had just nodded off when Mistress McMullen shook him awake.
‘Ye’ve got a lady visitor,’ she informed him. ‘So ye’d better stop yer snorin’ and wake up sharpish.’
Bleary-eyed, he glanced up to see Katherine Armstrong watching him quizzically. He struggled to his feet, knocking his leg on the table in the process.
‘Miss Armstrong—ouch!—what can I do fer you? Detective Lavender is visiting Greycoates at the moment.’
She nodded and opened her mouth to speak.
‘Miss Armstrong! Here again in the tavern?’ yelled Jethro Hamilton from across the smoky room. ‘Second time this week—and to see another gadgie? Folk’ll start talking, ma’am, mark my words!’
‘Oh, I do hope so, Mr Hamilton. I do hope so,’ she retorted, smiling.
The farmers laughed, but it was not unkind. Woods sensed that this community held Katherine Armstrong in high esteem. The farmers had returned to their conversation, but Mistress McMullen offered Miss Armstrong the use of a private room to talk to the constable.
‘There’s no need—I’ve only come to relay a quick message.’
‘Oh yes?’ Woods’ eyebrows rose.
‘Please inform Detective Lavender that my father has decided to add another twenty guineas to the reward money offered by George Carnaby for information about Helen’s whereabouts. I don’t know if it will help, but he is determined to do everything he can for Helen.’
‘That is most generous, I’m sure,’ Woods said. ‘I’ll pass the message on to Detective Lavender when he returns.’
She thanked him and moved away a few steps, but then she turned back, her forehead creased.
‘About your Detective Lavender . . .’ she began.
‘Yes, ma’am?’ For a moment, he thought she was about to question him about their progress on the case. He hesitated. Lavender didn’t like revealing information to a client until he was ready.
‘Is he the usual sort of detective who operates out of Bow Street?’
/> Woods smiled, relieved. Dealing with questions about his enigmatic superior had become part of his job. Everyone was curious about Lavender.
‘No, ma’am. He’s part of a new breed of detectives—all educated and very clever.’
‘Yes, I can see that. My father and I were pleasantly surprised when we met him. We’d assumed he would be more—what shall I say—more bullish, perhaps?’
‘He’s the quiet type, ma’am—a great thinker and very clever. He’s also successful; he usually gets his man.’
She paused to rearrange her bonnet and pat her grey curls.
‘Well, let’s just hope that on this occasion he gets the girl—in this case, our Helen.’
‘He’ll do his utmost, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he will.’ She looked like she was about to leave, but still she paused. ‘Is he married?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Now that surprises me. He’s an attractive man.’ She stared at him calmly, clearly expecting more information.
‘He were once betrothed to a lovely young gal back in London—a school mistress.’ Woods spoke quickly, unsure about where this line of questioning was heading.
‘What happened to the engagement?’
He wondered how much time Katherine Armstrong had spent watching her father question his clients or grilling witnesses in the dock. She definitely had the knack. Her steady brown eyes never left his face, and she timed the silences that lay between them with a precision that forced him to answer.
‘The poor gal died two weeks before the weddin’ .’
‘How?’
‘Cholera morbus. She’d visited a sick pupil and picked up the disease there.’
‘Poor girl,’ Katherine Armstrong echoed. ‘That is a tragic story. Detective Lavender must have been devastated. It can take years to get over a loss like that.’
Woods nodded. ‘It has, ma’am,’ he said simply.
Finally, she seemed satisfied and turned to go.
‘Good day to you, Constable—give Detective Lavender my regards.’
When Lavender returned just after one o’clock, he ordered a mug of tea from Mistress McMullen, then joined Woods in the taproom. Jethro Hamilton and his cronies had disappeared, and the room was now deserted.
Lavender told Woods about his trip to Greycoates, and Woods relayed the message passed on to him by Katherine Armstrong.
‘Twenty guineas? Well, that’s something. It might bring forward some information. From what we’ve learnt about George Carnaby’s finances over the last few days, it’s obvious that the man will not pay the promised two hundred pounds for news about his sister. He doesn’t have it—as I’m sure everyone in this town knows.’
‘Miss Katherine seemed a bit put out that you weren’t here,’ Woods commented with a wink. ‘I think that ye’ve got yourself a bit of an admirer in that lady.’
‘Mmm, I doubt that.’ Lavender smiled. ‘But you definitely have an admirer in Bellingham. When you were taken ill last night, the good vicar called in at the tavern to see if he could be of assistance. He was most concerned to hear that his most talented baritone was sick.’
‘He’d have been after reading me the last rites.’ Woods scowled and shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Business in his graveyard must be slow.’
Lavender smiled.
‘His services might have been needed. Doctor Goddard tells me that the vegetable matter you ingested was digitalis.’
‘Foxgloves, eh?’ Woods now looked impressed. ‘It’ll take more than a few weeds to put me in a wooden surcoat.’
‘The problem is, Ned, she didn’t intend to poison you—that was an accident. The poison was intended for Helen or Esther Carnaby, possibly both of them.’
Woods listened with amazement as Lavender related Doctor Goddard’s fears about the death of Esther Carnaby.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Woods shook his head. ‘I mean, neither George Carnaby nor his sister is pleasant—he’s a cocksure bully, and she’s a sly old tabby—but killers! Are they in this murderin’ lark together, d’ya think?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Lavender sighed. ‘They must be. Fortunately, Helen Carnaby seems to be more intelligent than the pair of them put together. It’s obvious to me that she has a lot of discretion for a young woman; it’s just possible that she gulled them both and escaped from Linn Hagh unscathed.’
‘I still find it hard to believe that they would try to murder either their stepmother or their half-sister for money.’
‘Greed combined with desperation is an unhealthy mix,’ Lavender said darkly. ‘I believe the older Carnabys are becoming more and more anxious as Helen gets closer to claiming her inheritance. This ridiculous scheme to “sell” her in marriage to Lawrence Ingram is another sign of that desperation. The loss of four hundred pounds a year will hit them harder than we thought. As the cook at Linn Hagh hinted, no one knows what goes on behind the closed doors of a “respectable” family home.’ He ran his hand over his head and pushed back the hair that had escaped from its binding. ‘Unfortunately, I suspect that we’ve only just begun to scratch away the scabs that cover the festering sores of life at Linn Hagh.’
‘Poor gal,’ Woods said thoughtfully. ‘Then there is the fellah she reckons stalks her through Hareshaw Woods. He scared her. Where does he fit into all this, I wonder?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lavender shook his head and frowned. ‘We need to examine those caves at the edge of the gorge and see if we can find him. I think in light of this new evidence, we need to take the threat to Helen Carnaby’s life seriously. She was obviously scared to death—the fact that she had asked for refuge from her uncle is further proof of this.’
‘I just wonder why she never returned to that school in Whitby in September,’ Woods commented. ‘She’d have been safe there. Both Katherine Armstrong and Isobel Carnaby told us that she’d been invited to return. All she had to do was bide her time at the school for a few months until she came of age, then claim her inheritance and move away.’
Lavender smiled.
‘I think that sheep drover may have the answer to that question.’
During their trip to Linn Hagh the previous day, Woods had excused himself to use the privy. On his return to the Great Hall, he had managed a few quiet words with the cook in the kitchen. Lavender’s threat to take Gladys Norris into custody had worked; she had called Lavender a few choice names in his absence, then given Woods the name of the drover who had seen Miss Helen with her young man. The man they now sought was called Abel Knowles.
‘There is a lover lurking in the background of her life,’ Lavender continued. ‘She didn’t want to leave the area. Young women in love can be very foolish and stubborn.’
‘How d’ya know this?’ Woods smirked.
Lavender ignored his interruption.
‘When we find the lover, we’ll find the girl. I just hope that we get to her before the older Carnabys do.’
‘I’ll seek out Knowles, the sheep drover, at the Wednesday market tomorrow,’ Woods said.
Mistress McMullen arrived to collect the used crockery from their table, which ended all hope of more private discussion.
‘I’ve ordered a couple of horses from the stables,’ Lavender said as he rose to leave. ‘Are you feeling up to returning to the gypsy camp, Ned? I’m determined to track down that Geddes girl today.’
Mistress McMullen dropped the dish she held. It crashed down on top of the other crockery and shattered. Startled by the clatter, both men glanced up.
‘Is something amiss?’ Lavender asked.
‘Nowt. Nowt at all.’ Her hands shook as she picked up the broken shards of crockery.
Lavender moved towards her, took hold of her plump arm and forced her to look at him.
‘What on earth is the matter with you, woman?’
&nb
sp; She flushed, averted her eyes and tried to pull away.
‘Nowt.’
Lavender held onto her with a vice-like grip.
‘Are you withholding information from an officer of the law?’ His voice was menacing.
She squealed and struggled against his grip. ‘Gerroff me! You’re hurting.’
Lavender tightened his grip.
‘Is it Jethro Hamilton and Isaac Daly? Do they intend to cause trouble up at the gypsy camp?’
She wouldn’t look him in the face. ‘It’s nowt to do with me. I said fer them not to do it!’
‘Do what?’
She ceased struggling and dropped her voice.
‘There’s talk about burnin’ them out.’
Lavender’s colour faded. He let go of the woman abruptly and turned back to Woods.
‘Let’s move quickly, Ned. If we ride like the Devil, we may just get there before they do.’
Chapter Eighteen
In the heavy drizzle, the faw camp looked even more desolate than it had in the weak sunshine of the previous day. The rain had driven the gypsies undercover, and the camp was almost deserted. A few curious faces peered out of the entrances of the dirty tents, and the embers of the abandoned fire hearths sizzled and smoked in the damp.
‘What do we do?’ Woods asked as they dismounted. ‘Knock at one of them cloth tent doors?’
‘Just wait,’ Lavender said. ‘They know we’re here and what we want.’
Sure enough, a few moments later Paul Faa Geddes walked out of the woodland. He chewed his tobacco slowly and eyed them with an irritating insolence, which was difficult to ignore.
‘We still need to speak to the girl Laurel Faa Geddes.’ Lavender’s tone was abrupt.
‘You and your kind need to leave our womenfolk alone,’ Geddes said.
‘Why? Who else has asked to speak to Miss Geddes?’
‘You can tell George Carnaby to keep that damned idiot brother of his away from the gal, fer a start. It ain’t right.’
Lavender stared at Geddes coldly. Yes, gypsy women across the country were known for their low morals, easy ways and frequent arrests for prostitution, and the poverty of this group was glaringly apparent. But he had seen Matthew Carnaby and Laurel Faa Geddes together only the previous day and had gained the impression that their relationship was innocent. Matthew Carnaby might adore the girl, but he was not an unwelcome stalker. Geddes was either misguided or he was faking this moral indignation.
The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Page 14
