‘How old are you, Miss Geddes?’
She laughed lightly.
‘We don’t keep track of the years that come and go in my world. Where’s the point in that? There’s no cake with candles fer me at a year’s end. All I know is that I were born cursed.’
‘Cursed?’
Lavender left the dampness of the water’s edge and climbed a few steps up onto the path beside her. She edged away slightly. As she moved, he caught a fleeting glimpse of white circles of flesh through the holes in her stockings above her ancient boots. The ragged hem of her dress was only just a decent length. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to the dress Helen Carnaby had given her. No doubt she had sold or pawned it.
‘Aye, a bairn born at midnight before the Sabbath is allus born under a curse,’ she informed him.
‘For a young woman born under a curse, you seem very comfortable with it.’
‘What’s the point of fussin’?’ She shrugged and smiled again. ‘I keep a sprig of holly fer luck—and you cannot alter what’s written in the stars.’
‘Is that what your mother tells you?’
‘Me ma’s dead.’
‘And your father?’
‘So what is it you’re wantin’ from me, Detective?’
Her self-assurance suggested that she was in her twenties, he decided; it was difficult to judge. Her playful manner belied her years, but the harshness of her life had aged her prematurely. Already, fine lines had formed around her vivid blue eyes.
‘I need your help to find Miss Carnaby.’
‘What if she don’t want to be found?’
‘For her own safety, I would still like to know where she is,’ he said quietly. ‘I can protect her. I know her life is in danger, and she feels threatened. I need your help to eliminate that threat.’
‘Seems to me like you already know all there is to know then, Detective—but perhaps I can help you a bit more—if I can see the colour of yer silver.’
For a moment, Lavender was confused.
‘She wants money,’ Woods volunteered. He had come to join them up on the path.
‘Aye—and from you, too,’ the girl said.
Sighing, the constable reached into his pocket for some loose change. Then he turned over his large hand and the girl skimmed the silver coins from his palm. She held his hand in hers and traced her finger across the lines etched across his palm.
‘Why, I see you’re a big, round robin redbreast of a fellah, Constable Woods!’ she teased. ‘And there’s plenty of chicks in yer nest back in the old oak tree—I see four with yer jenny wren.’ Woods’ face erupted with surprise; then he froze. His hand still lay in hers.
‘Is this how you earn your living, Miss Geddes?’ Lavender interrupted. ‘Telling fortunes to the gullible?’
Woods flinched. Laurel turned away from Woods but kept hold of his hand. She was not laughing now.
‘I hev the sight. I can see things others can’t. I can help. I’m not a whore if that’s what you think.’ Her expression was sincere, if mildly irritated. She spoke with the voice of a parent trying to explain something to a wilful young child. Then she turned back to Woods.
‘You need to watch out fer the hairy beast with a ring through its nose—and bless you, sir!’ Her face fell.
‘What is it?’
Lavender could hear faint alarm in his constable’s voice.
‘Yer youngest daughter will break yer heart.’
Woods laughed awkwardly and pulled back his hand.
‘Very interesting,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Is this why they call you the “young witch” down in Bellingham, Miss Geddes?’ Lavender asked. ‘Because of your sight?’
‘Is that why you’re here, Detective?’ she parroted his question. ‘To arrest me fer witchcraft?’ Amusement flickered at the corners of her pretty mouth.
It was Lavender’s turn to smile. ‘Witchcraft ceased to be an act punishable by law in 1735,’ he told her. ‘No, madam, as I’ve already said, I’m here to seek your help to find and protect Miss Carnaby.’
‘Then it’s yer turn to cross my palm with silver, Detective.’
Lavender paused. This was all nonsense, of course, but he recognised a challenge when he saw one. He would get nothing from this girl unless he went along with her game. He took off his glove, plunged his hand into his pocket and held out a palm full of silver sixpences.
‘Why, what clean hands you have, Detective!’ she complained. ‘You oughtn’t to wash them so often—you keeps yer luck in the grimy lines of yer hands.’
She fell silent and screwed up her face in concentration. Lavender could see that reading his palm was not so easy for her; she looked troubled. Her voice lost its lightness and lowered in tone.
‘I see the still black waters of the Tyne run deep in you, Detective. Folks only see themselves mirrored when they look into the darkness of yer eyes—they never see you. But who is the woman with the jet-black hair and the red-stoned ring? She’s crept under your skin like the Queen of Elphame, seekin’ comfort beneath a rock. She’s a shape-shifter and she’ll ensnare you.’
‘Enough.’ Lavender withdrew his hand sharply.
‘Watch out fer the man with the burnt face—he’ll threaten yer happiness,’ the girl continued, unabashed.
‘Tell me what you know about Helen Carnaby’s disappearance, the man she is with and the other man—the one who camps out in the cave in this gorge.’
‘He’s a bad un.’ She scowled.
‘Which one?’ he queried. ‘The lover or the vagrant in the woods?’
‘Him.’ She jerked her thumb back towards the sandstone cliffs. ‘He’s bad, allus watchin,’ allus prowlin’ around—watchin’ . . .’ She shivered and pulled her shawl tighter over her thin shoulders.
‘Can you describe him?’
But her mercurial mind had already moved on.
‘They’ve a lot of bad blood up at Linn Hagh. There’s bin evil there. On the day she left, I heard ’em shriekin’ and screamin.’ They think the thick walls of their tower protect ’em—but I know what goes on. He were goin’ to beat her.’
‘Who?’
She spat at the ground in disgust.
‘Him—Carnaby. He were goin’ to flay her—like he does to Matty. He wanted her to come out of her room.’
Lavender grimaced.
‘What is your relationship with Master Matthew Carnaby, Miss Geddes?’
Her eyes widened in surprise, and then her face softened with compassion.
‘Why, Matty is my friend—he’s a sweetie. We’ve grown up together in these woods.’
‘Did you used to take care of Matthew Carnaby when he was a baby and his mother was . . . ill?’
She shook her head, and the silver hoops in her ears flashed in the fading daylight.
‘Matty’s allus bin bigger ’n me. I never knew him as a bairn.’
‘Where’s Miss Carnaby, Laurel?’
She laughed, threw back her glossy black mane and gave him a dazzling smile.
‘You know where she is—you’re toyin’ with us all,’ she accused playfully. ‘You’re a clever un—with a bit o’ the sight yerself—and if you weren’t too sure, you could allus hang a ring on a red silk thread and dangle it o’er an article of her clothing.’
‘What good would that do?’
‘You have to say: “Av mi Romani mal, pawdel dur chumbas.” Then what you seek you shall find. Remember me words, Detective, remember me words . . .’
With that, she turned and climbed swiftly up the steep side of the ravine, gliding over the fallen logs and rocks with the nimbleness of a fawn. The bracken parted before her as she moved, then swished quietly back into place after she had passed. She blended back into her natural habitat like a wood nymph.
<
br /> ‘Wait!’ Lavender called.
She stopped, turned back and pointed farther downstream to where a rickety bridge crossed the black water.
‘Over there—on the other side,’ she pointed. ‘Behind the cracked sycamore that snarls like a serpent—there’s a path that’ll lead you back up to the road. You can take the horses that way.’
He took his eyes off her for one moment to follow the line of her finger, but when he turned back, she had gone. She had melted back into the latticework of timber like a dryad and vanished as mysteriously as she had arrived.
Chapter Twenty
So how did she know that “robin redbreast” is the nickname of members of the Bow Street Horse Patrol?’
Lavender sighed. Woods had been animated and full of questions since their encounter with the gypsy girl. Lavender found it hard to keep him objective.
‘I’ve no idea. She could have heard folks talking about you, the horse patrol—or your scarlet waistcoats—in Bellingham market. This is how these people operate. They listen and pick up signs.’
‘What about my home on Oak Road? How could she know about that? Or my four little nippers?’
‘It was all a coincidence, Ned. She talked generally about birds: robins and wrens. Birds nest in trees—oak trees sometimes. As for the number of little Woods back at Oak Road, well just how many times have you talked about your children while you’ve been in Northumberland?’
Woods paused and screwed up his face with concentration.
‘Twice: once with Anna and once with that cook, Norris.’
‘Both times while travelling along this road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there’s your answer. As we said earlier, all eyes in Bellingham have been watching us since we arrived. No doubt every ear has been tuned in our direction as well.’
‘Hmmph.’ His constable was not convinced. Woods thought for a moment and then tried a different tack.
‘And what about them things that she said about you?’
‘Well, I’m obviously more “black” and “mysterious” because I don’t go blabbing around town about my personal life.’
Woods eyed him slyly.
‘She knew about that Spanish señora, all right—and neither of us have talked about her since we came up north. She wears a red garnet ring on her left hand. I know that because I saw it.’
‘Well done, Constable Woods,’ Lavender snapped. ‘Let’s get you promoted to principal officer.’
‘Now, there’s no need to get testy.’
‘I’m not getting testy.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Woods’ tone had become that of a parent admonishing a naughty child.
Lavender sighed. It had been a stressful twenty-four hours, and the day was not over yet. They were nearly back at Bellingham and probably faced an angry encounter with the farmers in The Rose and Crown.
‘Look at it this way, Ned. Women are generally either dark or fair—the gypsy had a one in two chance of mentioning the correct hair colour of a woman I’ve met recently. As for the ring? All women wear rings. It’s nothing more than coincidence and luck. She has had a good day with us, that’s all. Tomorrow she’ll get it wrong with someone else, and they’ll laugh in her face and demand their money back.’
Woods didn’t seem convinced, but he fell silent as they entered the livery stables, dismounted and handed over the reins of their animals to a groom. Stiff from their journey, they trudged up the icy cobbles towards The Rose and Crown.
The streets of Bellingham were deserted. The smell of smoke from the brick chimneys descended on the town like an invisible cloak. There were no street lamps; only the occasional warm pool of light from bare windows spilled onto the road to provide light against the encroaching starless night. Their breath billowed in clouds before them. Woods pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and voiced the niggling fear that bothered them both.
‘Let’s just hope we’re still welcome after that little standoff at the gypsy camp earlier.’
‘Mmm,’ said Lavender. ‘I wonder what will happen next? I had better send a note to Beddows and alert him that he has some serious trouble on his patch—though I doubt he’ll care.’
Lavender was prepared to organise a private dining room for their supper that night in order to avoid another confrontation with Jethro Hamilton, but to his surprise the main bar of the tavern was deserted. A few elderly men were hunched around the gaming tables, intent on their endless dice game, but apart from them, Mistress McMullen and a sullen barman, the taproom remained emptier than Lavender had ever seen it before.
The two officers sank, exhausted, into the comfortable chairs by the fire and removed their gloves, scarves and hats.
‘I hope to God Hamilton, Daly and their cronies are not back at Linn Hagh, burning down the gypsy camp.’ Lavender sighed.
‘If they’ve any sense, they’ll just stay quietly at home tonight,’ Woods said, grinning. ‘They probably feel a bit embarrassed after you talked them down.’
Lavender and Woods ordered their supper and enjoyed a glass of brandy. The fiery liquid warmed their insides.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Woods said, ‘is where does this gypsy girl fit into the mystery of Helen Carnaby’s disappearance? Why is she important?’
Lavender smiled. ‘I think she may have helped Miss Carnaby with her dramatic exit from Linn Hagh. I still wait for proof,’ he volunteered as he sipped his drink, ‘but I also think Laurel Faa Geddes is Baxter Carnaby’s natural daughter—a half-sister to the Carnabys at Linn Hagh.’
‘What!’
‘Didn’t you see those eyes, Ned—those vivid blue eyes? The same blue eyes are in Helen Carnaby’s portrait and Matthew Carnaby’s face.’
‘With respect, sir, she’s a gypsy gal—she could be anyone’s daughter.’ Woods looked stunned.
‘True, but I believe when we finally get hold of a copy of Baxter Carnaby’s last will and testament, from that lawyer in Newcastle, I think my theory will be proved to be true. I expect it to tell us that his natural daughter, Laurel Faa Geddes, is entitled to remain with her people on the land of Linn Hagh for the duration of her life. This is the only explanation for why those gypsies are still tolerated up at Linn Hagh.’
‘But Mr Armstrong never said nowt about it.’
‘I don’t think Mr Armstrong knows. What occurs at Linn Hagh stays at Linn Hagh. It is guarded by its isolation and a small army of loyal, taciturn servants.’
‘Well! That’s a turn-up fer the books!’ Woods looked impressed. ‘So old Baxter Carnaby had a by-blow with one of the gypsy women?’
‘Exactly. Linn Hagh is so remote from civilisation, anything could have happened up there—and I suspect that it probably did. Judging by the fact that Laurel Faa Geddes told us that she is younger than Matthew Carnaby, I suspect that the liaison between her mother and Baxter Carnaby happened in those five years between his two wives. Maybe during the time when Martha Carnaby was in the asylum—but definitely before he met and married Esther Armstrong.’
‘Do you think the other Carnabys know?’
‘I’m sure they do. If I’m right and Baxter Carnaby has tried to protect or help his natural daughter in his will, then they’ll be well aware of her existence—and probably very frustrated by it. I’ve no doubt that if he had been given free rein, George Carnaby would have turned the faws off his land years ago. The gypsies know about it, too. That’s why their leader is uncomfortable with her friendship with Matthew Carnaby; he claimed it “wasn’t right.” ’
‘What do you mean?’
Lavender laughed softly and swirled the amber liquid around in his glass.
‘While the faws may be a tribe of easy virtue and turn a blind eye to prostitution in all its forms amongst their women folk, even gypsies are not comfortable about the prospect of incest. Matthew Carnaby
may be backward and a simpleton, but he is still a man, and he is obviously devoted in his simple way to his own sister.’
Mistress McMullen appeared with their supper before Woods could question Lavender further. She also had two letters for the detective.
One of them was a note from Katherine Armstrong. He read it quickly as he ate. It told him that she had been unable to discover any other member of her family who might have left the flowers on Esther Carnaby’s grave.
‘We’ll stake out the grave of Baxter Carnaby from midnight, as we promised,’ Lavender said. ‘We’ll split the watch, and if the ghostly Miss Carnaby makes another appearance in the graveyard of St Cuthbert’s, then one of us will be there to witness it. Eat heartily, my friend; it looks like we’re in for a long and cold twenty-four hours.’
The other letter was from Magistrate Read at Bow Street, in response to the note Lavender had sent him after his encounter with Doña Magdalena at Barnby Moor. Lavender opened it, put down his fork, frowned and tapped his fingers irritably on the table as he considered its contents.
‘Trouble back home?’ Woods queried.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Oh?’
Lavender paused while he mulled over the contents of the letter. His face flushed as he struggled with the conflicting emotions the news in the letter invoked. Woods waited patiently.
‘We may not have returned Helen Carnaby to her family yet, but it does appear that I’ve solved one mystery this week.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We now know the reason why Doña Magdalena has not heard from her husband for the last few months.’
Woods paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Lavender with renewed interest.
‘Her husband, Don Antonio Garcia de Aviles, was killed at the battle of Talavera at the end of July. He fought under the Spanish General Cuesta.’
‘Strewth!’ Woods put down his cutlery.
Lavender didn’t know how to react. Despite his casual dismissal of Laurel Faa Geddes’ words, his encounter with the gypsy girl had unnerved him; she’d been right. Magdalena had gotten underneath his skin, and it was not just gratitude for saving his life that he felt towards her.
The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Page 16
