Anna just nodded and slipped the note into her apron pocket. She would read it later. Right now she had an urgent need to speak to Mistress Norris.
‘You will find her, won’t you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Anna. I will.’
She nodded again, then turned back inside and scurried off in search of the cook.
She desperately wanted to know what ‘despoil’ meant.
Three hours later, Lavender and Woods boarded a coach for Morpeth and set off for their prearranged meeting with Magistrate Clennell to discuss the new evidence that had come to light in the case of the Kirkley Hall robbery.
Lavender nearly sent word to Clennell that he wanted to cancel the appointment.
The murderous beggar who had tried to kill Helen Carnaby in St Cuthbert’s churchyard was still at large. Beddows and his men had failed to uncover any trace of the assassin in Hareshaw Woods or Bellingham. Woods’ ride out to Otterburn had also failed to uncover any fresh evidence or new leads. The landlord of The Redesdale Arms and his wife were away visiting their eldest daughter in Alnwick. The remaining servants in the tavern were surly and uncommunicative when questioned by his constable.
Frustrated, Lavender knew that he needed to pursue this line of enquiry himself, but until the landlord of The Redesdale Arms returned, there was not much point. Beddows’ incompetence and failure to catch the would-be killer didn’t surprise him, but it was another source of irritation. He needed more help. He and Woods were strangers to the area and had limited knowledge of the community or the terrain. If Paul Faa Geddes was right and the man they sought had local knowledge, then they might never find him. There were thousands of acres of countryside around Bellingham where a man like him could lie low.
In the end, Lavender resolved to keep his appointment with Clennell and use the opportunity to ask the magistrate for help from the local militia. It was the only way. He needed more men—good men—to help him flush the murderous cove out from that desolate and empty landscape. He considered leaving Woods behind to continue to search alone, but then reasoned that one man alone would not make much difference in the hunt for an assassin, who could merge into the foliage of the woodland with more skill than the gypsies.
He boarded the coach to Morpeth with a deep sense of foreboding. Apart from his obvious worry about the safety of Helen Carnaby, who he hoped was still safe in her secret lair; he also had a niggling feeling that he had overlooked some vital clue or lead. Something was not right.
As the coach rolled and jolted down rutted country lanes, his mind went over and over the evidence he had collected. Yes, there were still some concerns outstanding. The copy of Baxter Carnaby’s will had not yet arrived from Mr Agar in Newcastle. Abel Knowles, the drover, had not been located, and they would have to wait until Saturday to speak to the landlord of The Redesdale Arms. But apart from these, he had diligently followed up every lead. He had solved the mystery of Helen Carnaby’s escape from a locked room and had interviewed everyone connected with her and her mysterious disappearance. Even Mr Armstrong had been pleased when they had all returned to Bellingham after their visit to Linn Hagh.
‘You’ve done well, Lavender. You’ve got further in this case than I ever dreamt you would,’ he’d said.
Yet still Lavender had this infuriating sensation that there was another piece to uncover in this perplexing mystery, and that bothered him.
It bothered him a lot.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Friday, 26th November 1809
The Black Bull public house, Morpeth
Strewth.’
Magistrate Clennell stared hard at Lavender across the private parlour of the Black Bull in Morpeth. Beneath grey bushy eyebrows, his piercing eyes were wide with surprise. A look of incredulity had replaced the deep frown that normally lined his face.
Clennell, Lavender and Woods had spent the last hour listening to the testimony of the horse thief William Taylerson, who claimed to have new evidence against Jamie Charlton, a man suspected of robbing Kirkley Hall the previous year. Now that they had concluded this business and the gaolers were hustling the condemned Taylerson back to Morpeth Gaol, Lavender had started to tell Clennell about the mysterious case of the missing heiress.
‘You say that you believe it was the young woman herself who orchestrated this elaborate ploy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me more.’
Lavender leant against the window frame, glad to stretch his legs after the long coach journey from Bellingham. Carefully, he explained the rest of the story about how Helen Carnaby had escaped from Linn Hagh. While he spoke, he caught sight of the gaolers dragging Taylerson across Morpeth’s cobbled market square. The horse thief blinked in the low winter sunlight and stumbled over his ankle chains.
When Lavender had finished, he closed the window reluctantly. The sickening stench of Morpeth Gaol had entered the tavern parlour with Taylerson and was still trapped beneath the low beams on the ceiling.
The room also smelt of treachery.
Lavender had serious misgivings about the use of informants, especially informants who were so desperate to avoid the hangman’s noose themselves that they would say anything. At next summer’s assizes, it would be Taylerson’s word against Charlton’s. Yet he had no doubt that the local jury of landed gentry and prosperous merchants would convict the farm labourer, Charlton. They were desperate to hang someone for this notorious robbery and probably wouldn’t be too fussy about whether they had the right man. Jamie Charlton’s fate was sealed; it was only a matter of time before he was sentenced to hang for the robbery at Kirkley Hall.
‘I asked you why she ran away.’ Impatience hardened Clennell’s voice.
Lavender shook off his dark mood and brought his mind back to the current case at Bellingham.
‘I believe that she fled her family home because she feared for her life.’
He told Clennell about the evidence they had uncovered, including the digitalis found in Isobel Carnaby’s possession, the man who stalked the heiress through Hareshaw Woods and the comments of the servants and the gypsy girl about the atmosphere of violence and danger that hung over Linn Hagh. Finally, he told him about the attempt on Helen Carnaby’s life in the graveyard.
‘I need help from the militia to find and arrest this man. I’m convinced it was the same man who stalked her. The local constable is a useless fool.’
‘Certainly,’ Clennell nodded, and he turned to the dowdy little man seated beside him. ‘My clerk will draft a letter to Captain Wentworth of the militia immediately.’
The scribe took up his quill and adjusted his spectacles.
While Clennell dictated his letter for Captain Wentworth and the cleric’s feather scratched across the parchment, Lavender and his constable waited patiently. The smell of the roast meat began to drift into their private parlour from the tavern kitchens. Woods shuffled uncomfortably on a hard-backed chair by the door. They could hear muffled laughter from the taproom across the corridor and the slow, rhythmic tick of the long case clock that stood in the corner.
‘I also require warrants for the arrest of both George and Isobel Carnaby,’ Lavender said.
Clennell looked up from the table, surprised.
‘I’m convinced that one or the other of the Carnabys would confess to conspiring to murder their sister, if they found themselves in Hexham Gaol for a few nights.’
‘Possibly,’ Clennell conceded. He scratched his head beneath the edge of his wig. ‘However, this evidence, although compelling, is still circumstantial: a few shreds of snuff found in a cave on Carnaby’s own land; a button and a box of digitalis, which could have been used for rat poison. These will not get you a conviction.’
‘There is also a possible case for a charge against Isobel Carnaby for the murder of her stepmother. I believe Doctor Goddard would be a credible witness.’
<
br /> ‘Yes, Robert Goddard is a good man,’ Clennell agreed. ‘He’s a native of Morpeth. His late mother lived near my sister in Castle Square, but . . .’
‘But?’ Lavender prompted.
Clennell sighed and rolled his eyes. He took off his wig and gave his close-cropped greying head another scratch.
‘Normally, Robert Goddard would make a convincing witness, but his mother died a few weeks ago, and rumour has it that the man is distracted with grief. It’s possible that Goddard is fanciful in his suspicions.’
‘He seemed perfectly sane and reasonable when he treated Constable Woods for digitalis poisoning.’ Lavender could feel the magistrate’s resistance. His hope of acquiring a warrant for the arrest of the Carnabys began to fade.
Clennell shrugged. ‘Maybe he was. I understand from my wife that Goddard’s mother’s death has hit him hard. He repulses all visitors and offers of help from his neighbours and friends in Morpeth. My sister tells me that he talks about leaving his practice in Bellingham and emigrating to the Americas.’
Lavender raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’ This was interesting news.
‘You say that you believe the girl is safe for the moment?’
‘I believe she has eloped with her lover,’ Lavender said.
Clennell closed his mouth into a tight line and frowned. ‘Who is he?’
‘Until Helen Carnaby’s would-be murderer is apprehended, I’m not prepared to say.’
Woods gasped behind him, and the clerk glanced up from the letter in alarm. Silence descended into the room as Clennell weighed up Lavender’s defiance. The Northumberland magistrate narrowed his eyes and said, ‘I’m not comfortable with the idea that a young woman’s reputation and morality is in such danger—and I’m sure my friend John Armstrong won’t be either. What if this rogue has not married her, or refuses to marry her when she turns twenty-one? She will be completely ruined.’ His voice was like granite.
‘I believe that she would be in far greater danger if she came out into the open and returned to the Carnaby family home,’ Lavender said. ‘Until George Carnaby is in Hexham Gaol—along with his poisonous sister and their assassin—I’m very happy for Helen Carnaby to remain where she is. Her brother would reclaim her immediately if she came out into the open, and God only knows what would happen then.’
There was another awkward pause.
‘I know nothing of this fellow George Carnaby, but it seems to me that you’ve already decided—without sufficient evidence—that he is guilty of crimes against his sister.’
‘I’m confident that he is.’
Clennell frowned.
‘I’ve explained the situation in full to Mr Armstrong,’ Lavender lied. ‘He is happy to trust in my integrity.’
Clennell shrugged, pulled on his wig and reached for his hat and gloves. The clerk handed a letter for Captain Wentworth to Constable Woods and then hurried to gather up the papers strewn across the table.
‘Well, this is a private family matter, of course, not a public one. John Armstrong—not her half-brother—has employed you to track down this girl,’ Clennell conceded. ‘He knows what is best for his family, although I’m surprised he agreed to this course of action.’
He and his clerk rose and moved towards the door. Woods opened it for them, but the magistrate turned back before he left the room.
‘Find this murderous rogue, Lavender, and maybe then you’ll get the evidence you need to arrest the Carnabys. In the meantime, remember that although it’s only a matter of weeks before Helen Carnaby comes of age, she is still under the legal protection of her brother.’ He paused now, then spoke slowly to emphasise every word. ‘If you’re wrong about Carnaby’s evil intentions, you could be in very serious trouble.’
‘I understand,’ Lavender said.
‘Should the girl reappear as a married woman in January, he may still bring charges against her lover—out of vengeance—and you may find yourself caught up in a very unsavoury mess.’
The heavy door swung closed behind them.
Woods joined Lavender by the window.
‘It seems to me that Magistrate Clennell was more reluctant to condemn a member of the gentry to trial than he was when it came to condemnin’ a common labourer, James Charlton.’
‘Of course he was.’ Lavender’s tone was bitter. ‘We have to remember, Ned, whom the law has been designed to protect—and from whom.’
He strode angrily over to the fireplace, leant against the mantelpiece and stared down into the flames. He had expected that Clennell would refuse the arrest warrants, but it didn’t make his disappointment any easier to bear. Being right was not satisfying in this case.
A potman knocked on the door and came in with a message. He handed Lavender a folded letter addressed to ‘Detective Lavender at The Black Bull in Morpeth.’
‘Who sent it?’ Woods asked.
‘Armstrong,’ Lavender replied as he tore open the seal. His eyes scanned the contents, and he turned pale. Bile rose in his throat.
‘My God!’
‘What’s amiss?’
‘You must set off immediately to Captain Wentworth, rouse the militia and head back to Bellingham.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
Lavender reached for his hat and cane. ‘I must get the next coach back to Bellingham at once . . .’ He stared at his constable in horror and disbelief. How could he have been so wrong? Why had he not foreseen this?
‘They’ve found the body of a woman in a quarry near to the town . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘She’s been badly burnt.’
‘What! Burnt? Why burnt?’
‘They believe it’s the corpse of Helen Carnaby.’
Woods inhaled sharply. ‘Surely that is impossible, sir? If . . .’ His voice trailed away.
‘Oh, there’s more,’ Lavender said bitterly. ‘Beddows has arrested her brother for her murder.’
Woods’ face lit up in surprise and hope.
‘What? George Carnaby?’
‘No,’ Lavender groaned. ‘Matthew Carnaby—the family idiot. He has been arrested by Beddows for the murder of his sister, Helen.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lavender leant his head back against the wood panelling of the carriage and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the jolting of the coach and the conversation of his fellow passengers. A miserable lump of dread sat heavily in his stomach.
He had been unable to get a coach back to Bellingham that day and had had to settle for one back to Hexham instead. He would take a connection up to Bellingham first thing in the morning.
To return via Hexham was probably a good thing, he decided. The message from Armstrong had told him that Matthew Carnaby had been dragged off to the old gaol in Hexham. He would visit the wretch and attempt to interrogate him tonight.
Matthew Carnaby. The mute. The damaged, childlike family idiot. The man who had opened the door and enabled his sister to slip out of the pele tower unnoticed. The one member of the Carnaby family whom Lavender had consistently ignored during his investigation—at what terrible cost?
Only yesterday at Linn Hagh, he had referred to the younger Carnaby brother as the ‘missing piece of the jigsaw.’ Yet even then, he had still not recognised the man’s significance to the case. Why had he not seen it? How had he so completely overlooked this man in his investigation?
Bile rose in his throat again and he struggled to swallow. His indigestion had returned to plague him.
Ignoring Matthew Carnaby had been a terrible mistake—and now it looked like the missing heiress had paid for this mistake with her life.
After the excitement of the visit from the Armstrongs and Detective Lavender, Anna did her best to keep out of the way for the rest of the day. Both George and Isobel Carnaby were in foul moods.
About half past four, Anna stood at the window and wa
tched the wintery sun begin to set behind Hareshaw Woods. It had been a cold but clear day, and the sky blended calmly into vermillion and scarlet layers above the distant orb as it sank. The top branches of the skeletal trees became black silhouettes on the horizon against the vast red canvas of the sky. It was pretty; she liked to watch the sunset.
There was movement on the meandering road that led up the rise to the pele tower. In the encroaching gloom, she could just make out Constable Beddows on his horse. He led a sombre procession towards Linn Hagh. One of the beadles drove a flat cart containing a large lump covered with sackcloth.
When he arrived at the door, she showed the constable up to the master and mistress in the Great Hall and, unconcerned, returned to the steamy kitchen to help Mistress Norris with the supper.
Isobel Carnaby’s scream rent the peace of the kitchen. Startled, Anna dropped her vegetable knife onto the flagstones.
The next second, George Carnaby thundered down the stairs in his shirtsleeves, trailing Constable Beddows in his wake.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he yelled.
He paused, wild-eyed, at the entrance to the kitchen and gesticulated to Peter, their manservant.
‘Peter! Get a light! Move, man!’
Frightened, Anna stepped back out of the way as Peter leapt to his feet from his chair at the kitchen table, grabbed a lantern and hurried to join the master.
‘You, girl—see to your mistress!’
The three men left the hall. Anna regained her wits and hurried upstairs.
Miss Isobel was slumped on the chaise longue, crying into a handkerchief.
‘Fetch me the smelling salts, girl,’ she snapped between sobs. ‘I’m overcome—poor Helen! To think it has come to this!’
Fear crept into the pit of Anna’s stomach. She froze to the spot.
‘What is it . . . ? What’s happened?’
‘Just get me sal volatile!’
Anna dashed into her mistress’ bedroom. Her hands shook as she searched amongst the glass vials on the dresser. As her fingers closed around the small bottle of sal volatile, she found herself drawn to the window.
The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Page 21
