Anna heard the chink of brandy glasses and realised that the Carnabys had just made a silent toast.
‘Robert Goddard is a bloody fool,’ the master continued. ‘But I’ll fetch Horrocks over from Newcastle—he’ll identify the body—and the lawyers will have to accept that she’s dead. We’ll soon have the money.’
They paused and Anna suddenly became aware of her own breathing. She began to panic that they could hear her. Had she made a noise?
Oh, for God’s sake, did it matter? Anger welled up in her like a flash flood in a spring stream. She knew what she had to do. She walked into the room and dumped the tray on the table with a crash.
Isobel Carnaby looked up in surprise.
‘Careful, girl,’ she warned.
Anna didn’t reply or look at her mistress as she walked out. Her legs didn’t take her back down to the kitchen either. Spurred on by anger and disgust, she found new strength and leapt upstairs to her room at the top of the tower.
Within five minutes, she had pulled out all her things and stuffed them into her tatty old carpetbag. At the bottom of her drawer, she found the note Constable Woods had sent her:
Anna,
You must be very careful, treacle. There is a murderer in Bellingham. Take care and don’t go out alone.
For a moment, she paused, then shook her head and grabbed her darning pile from the top of the dresser to stuff it into the bag.
Stick to the road, the constable had continued. If any strange man is seen around Linn Hagh, can you send me word? And if George Carnaby meets with any men you don’t know, I want to know about that as well.
She pulled a scrap of parchment out of the drawer and stared at its fire-blackened edges. She had found this strange little note a few days ago while cleaning out the hearth in the Great Hall. She had assumed that Mr George had thrown out some old papers of his father’s. This one had fallen out of the fire, and she had kept it in case Miss Helen wanted it as a souvenir of her da; it was signed by Baxter Carnaby. But there was no point in keeping it for her now. She felt sorry she had let Constable Woods down, but perhaps this note might show him that she had tried?
She stuffed it into her apron pocket and felt the brittle, flaking edges of the burnt piece of cloth from Miss Helen’s dress. Yes, she would give him that, too. She needed to go—now.
Two minutes later, she had on her cloak and was at the bottom of the stairs. The startled cook saw her at the door.
‘Where d’ya think yer going?’ she demanded.
‘I’m leavin’ ,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘What, just like that?’
Anna ignored her. She opened the heavy door, walked out and slammed the door shut behind her. The cold night air slapped her viciously in the face, but she didn’t care.
She scurried down the icy steps and ran down the dark road, desperate to put as much distance between herself and Linn Hagh as possible. As she neared the bend in the road, she threw a last frantic glance over her shoulder, but no one followed her. She rounded the corner and slowed down to catch her breath. Her chest ached with the exertion, but she didn’t care.
She was free.
An hour later, she was sobbing in the comforting arms of her mother, in the warmth of their tiny kitchen. After she had cried her eyes out, her mother made her a cup of sweet tea, and she started to feel a bit better.
‘Eee! I nearly forgot,’ the elderly woman said. She left her chair and fetched Anna a letter from the old dresser.
Anna stared at it in amazement. ‘To Miss Anna Jones,’ it read.
‘It were pushed through the door yesterday. Go on,’ her mother said with excitement. ‘Open it and tell us what it says.’
Anna’s hands trembled as she reached for a kitchen knife to break the seal.
The handwriting belonged to Helen Carnaby.
Chapter Thirty
Saturday, 27th November 1809
Lavender arrived at Linn Hagh just before ten o’ clock.
The manservant, Peter, met him at the steps to the tower and grasped the reins of his horse.
‘The master’s not in,’ the servant said. ‘Shall I tell the mistress yer here?’
Lavender shook his head, relieved that he didn’t have to see Carnaby. ‘No, don’t bother your mistress; it must be a difficult time for her. I’m only here to examine the body.’
‘Ye’ll find her in there.’ The old man jerked his head towards a small wooden door at the base of the steps. Grief contorted his leathered face. ‘Don’t expect me to come in with you—I can’t stand it.’
Lavender dismounted slowly. Woods had told him that the old man was the most tight-lipped of all the Linn Hagh servants, yet the death of Helen Carnaby seemed to have shaken the taciturn old fellow quite badly. Without Carnaby there, he seemed quite garrulous.
‘Where’s your master gone?’ Lavender asked.
‘He’s gan to the toon. He went yesterday to fetch Doctor Horrocks so as he can identify Miss Helen.’
‘Surely Doctor Goddard from Bellingham can do that?’
‘Aye, he coulda . . .’ Lavender heard the hesitation. ‘He were here, like, two nights ago.’
‘What happened?’
The servant shook his head and led Lavender’s horse away towards a stone water trough at the base of the tower. The old man had clearly said enough.
Lavender pushed open the creaking door and paused to steady himself. He had attended several house fires in London in his time, and had helped to drag out the bodies afterwards, but it never got any easier to deal with the horror.
The gloomy ground floor of the pele tower had an uneven earth floor and a barrelled stone ceiling. Several animal pens lined the rough-hewn sides. The only light came from the open door behind him and two grimy, deep-set windows, built low in the walls. The ancient wooden stalls were riddled with woodworm. Scattered with straw, the whole place reeked of animal excrement. He felt thankful for that. It would cover the smell of roasted flesh that would still hover over the body.
Suddenly the poor light dimmed. He turned round to see Peter stood in the doorway behind him. ‘She were found in the old quarry farther up the road. Him at Thrush Farm found her.’
‘Thank you.’ Lavender said. He sensed that the old man had not finished.
‘The master had a right fight with Doctor Goddard aboot it all; they were yelling their heads off.’ Then the servant disappeared from the doorway.
Lavender struck a light and hung a lantern close to the wooden table where the corpse lay covered with sacking. Next, he braced himself and lifted the cloth.
The whole of the body was badly burnt. The flames had eliminated all body hair and charred the tissue to darkened leather, which stretched tightly across the bones on the young woman’s face and limbs. Her remaining flesh was so taut that it revealed the contours of the muscles and skeleton beneath. Her eyes were welded shut, but her jaw and teeth gaped up at him in a grotesque grimace of agony.
He fought back a wave of nausea and tried to focus on examining the remains for clues.
There was clear evidence that someone had repeatedly hacked at her throat. The terrified Matthew Carnaby had been lucid enough when he had mimed slicing his own throat. He now knew how this girl had died. He was relieved that the poor woman had been dead before her body hit the flames.
He steadied himself again, then carried out an examination of the rest of the remains. He noted the missing piece of cloth, chopped out with shears, from the hem of what remained of her dress.
When he finally emerged from the vault, he leant back against the rough stone of the tower and took great gulps of breath to remove the stench of horror from his nostrils and to calm his nerves. He walked over to the pump and washed his face and hands. The icy water refreshed him.
Now he had seen the corpse for himself, he could underst
and the disagreement between Goddard and Carnaby. Nothing was left to distinguish the body inside Linn Hagh from any other young woman in Bellingham. Carnaby would need an affidavit from a medical professional in order to bury the remains as Helen Carnaby and claim her fortune. It sounded like Goddard had refused to identify the remains.
For a moment, he felt relieved; Helen Carnaby could still be alive. It might not be her. But his reprieve was short-lived. If those remains were not those of the missing heiress, then whose were they? What had started out as an easy case to solve—a girl who had eloped with her lover—had now descended into a brutal murder.
Anger flashed through him. Whoever that poor girl was—whether it was Helen Carnaby or someone else—he would bring her killer to justice. If John Armstrong refused to pay any further expenses for this investigation, then he would carry on regardless.
An awful thought now entered his mind. ‘Where’s the housemaid, Anna?’
Carnaby’s manservant still loitered over by his horse. He looked up.
‘What, her?’ Peter rubbed his stubble with his grimy hand. ‘Oh, she legged it back to her ma’s on Thursday night. They say she’s not comin’ back. Too much fer her, I reckon—all this.’ He waved the arm of his tattered coat in the vague direction of the body. ‘Too much fer alla us,’ he added sadly.
Lavender nodded and sighed with relief. He walked over to his horse and ran his hand gently down its flank. He knew Woods would share his relief; his constable was fond of the little maid. He decided to try a few more questions while the man was in the mood to answer them.
‘How long have you worked here at Linn Hagh?’
‘Aboot twenty year.’
‘Has there ever been another man with the name Baxter Carnaby besides your old master—an uncle or a cousin, perhaps?’
The servant shook his head, scowled and stared at Lavender in confusion.
‘You knew Master Matthew Carnaby well?’
‘Aye.’
‘Do you think he was capable of doing that to a woman?’ Lavender jerked his thumb in the direction of the corpse.
The old man shook his head again and fought back a tear. ‘Poor sod. He were as gentle as a lamb—wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, many’s the time I’ve seen him tek flies outta spiders’ webs.’
Lavender nodded and put his foot in the stirrup. ‘You’ve been very helpful—thank you,’ he said.
‘Are you gannin’ back to Bellingham?’
‘No.’ Lavender swung himself up into the saddle. ‘I’m going to see the faws.’
Peter laughed. ‘You’re too late,’ he said gleefully. ‘They’ve gan.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’ Lavender was shocked.
The manservant shrugged. ‘Who knows? I reckon they knew they’d end up being blamed fer this lot.’ He jerked his thumb again towards the ancient door at the base of the pele tower. ‘I reckon they’ve legged it afore Jethro Hamilton and his boys come back to burn them out. They’ve fled to the hills, I’m thinkin’ .’
‘Did George Carnaby throw them off his land?’
‘No. Theys just upped and left.’
Lavender didn’t wait to hear any more. He whipped his horse into a gallop and tore across the field towards the faw camp.
Peter was right.
All that remained of the gypsy camp were the cold, blackened rings of dead fires, the empty wooden outbuildings, brown patches of grass where the tents used to stand and a broken old cart balanced precariously on three wheels and a cairn of stones.
The Linn Hagh faws had gone.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lavender rode back to the lane, turned his horse up towards the old quarry and Thrush Farm but then heard the sound of hooves thundering up the muddy road behind him. He turned back and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Constable Woods. His broad, ruddy face shone with sweat as he reined in his horse beside the detective.
‘Well met, Ned,’ Lavender said quietly.
‘Mornin,’ sir. They told me at The Rose and Crown that you had ridden out to Linn Hagh. Captain Wentworth and the militia are scouring every privy and outhouse in the town as we speak—and I weren’t needed, so I thought to come up and join you. If that murderer still hides in Bellingham, they’ll soon flush the bugger out. Wentworth plans to move outwards into the countryside once he has finished in town.’
‘Excellent,’ said Lavender. ‘I worked with him last year on the Kirkley Hall robbery case. Wentworth is a good man; he’ll leave no stone unturned.’
‘So what have you uncovered?’
‘Ride with me up to where they found the body, and I’ll tell you what I know.’
They left the dense woodland behind them, and the twisting road rose and dipped sharply as it traversed bleak and desolate fells. Mile after mile of ice-sharp moorland stretched beside them, broken only by haphazard stone walls flecked with lichen and moss. Occasionally, they saw a derelict, roofless stone farmhouse or a mournful flock of bleating sheep dotting the barren hilltops. Stunted alder and oak trees stretched out their bare limbs, silhouetted against the frozen sun like sentinels of the last outpost.
Finally, they found the quarry, an ugly grey gash in the hillside. Fallen rocks balanced precariously on top of each other like the haphazardly stacked building blocks of giant children. At the base of the quarry, their feet sank into a thick carpet of man-made stone chippings, all hewn from the rugged cliff face over centuries of excavation. Stagnant, ice-rimmed pools dotted the site.
A large black pile of ash stood out like a cancerous sore in the flat gravel bottom of the quarry.
Lavender dropped to his haunches; then, using a stick, he poked carefully through the debris of the fire and the ground beside it. Woods mooched around the edges, his eyes scanning the weeds and the brush that were trying to reclaim the thin soil.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Lavender called out, disappointed. ‘The murderer did a good job of cremating the body, and he’s left no sign of himself. Besides which, that bumbling idiot Beddows and his men have trampled this entire area like a herd of cows.’ He straightened up and walked over to Woods.
‘There’s nothin’ I can see that’ll help us over here either,’ his constable informed him.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Lavender moved forward and stooped down to pick up a scattered handful of dark evergreen leaves that littered the gravel. He took off his glove, stroked the leathery surface and serrated edges of the foliage, then passed a few of the leaves to Woods.
‘Where did these come from, do you think?’
His constable glanced around at the rocky quarry and the barren fields that fell away down to the road.
‘Now, I’m no expert on the local flora,’ Woods said, ‘but I reckon that these don’t belong here in this quarry.’
‘They don’t. This plant doesn’t grow within miles of this place. These leaves were brought—or dragged—to this place by someone.’
‘Why? What are they?’
Lavender crushed a leaf between his fingers; the aromatic scent—like crushed almonds—was unmistakable.
‘Prunus laurocerasus,’ he murmured.
‘Eh?’
‘Laurel leaves.’
‘You said Matthew Carnaby had a sprig of these in his bedchamber,’ Woods said.
‘Yes—and Laurel Faa Geddes wore a wreath of them on her head.’
The two men stared at each other grimly.
Thrush Farm was round the next bend in the road. It was an ancient low-lying collection of farm buildings that nestled in the shelter of a small valley, screened from the road by fir trees. Only the smoke from the ornate Jacobean chimney stacks that rose from the slate roof gave the two men an indication of its presence. Shutters protected the narrow mullioned windows, which were deeply set in the weathered walls.
Lavender hammered on the heavy oak door w
ith his tipstaff.
‘This is the home of the farmer who found the dead girl,’ he explained to Woods.
They heard furious barking from the nearby barn.
‘I hope them buggers are tied up properly,’ Woods said.
The door swung open, and the two police officers were startled to find themselves face-to-face with the burly figure of Jethro Hamilton. Of the three men, he seemed the least surprised to find them all standing there together.
‘Get yersens inside to the kitchen,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve bin expectin’ you.’ His mouth was set in a grim line, and his brow furrowed with concern.
He stepped aside, and Woods and Lavender entered a cold, flagged hallway. Hamilton closed the door and led them through to the back of the house.
The farm kitchen was warm and welcoming, and the delicious smell of broth and baking bread assaulted their nostrils. A huge fireplace arched across the side wall, where Hamilton’s wife stirred a pot over the range and glanced uneasily at the strangers accompanying her husband.
‘Alice, ’tis Detective Lavender and Constable Woods.’ Hamilton said simply.
His wife recovered from her surprise quickly and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Would you like a cuppa tea, Detectives?’ she asked. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’
Lavender nodded and peeled his gloves from his frozen hands.
‘That would be most welcome, Mistress Hamilton. Thank you.’
A battered old table with wooden benches and a couple of rickety, rush-seated chairs dominated the room. Three young boys, aged roughly between five and twelve, were seated here with slates in front of them. They gawped at Lavender and Woods, mouths wide open and chalk held up in midair.
‘Away, lads,’ their father said. The boys didn’t need a second bidding. Chairs scraped back across the flagstones and in a flurry of movement and a clatter of boots, the boys dashed out of the kitchen. Hamilton indicated for the officers to take their seats at the table.
‘They can’t allus get down to the school in Bellingham,’ the farmer explained awkwardly as he cleared away the chalks and slates. ‘I do what I can to give them a bit of schoolin’ up here.’
The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Page 23
