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

by Karen Charlton

  ‘It does my old heart good to see you back enjoyin’ yer food again,’ she told Woods as she piled a second helping of pie onto his plate.

  He smiled at her solicitude. He knew full well that her attentiveness was prompted more out of relief that he had not pegged it on her premises during his mysterious ‘illness’ than out of genuine concern. Nevertheless, he chatted amiably with the woman and complimented her on her cooking.

  After she had left, he closed his eyes, enjoyed the warmth of the fire as it licked his face and settled himself down for a fireside snooze. A genial hum of conversation hung over the far end of the bar, where the farmers discussed the price of corn and beef.

  Still exhausted and sore from a night staking out the graveyard, he needed more sleep. This is the toughest part of police work, he decided. The night shifts. Three weeks ago, he had spent two bitterly cold nights down at the East India docks with other officers, desperately trying to avoid freezing to death, while they waited for a gang of pilferers to appear. Then his mind drifted back to the expenses he was earning from this case, and a broad grin spread across his face.

  His pleasure was to be short-lived. He had only just registered the angry stomp of riding boots heading his way across the flagstones, when George Carnaby’s fist crashed down on the table in front of him. The crockery leapt and rattled. All conversation died.

  Woods jerked awake and tensed.

  ‘Easy there, fellah!’ he drawled.

  Carnaby’s lip curled and he scowled. ‘Mister Carnaby to the likes of you. Where’s that damned fool Lavender?’

  Woods could not decide whether Carnaby’s face was red with exertion or anger. The man wore a stained riding coat and buckskin breeches and clutched a bloodied horsewhip in his right hand. Briefly, Woods wondered how hard the bastard had driven his poor horse on the ride into town, and the thought angered him. Woods shoved his clenched fists into his pockets.

  ‘Detective Lavender is away on Mr Armstrong’s business,’ he said slowly.

  Carnaby’s eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened on his whip. ‘All business concerning my sister is also my business,’ he snarled between gritted teeth. ‘I cannot fathom why you haven’t reported the attempt on her life this morning. And why your detective instructed Beddows not to tell me anything about it.’

  Damn that ruddy Constable Beddows, thought Woods. The blethering idiot has gone straight back to Carnaby with the news.

  ‘I’m sure Detective Lavender had his reasons. For the record, I could not be sure that the lass in the graveyard were your sister. She could have been anyone. It were barely dawn.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. You’re both a pair of incompetents. Nor am I impressed to discover that you’ve also questioned my cook behind my back.’

  Another one who can’t be trusted, Woods thought. Damn the bloody cook. What about Anna? Was she still his friend?

  ‘You can stay away from Linn Hagh and my servants, do you hear? I shall complain to Armstrong about your cack-handed methods.’

  Woods had endured enough. Gentry or not, this cocksure braggart thrashed his younger siblings and had tried to murder one of them. Disgust rose in his throat like bile. The whole tavern had fallen silent now; everyone watched the two men closely. Woods pushed back the table, its legs screeching in protest along the flagstones.

  Carnaby fell silent in surprise when Woods stood and squared up to him. He stared Carnaby straight in the eyes. The two men were the same height. Carnaby might have been ten years younger, but Woods was broader and more confident in a fight.

  ‘I’ll bid you a good day. This interview is over, Mister Carnaby.’

  Carnaby’s plain face contorted with rage as he sized up the defiant man before him.

  ‘Don’t you try to dismiss me, you insolent dog! You’re nothing but a pathetic excuse for a policeman. I’ve a good mind to—’

  ‘To what?’ Woods shouted. ‘Use yer ridin’ whip on me? Come on then, man, try it.’

  Startled, Carnaby edged back slightly.

  ‘Why, you!’

  Carnaby began to raise his arm but then stopped midway when he caught the glint of iron flint in Woods’ eyes.

  ‘If you raise that whip at me, Mister Carnaby’—the constable’s deep voice was loud, calm and dangerous—‘I’ll take it off you, snap it and slam both ends up between your blind cheeks and into your arse.’

  There were howls of delighted laughter from around the tavern. Woods stared straight ahead, his face rigid. His eyes never left Carnaby’s face.

  ‘You tell him, Constable!’

  Carnaby’s face flashed with a mixture of confusion and fury. Then he broke eye contact with Woods and turned on his heel.

  ‘Stay away from Linn Hagh!’ he shouted over his shoulder as he stormed out of the taproom.

  ‘There’s never a dull minute in this here tavern since you gadgies came to join us!’ Jethro Hamilton was laughing his head off.

  ‘You London detectives have a real charmin’ manner,’ Isaac Daly added. ‘One helluva way with words!’

  Woods paused to let his racing heart calm down while the public house continued to comment and laugh around him. He reached down for his glass.

  That’s buggered it, he thought.

  He shrugged and drank off the last of his ale.

  What’s done is done, he reasoned as he burped up the gas. Lavender has nearly got this case in the bag, and George Carnaby should be in gaol by the Sabbath. Too tense to return to his afternoon nap, he decided to ride out to Otterburn and try to track down some evidence about the murdering bravo who stalked Miss Helen.

  Meanwhile, Lavender had changed his plans.

  Katherine Armstrong’s words rang in his ears as he left her home: ‘Find this terrible man, Detective—and find him quickly—please!’

  She was right. Catching the thug who had tried to murder Helen Carnaby should be his main priority. He primed his pistol and set off on foot through Hareshaw Woods towards Linn Hagh. The dense woodland remained as silent and secretive as ever. Apart from the distant roar of the waterfall, he could hear the steady drip of condensation from the naked branches arched above his head. He saw no one. Yet, no matter how quietly he trod along the muddy path, he still felt that someone else was watching him, someone who was quieter and slyer than he.

  The ground around the caves in the gorge was heavily trampled. He had no doubt that Beddows and his beadles had been there before him. The pile of rags within the cave had been disturbed and carelessly tossed to one side, but the ashes of the fire were cold, and there was no sign that new fires had been lit or that the murdering beggar had returned to his lair.

  Fighting back his disappointment, he resolved to pay another visit to the faw camp. He reckoned the gypsies owed him a favour.

  Paul Faa Geddes listened quietly when Lavender described the man they sought. His weathered, rubbery face contorted as he chewed his tobacco.

  ‘I knows the gadgie you mean,’ he said at last. ‘He’s camped out in them woods, on and off, like, fer a few months.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’ Lavender asked.

  Geddes barked out a question in Romany over his shoulder. The other gypsies, lurking beside the tents, shook their heads.

  ‘No. None of us have seen him fer several days.’

  ‘Have any of you ever talked to him? Can you tell me anything about him at all?’

  Geddes shook his head and watched Lavender dispassionately from the depths of his penetrating dark eyes.

  Lavender could feel frustration and disappointment descend on him like a cold winter fog.

  ‘Keep your women close and your eyes open,’ Lavender advised him. ‘This man is a murderer. There’s a twenty guinea reward out from the Armstrongs for his capture.’

  When he turned to go, Paul Geddes grabbed his arm and stopped him.<
br />
  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing fer nowt,’ Geddes said.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘This gadgie knows Hareshaw Woods like the back of his hand. He slips through the trees like a spirit. Every time one of us gets close to the fellah, he disappears.’

  Lavender’s brow lifted in surprise.

  ‘Surely no one knows Hareshaw Woods better than you and your people?’

  ‘We know them well,’ Geddes conceded. He spat his tobacco down onto the ground. ‘But this gadgie roams the woods like he were born here . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thursday, 25th November 1809

  Linn Hagh was in turmoil. Miss Isobel was in a right mood.

  Mr Armstrong had sent word that he, Miss Katherine and the London detective would arrive at eleven to demonstrate how Helen Carnaby left her locked bedchamber. This had thrown Miss Isobel into a panic; she raced around the Great Hall, scooping up discarded riding boots and dragging Anna in her wake.

  ‘Put that dirty crockery onto a tray and take it downstairs,’ she instructed. ‘Then sweep up that mud and remove the cobweb by the window.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re fussing so,’ said Master George from behind his newspaper. As usual, he was sprawled across his favourite chair in front of the fire. ‘The Armstrongs and their pet detective want access to Helen’s bedchamber, not this room.’

  ‘This place is a pigsty,’ snapped Miss Isobel. ‘Half the furniture is broken or faded. I can’t have Katherine Armstrong thinking that this is how we live. The woman’s tongue is as sharp as her nose.’

  But it is how you live, thought Anna as she gathered up the last of the brandy glasses. Why try to hide it? She tried to work out how long it had been since the Carnabys had entertained a lady at Linn Hagh but quickly gave up. Miss Isobel did not have any friends, and she couldn’t remember any guests in the last year apart from Ingram and Emmerson.

  ‘You should have told them no,’ Miss Isobel complained. ‘Told John Armstrong to bugger off .’

  ‘Now, now, that’s not very ladylike,’ admonished her brother. ‘Talk sense, Izzie. We can’t afford to offend the likes of Armstrong; that starched old fox still has a finger in every pie in Bellingham. He’s got influence.’

  ‘And why do they want two of my beeswax candles taken up to Helen’s room?’ she demanded. ‘And two scuttles of coal? I’ve barely got any candles left after Sister Helen’s acts of thievery. It’s broad daylight. What do they want candles for?’

  ‘How should I know?’ the master snapped. ‘I just hope Armstrong is not foolish enough to bring along that insolent dog of a constable. If that sod tries to set foot on my property, I’ll flay the bastard alive.’

  I’d like to see you try, thought Anna triumphantly. She had no idea what her favourite policeman had done to upset George Carnaby, but her master had returned from town in a right mood yesterday, ranting and cursing his head off about the constable. She had been delighted to see him so put out.

  From a window in the Great Hall, Anna watched the Armstrongs’ coach wind slowly up the weed-strewn drive of Linn Hagh. It was just before eleven. Master George sat up, brushed fragments of snuff off his stained shirt and hastily buttoned up his waistcoat.

  ‘Izzie!’ he roared.

  To Anna’s annoyance, Miss Isobel emerged from her bedroom in Helen Carnaby’s favourite high-waisted dress of soft turquoise satin. She arranged herself across the chaise longue like she was about to pose for a portrait. With her sallow skin and wiry black hair, she looked like an old crow decked out in peacock feathers.

  Anna stomped down the stairs to the great oak door of the pele tower. Its weight strained against the creaking iron hinges when she opened it.

  The elderly Mr Armstrong struggled up the steps to the entrance to Linn Hagh, aided by his coachman and the detective. Lavender glanced up at her.

  ‘Hello, Anna.’ He smiled. She ignored him and scanned the coach hopefully for a glimpse of Constable Woods. There was no sign of him. She sighed.

  The guests paused in the vestibule opposite the entrance to the kitchen and stared up the gloomy, well-worn stone staircase of the ancient pele tower.

  ‘It’s on the top floor, I’m afraid,’ Lavender said.

  ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come,’ Miss Armstrong suggested. She wafted past Anna in a cloud of perfume and a swishing plum velvet pelisse, her faced etched with concern for her father. She had an odd-shaped hat balanced on her grey curls and an oversized fur hand muff.

  ‘Nonsense,’ the old man said. ‘I’m determined to see this through to the end. I’ll understand what happened to poor Helen, even if the effort kills me.’ His gnarled hand shook as it gripped the top of his walking stick.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa tea, ma’am?’ Anna asked as the party began their laborious ascent of the main staircase.

  Miss Armstrong paused and fixed her intelligent eyes on the housemaid.

  ‘Has your mistress been anywhere near the kitchen this morning?’

  ‘Er, no, ma’am,’ Anna replied, confused. ‘It’s just been me and Cook in there since yesterday.’

  ‘Very well. In that case, Father and I will take a cup of tea.’

  Anna bobbed a curtsey, suppressed her curiosity about Miss Armstrong’s strange comment and dashed into the steamy kitchen to ask Mistress Norris to make tea.

  Next, she hurried past the Armstrongs up the stairs and announced their arrival to Master George and Miss Isobel in the Great Hall.

  It was all very embarrassing. The Armstrongs remained on the landing in the doorway to the hall, an action that forced the Carnabys to leave the warmth of the fireplace and walk over to join them.

  ‘Katherine! It’s been too long! How delightful to see you,’ Miss Isobel gushed.

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ Miss Armstrong replied coldly. ‘This isn’t a social call, Izzie. Detective Lavender has something to show us in Helen’s bedchamber. He will demonstrate how she escaped from a locked room. Perhaps we could go straight up?’

  George Carnaby moved towards Mr Armstrong, his hand held out in greeting. The old man ignored him, turned his back and hobbled towards the next flight of stairs. His walking stick tapped angrily across the flagstones.

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said over his shoulder.

  Miss Isobel gasped at his rudeness and exchanged an angry glance with her brother.

  Silently, they all followed the guests up the remaining stairs. Anna hovered on the landing outside the Great Hall, unsure whether to go up. She desperately wanted to see how Miss Helen had got out of a locked room but didn’t want to risk a public rebuke from her mistress.

  ‘We’ll need your help, too, Anna,’ the detective shouted down. She didn’t need a second invitation. She picked up her skirts and raced up behind them, her boots clattering noisily against the stone.

  In the cold, narrow corridor between the two second-floor bedchambers, the detective had stopped before Miss Helen’s room, its battered door still missing the top half chopped away under the fury of George Carnaby’s axe. The bottom half remained a forest of jagged shards and splinters.

  ‘No, this won’t do.’ Lavender shook his head. ‘I’d forgotten how badly damaged the door was. We shall have to use the servant’s bedchamber for the demonstration.’

  Without asking permission, and much to Anna’s dismay, he turned around, lifted the latch and opened the only intact wooden door on the landing. It was the room she shared with the cook.

  Lavender stood back politely, to allow the Armstrongs to enter.

  Well, at least he’s got some manners, Anna thought tartly.

  By the time she entered, Mr Armstrong had collapsed, exhausted, onto the thin, fraying quilt that covered her own little bed. Miss Armstrong lowered herself gracefully onto the other bed in the room. The spring
s squeaked alarmingly beneath her weight. At this point, Anna noticed the artificial berries on Miss Armstrong’s domed velvet bonnet.

  Toss some brandy on her, set fire to it and she’d flare up like a Christmas puddin, she thought. Neither Katherine Armstrong nor Isobel Carnaby could hold a candle to Miss Helen’s style, grace and elegance, she decided. Her heart ached for the missing woman.

  Miss Isobel lurked at the edge of the room with her brother. In Miss Helen’s peacock gown, she looked out of place and gaudy against the plain, whitewashed walls of a humble servant’s room. Anna saw that she was shivering and fought back her natural impulse to offer to fetch her shawl. Her mistress’ sharp eyes took in every detail of the small pile of personal possessions on the dresser: Anna’s hairbrush and comb, her Bible and the heap of stockings waiting to be darned.

  ‘Don’t worry, Anna, we won’t be in here any longer than necessary,’ the detective said suddenly. She flushed slightly and wondered how he had been able to read her mind so well. His severe expression broke, and a slight smile lifted the edges of his lips. He looked quite nice when he smiled, she thought, even though it was hard to see the expression in his dark eyes beneath those hooded eyelids. He had what her mother called ‘good cheekbones.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch in the two scuttles of coal outside on the landing and start a fire for us?’ he asked.

  Anna needed no second bidding. She dropped to her knees, arranged the kindling and struck the tinderbox she carried in her apron pocket. The fire blazed. Delighted, she fetched the scuttles and heaped a shovel full of coal into the flames. As the fuel settled into place, a cloud of black coal dust rose lightly into the air. A fire in their bedchamber! With any luck, the embers would still be glowing tonight. For once, she and Mistress Norris would not shiver, but sleep comfortably in their narrow beds.

  She stepped back and nearly clapped her hands with joy when Detective Lavender picked up the second scuttle and hurled most of its contents noisily into the grate.