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

by Karen Charlton

  ‘I wonder what story she has told her uncle about her whereabouts over the last six weeks.’

  Lavender smiled. ‘During the journey back to Bellingham, Anna came up with the idea that I had discovered Helen Carnaby with an unknown friend in Whitby and sent for her to return.’

  ‘She’s a smart gal, that Anna.’

  Lavender smiled again.

  ‘I’m not sure if they’ll be able to pull the wool over John Armstrong’s eyes for long, especially when she marries Robert Goddard later this week, but I wish the ladies the best of luck with this ploy.’

  ‘Do you want to go and see the Armstrongs tonight?’ Woods asked when they finally returned to the quiet, snow-covered streets of Bellingham.

  ‘No, let the family celebrate Helen’s safe return,’ Lavender replied. ‘I’m hoping that Jethro Hamilton is at The Rose and Crown tonight. I want to see him.’

  ‘He might not be there.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be there,’ Lavender said with a smile. ‘His wife scolded him for assaulting George Carnaby when we left St Cuthbert’s. I suspect he’ll have sought refuge in the tavern. I want to buy Jethro Hamilton a drink. That was the most impressive right hook I’ve seen in a long time.’

  ‘The first jab or the second?’ Woods asked, smiling.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘He gave George Carnaby exactly what he deserved, in my opinion.’

  ‘And mine, although I’ve no doubt the vicar will have something to say in the pulpit next Sunday about the cursing and fighting that occurred on holy ground this morning.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ Woods snorted as they trudged across the cobbles. ‘The man was resisting arrest. Hamilton were right to lay him out.’

  ‘As I see it,’ Lavender concluded, ‘The Rose and Crown is Hamilton’s last refuge at the moment, after upsetting both his wife and the vicar. I’m sure he’ll be there. It’s the one place where he won’t get nagged for his behaviour. Besides which, Mistress McMullen has told me that she has never known her tavern to be so popular.’

  ‘What d’ya mean?’ Woods asked.

  ‘I think, my friend, that we’ve been the main attraction in this sleepy market town for the whole of the last ten days.’

  ‘What? Like Charles Dignum down in the Vauxhall Gardens?’

  ‘Yes, exactly like Charles Dignum.’

  ‘We should have charged them all a shilling apiece.’ Woods observed ruefully. He thought for a moment and then added, ‘We’ve given them a good show, though, haven’t we?’ There was satisfaction in his voice.

  ‘Yes, Ned.’ Lavender smiled. ‘We’ve given them a good show.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When their coach neared Barnby Moor on the return journey to London, Woods decided to bring up the question of the large brown-paper parcel in the luggage rack above Lavender’s head. Tied securely with coloured string, its label bore the following address and message: ‘Miss Mary Ann Elliot, Pilgrim Street, Newcastle. For a fashionable assortment of millinery, dresses, straw, leghorn, chip and willow bonnets. Imported seasonally from London’.

  Before they left Bellingham, Woods had overheard Lavender ask Helen Carnaby for the name of a good dressmaker in Newcastle. He assumed that the detective planned to buy a small present for his mother or one of his sisters. However, the sheer size of the parcel bothered him; whatever it contained was large and expensive.

  In addition to this mystery, Lavender had also returned from the shops in Newcastle with a selection of brand new shirts, a cravat and a fashionable, gold-striped, silk waistcoat. Doctor Goddard, it turned out, had also recommended a tailor.

  For Constable Woods, a trained police officer with the Bow Street Magistrates Court, this was a suspicious development.

  Lavender sat opposite him in the swaying coach, reading a news-sheet and frowning at reports of the Luddite disturbances in Nottinghamshire. Woods appreciated that the burgundy cravat suited the detective’s dark colouring, and the gold waistcoat gave him a look of affluence and class. But to see the detective wearing any colour at all was a new and very worrying occurrence. Lavender had always been a smart dresser, but he usually favoured a black waistcoat, either striped with grey or a patterned damask, with a crisp, white cravat.

  ‘What are you staring at, Ned?’ Lavender asked. He didn’t glance up from his news-sheet.

  ‘You intend to leave the coach at Barnby Moor, don’t you? And you’ll take another one to Gainsborough to visit that señora.’

  ‘My goodness,’ Lavender smiled. ‘We really must get you promoted to principal officer. Your talents are wasted in the horse patrol.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  ‘You knew what?’

  ‘That gypsy girl were right—the woman’s got under your skin.’

  ‘I only intend to make a fleeting visit, to carry out a promise I made.’

  ‘Magistrate Read will have you clapped in Newgate for desertion when you return to Bow Street.’

  The detective laughed and folded up his paper.

  ‘I doubt that. I’ve worked nonstop for the last two and a half years. He won’t begrudge me a few days away on personal business.’

  ‘Well, just be warned,’ Woods grumbled. ‘That faw girl said the señora were a “shape-shifter” .’

  Lavender raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘I think you’ve the bigger cause to be worried, Ned, if we’re to take the gypsy’s prophesies seriously. As I recall it, the girl said that your youngest daughter, the delightful Tabitha, will break your heart.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Woods countered.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, who says that little Tabby is to be my youngest daughter?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  Woods lowered his voice and winked. ‘There’s plenty of life left in my Betsy yet. I don’t reckon that Tabby will be the last little nipper in my nest at Oak Road.’

  Lavender laughed and picked up his news-sheet.

  Woods sat back. Lavender’s comments about Tabitha had distracted him. His thoughts turned to his boisterous family. He yearned to see them and pull them all in his lap again. It wouldn’t be long.

  The iron gate in the crumbling brick wall creaked as Lavender entered the grounds of the small Elizabethan manor house.

  Before him, a weed-strewn path snaked through the long grass towards the dilapidated building. To his right, the ground fell away into marshy bog and a reed-lined pond. He couldn’t tell whether the pond had formed naturally through neglect or if it had once been part of the landscaping. Tall chimney stacks rose intimidatingly from the flat roof of the manor, releasing a thin trail of smoke into the cold sky above. Dark-leaded windows stared back at him across the unkempt lawn. The place was unwelcoming.

  ‘Detective Lavender from the British Home Department, to see Doña Magdalena Morales,’ he informed the servant in Spanish.

  Above the arched entrance to the brick porch at the front of the building flared the huge stone motto of some ancient British family. He passed beneath it and entered an Iberian enclave.

  The heavy smell of religious incense, burning pine logs and rich coffee, mixed with the scent of cloves, saffron and a waft of cinnamon, pervaded the gloomy house. A large selection of dark-skinned, ruffled and disapproving dons stared down at him from gilt frames on the oak-panelled walls. The furniture was heavy and blackened with age. As he walked through the Tudor hallway, he glanced through an open door and caught a glimpse of an elderly señora, dozing before the fireplace in the main parlour. Her lace cap nodded to him across the room, and glass rosary beads glinted in her gnarled, limp hand.

  The servant led him into a small side parlour dominated by a magnificent cabinet that filled an entire wall. A fire crackled in the hearth, for which he felt grateful. Above it, a picture of the Madonna and Child stared down at him mournfully.
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  Magdalena took her time.

  Bored with waiting, he moved across the room to examine the intricate pattern of Moorish circles and diamonds carved into the doors and drawers of the huge cabinet. His fingers traced the outline of inlaid ivory and mother-of pearl.

  Over by the window, a messy pile of half-written letters and abandoned quills lay on a chestnut table. His sharp eyes scanned the documents. Magdalena was writing for help from other Spanish émigrés. She had even addressed one letter to Magistrate Read at Bow Street. He was curious about its contents.

  ‘Detective, Lavender.’

  Magdalena stood in the doorway and was as ravishingly beautiful as he remembered. She wore the same dress she had worn for their supper at Barnby Moor. He detected a little puffiness around her eyes from weeping, but her manner was gracious and composed.

  She smiled warmly when he bowed low over her outstretched hand and kissed it. The garnet ring glinted on her elegant finger. Laurel Faa Geddes had been right.

  ‘The pleasure is mine, Señora.’

  The maid hovered in the open doorway, but this time Magdalena waved her away and closed the door. He sighed with relief.

  ‘I’ve ordered coffee and refreshments, Stephen,’ she informed him. Her initial formality had obviously been for the benefit of the servants. Her accented voice purred like silk; he had never heard his name sound so attractive. She gestured him towards a pair of Baroque gilt armchairs in front of the fireplace, and they sat down. Her eyes glanced curiously at the large brown package he had placed in the corner of the room.

  ‘How are you, Magdalena?’ he asked.

  Her face struggled for a moment to retain its composure.

  ‘Alas, Stephen, I grieve and I’m frightened. The news of Antonio’s death has caused me great distress.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Not too distressed, he hoped. She had not seen her husband for months, and he had been dead since July.

  She sighed.

  ‘I had suspected for a while that something was very, very wrong. I knew that Antonio was angry with me for leaving Spain, but his silence over the last few months was unusual. Thank goodness you wrote to Magistrate Read on my behalf. Otherwise, I would still not know I was a widow. I must thank you for that, Stephen. It was thoughtful of you—an act of friendship.’

  ‘I was glad to be of service. It must have been a great shock to learn the truth.’

  Lavender sat back in the uncomfortable chair, crossed his legs and flicked a speck of mud off his boot. He didn’t know where this conversation would lead, but he settled down to listen. She seemed resigned to her husband’s death—sad but resigned. Her glossy hair was coiled above her head and held up with a simple comb. He had a sudden urge to see her hair down, tumbling around her shoulders—preferably her naked shoulders.

  ‘Now I’m trying to come to terms with my loss. But on Saturday, Saturday . . .’ Her violet-black eyes filled with tears, and she wrung her hands in her lap.

  ‘Yes? On Saturday?’ He tensed.

  She brushed a tear from her cheek and collected herself.

  ‘On Saturday, my son, Sebastián, returns from school and I must tell him—tell him about his father’s death.’ Her face crumpled with pain. ‘He enjoys his life at school, and I didn’t want to write to him and spoil his last few weeks there.’

  Lavender paused and observed her closely. This was not grief for her dead husband. It was the prospect of causing her child distress that made her suffer. He was seeing another side of the proud and confident woman who had fought by his side against the highwaymen; this was Magdalena the caring mother.

  ‘Why are these his last few weeks at school?’

  ‘He cannot go back there after Christmas.’ Her voice trailed away with misery.

  ‘Why not? Surely you’ve paid the school fees for a full year?’

  ‘Yes, yes. That is the one thing that Antonio didn’t argue about. The fees have been paid for the rest of the year.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I need this money returned to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  She bowed her head and looked down at the fire. Then she shrugged her shoulders and raised both palms in a gesture of hopelessness.

  ‘I have nothing, Stephen,’ she said simply. ‘Everything I own is in the hands of the French.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire.

  ‘Is your son happy at his school?’

  ‘Very,’ she said. ‘And I had such trouble finding one for him in the first place. This was the only school that would take him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he is a Catholic, Stephen.’ She looked up and smiled wryly. ‘Your country is not kind to Papists.’

  ‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I understand what you mean, Magdalena.’

  He shuffled on his seat, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy bag of coins and a folded piece of parchment.

  ‘I’ve brought this for you. Perhaps it’ll help.’ He handed her the moneybag and parchment.

  She took them with a worried frown, ignored the parchment and prised open the neck of the bag. Golden guineas glinted in the firelight.

  Her mood changed quickly. Suddenly, her lips tightened into a narrow line, and her eyes smouldered with anger. She hurled the bag of money at his head and leapt up.

  Startled, he ducked the missile but nearly fell off his chair. He scrambled to his feet. The bag crashed onto the floor behind him and spewed its glittering contents across the floor.

  ‘For God’s sake, Magdalena!’

  ‘What am I? Am I to be treated as your whore now?’ she yelled. ‘You claim friendship—then you insult me?’

  She was nearly crying with rage. He had forgotten about her flaming temper.

  ‘Damn it, Magdalena! Read the document I’ve given you!’

  She glared at him.

  ‘Read it!’

  He thought she would refuse, but slowly she unfolded the parchment in her hands. She glanced down at the ‘Wanted’ notice for highwayman Frank Smith, and her face flushed with confusion.

  ‘Frank Smith was the villain you shot during the highway robbery we foiled.’ He forced his voice to remain calm. ‘The man you killed to save my life had a twenty guinea reward on his head. That money is yours, Magdalena. You’ve earned it through your bravery. I collected it for you at Barnby Moor.’

  Realisation dawned, and large, round tears rolled from her horrified eyes. She cradled her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook with misery.

  ‘My friend,’ she sobbed. ‘My friend—and I accuse you.’

  He enveloped her warm body in his arms. She laid her head against his shoulder and cried. He held her close, relishing her softness. This wasn’t how he’d imagined their first embrace would be, and it was a struggle to keep his hands still. For the moment, though, he was prepared to simply wait out the storm of her grief.

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have explained first, before I gave you the money.’

  He led her back to her chair and gave her his handkerchief. Magdalena stopped crying, dabbed her eyes and smoothed down her skirts. A few moments later, the maid arrived, bearing a silver tray of coffee and cinnamon cakes. He asked the maid to pick up the spilt coins before she left. The moneybag was placed on a nearby table. For the moment, they both ignored it.

  Magdalena busied herself pouring out the coffee, making a visible effort to regain her composure. The coffee was just how he liked it, strong and bitter.

  ‘You must forgive my foolishness, Stephen,’ she said, ‘and my rudeness.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ He smiled. ‘As I said, I should have explained first about the reward money. You were right: it isn’t proper for you to accept gifts of money from men you hardl
y know.’

  Again her eyes flitted across to the mysterious brown parcel he’d brought with him, but he decided to let her wait a while and wonder. If she took offence about that and decided to hurl it at his head, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to jump out of the way fast enough.

  ‘Perhaps we should get to know each other a little better, Stephen?’ she suggested as she offered him a slice of cake.

  ‘Yes, perhaps we should,’ he said.

  He finished his coffee and replaced the cup in its saucer.

  ‘Firstly, Magdalena, you need to know that I was not born a “gentleman”, although my mother was the daughter of a vicar. My grandfather was the Dean of St Saviour and St Mary Overie in London. He was a kindly man, very spiritual but not very good with money. I’m afraid, he died impoverished.’

  He paused. He could see that she was impressed by this description of his genteel mother and grandfather.

  ‘Before his retirement, my father worked as a Bow Street police officer, like Constable Woods.’

  He watched the smile droop slightly at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘my parents wed for love, and my sisters and I had a happy childhood. My father was wealthy enough to pay for a good education for me. I went to St Saviour’s Grammar School in Southwark, and I was destined for a career in the legal profession. I attended Cambridge University but left there after a year to train as an officer at Bow Street. I’ve never regretted this decision. I did my apprenticeship in the back streets and alleys of London. I’ve wrestled pickpockets to the ground, chased highwaymen up the Holborn High Road and dragged the bodies of murdered lightermen out of the Thames. I’ve been instrumental in sending many people who deserved it to the gallows—and probably several who didn’t.’

  ‘My job has been my life, Magdalena, for the last twelve years.’

  He paused. It was her turn now.