ALSO BY KAREN CHARLTON
DETECTIVE LAVENDER MYSTERY
The Heiress of Linn Hagh
INDIVIDUAL WORKS
Catching the Eagle
Seeking Our Eagle (non-fiction)
The Mystery of the Skelton Diamonds (short stories)
‘The Piccadilly Pickpocket’ (short story)
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2015 by Karen Charlton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503947825
ISBN-10: 1503947823
Cover design by Lisa Horton
Debby Elsey
Thank you for always being there for me with your unconditional love, ferocious support and awesome accountancy skills.
Love you, Sis.
xxx
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Author’s Notes
Bibliography
About the Author
Chapter One
Bow Street Magistrates’ Court, London
Monday 19th February 1810
‘Me Ma says send a constable! Quick! They’re murderin’ a woman at Raleigh Close on ’Art Street!’
A hush fell over the crowded and noisy hallway entrance of Bow Street Magistrates’ Court and police office. Everyone turned in the direction of the ragged urchin with the big voice and distinctive red spiky hair, who stood framed dramatically in the open doorway. The clerks at the desk paused, quills held in midair. Even a few of the drunks slumped against the grimy walls were stirred by the boy’s shrill tone and the cold draught from the open door.
‘Hurry up!’ urged the boy. ‘Or she’ll be dead.’
Detective Stephen Lavender assessed the scared expression on the child’s pale and freckled face and decided he was genuine. ‘I’ll go,’ he said to Magistrate Read, and put on his hat.
As Lavender moved towards the boy, James Read grabbed his arm. ‘There’s a horse patrol just arrived outside – take them with you.’
Lavender nodded and quickly followed the boy down the steps onto Bow Street. The bitter cold slapped him in the face. Ned Woods and three other constables had just dismounted from their horses onto the busy pavement and were brushing the dust of the Holborn Road from their blue coats and scarlet waistcoats. Two grooms gathered up the reins of the sweating animals ready to lead them round the back to the stables.
‘Come with me!’ Lavender said. ‘There’s an incident on Hart Street – possibly murder.’
‘Shall we ride?’ asked Woods.
‘No. It’s too crowded. It’ll be quicker to go on foot.’ Lavender set off at a pace with the constables behind him. He had already lost sight of the carrot-topped urchin who had darted through the stream of heavy carts and wagons that rumbled ceaselessly up and down Bow Street, to and from Covent Garden market. The boy had narrowly missed a trampling by a heavy brewer’s dray.
Fortunately, Lavender knew Raleigh Close. Offset from the salubrious Hart Street, it was a three-sided, Elizabethan dwelling, which was overshadowed by the taller Georgian buildings surrounding it. An abandoned remnant of a bygone age, it was in danger of falling down.
As the Bow Street officers turned down Hart Street, their pace slowed. The narrow street heaved with crowds of shoppers, flower sellers, gangs of urchins and swaying drunks, who staggered from one tavern to another. It was a sea of bobbing heads, hats and bonnets. Whores leant out from the overhanging casement windows of the brothels, enticing customers to come up to their beds.
Lavender sidestepped the refuse and steaming piles of horse dung. He bumped into an old woman and apologised before he regained his stride. The officers moved purposefully towards Raleigh Close. A large, stationary crowd now blocked their way ahead. Everyone was staring at the dwelling.
If a murder is taking place, thought Lavender. At least there are plenty of witnesses.
Fishing out his tipstaff from his coat pocket, he held the short, gilt-topped baton aloft and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. The mob recognised his badge of office and the uniform of the constables, and parted to let them through.
The freckled youth who had summoned them stood beside a plump, indignant woman at the front of the crowd. The thick pile of faded red hair beneath her mob cap left Lavender in no doubt that this was ‘Ma’. The woman was berating an official gent in spectacles and a smart topcoat. The object of her derision looked worried and clutched a sheaf of papers in his gloved hands. The furious matron ceased her cursing and gesticulation and glanced up as Lavender arrived by her side.
‘Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street,’ he announced. ‘Who summoned us, and why?’ He sensed the burly figure of Constable Woods at his right shoulder.
‘About time, too!’ snapped the ruddy-faced matron. ‘This fellah is about to kill a gal.’ The crowd behind them murmured in anger.
‘What does he plan to do?’ asked Woods, loudly. ‘Beat her to death with a piece of paper?’
Laughter rippled around the crowd. Lavender resisted the urge to smile. His experienced constable had a great knack for diffusing tension. Woods had the common touch, a trait Lavender lacked. The detective glanced around and took in the situation at once. A group of labourers armed with shovels and picks and the long hooks they used to pull down rotten-timbered buildings stood beside large, empty carts.
‘I’m Algernon Price from the Duke of Bedford’s estate office,’ the official protested. ‘This building is due to be demolished and this woman – these people – are hindering us in our work.’ His neck flushed red with embarrassment as one or two in the crowd jeered his words.
The feisty woman beside him jerked a flour-whitened finger in the direction of Raleigh Close. ‘There’s a young gal inside there,’ she told him. ‘They’re goin’ to bring the buildin’ down on top of ’er ’ead and kill ’er!’
Now a murmur of dissent rose around them.
Lavender switched his gaze to the rotten two-storey structure before h
im. Overgrown with weeds and ivy, the ancient building sagged. Large sections leant perilously forward. It looked like one strong gust of wind would topple the lot.
‘The place is derelict and empty,’ Price continued. ‘It hasn’t been used for years – except by vagabonds and rogues – and the Duke of Bedford’s estate has instructed me to demolish it.’
Lavender nodded. He heard the creak and strain of the crumbling structure from where he stood. Most of the thatched roof was gone or hung down in black, mouldy clumps from the smoke-blackened beams. A large flock of starlings and some crows had made their home amongst the rafters, no doubt attracted by the insects in the ivy that smothered most of the building. The birds fluttered in and out of the gaping holes in the roof and the glassless windows. Lavender could smell the stench of decay from the street.
‘This young woman – why haven’t you asked her to leave?’ he asked.
‘Or removed her by force?’ Woods added.
‘Because we can’t find her,’ said the exasperated official. ‘Every time we enter the building she runs away from us and hides. The rooms and corridors in there are like a rabbit warren. We’ve shouted and shouted, but still she hides.’
‘She’s probably terrified of yer,’ said the indignant matron.
‘Who are you, madam?’ Lavender asked.
‘Jacquetta ’Iggin,’ she informed him. ‘I own the bakery on the other side of the street.’ She jerked a thumb behind them. ‘This is my son, Nathanial.’ She patted the tousled head of the young boy who had summoned them. A cloud of flour rose then settled onto his hair.
‘Who is this mysterious young woman, Mistress Higgin?’ Lavender asked.
‘Well, I don’t rightly know – but I know she’s in there.’
‘What about you, Mr Price?’
‘I have no idea. We haven’t caught sight of her yet. She eludes us every time.’
‘Well, how do you know she’s in there, if you haven’t seen her?’ Constable Woods sounded bewildered. His comment echoed Lavender’s own thoughts.
‘Because of the infant!’ Mistress Higgin’s voice rose with exasperation.
‘The infant?’
‘Yes, we can ’ear its piteous cries as she runs from room to room, carryin’ the child.’
‘Why do you think she is running, madam?’ Lavender asked.
Mistress Higgin scowled and gave him a look of contempt. ‘’Tis obvious. The poor gal is terrified. She might be a furriner and not speak the King’s English.’
As if on cue, the desperate and pitiful wailing of a newborn babe drifted towards them on the chill breeze. The hairs on the back of Lavender’s neck next stood up. There was something unearthly about that cry. Something not quite right.
The crowd behind them groaned and cried out spontaneously.
‘Aw bless!’
‘Poor child!’
‘The sound came from the right,’ Lavender said. ‘Woods take a man and see if you can locate it. You two officers’ – he gestured to the other men from the patrol – ‘you enter the building on the left. Get on both floors, move round, and check every room. Then meet in the middle. If the woman runs, you should trap her.’
‘We’ve tried that already,’ said Price. ‘Yet somehow she stays out of sight and eludes us.’
The constables followed Lavender’s orders. An expectant hush fell on the crowd as the four officers separated into two groups and clattered across the uneven and mossy cobbles of the courtyard. They stooped, pushed back the water-swollen doors and entered the building. For a few moments there was a silence apart from the chirping and cawing of the birds and the distant rumble of traffic on Bow Street. Lavender thought he caught a glimpse of movement through the gaping windows. He heard nothing, but the birds did. They rose in a great flock and wheeled across the sky before they noisily settled again on another part of the building.
Suddenly, an upstairs window, directly opposite to them, was jerked open. Constable Woods’ close-cropped grey head appeared. ‘There’s no one here, sir,’ he called out. ‘We’ve checked the entire place. It’s a flash-ken for rogues and it reeks like hell – but there is no sign of life.’
At that precise moment, the wailing infant began its piteous cry once more – from the exact spot that Woods and the other officer had first entered the building.
‘She’s there! She’s there!’ The crowd now became animated. Frantic hands reached out and pointed. ‘She’s there!’ They gestured the officers back to the entrance. Woods cursed, withdrew his head and disappeared back inside.
A few moments later, the men reappeared from the same door they had entered.
‘There’s no one there, sir,’ Woods repeated as he returned to Lavender’s side. ‘No woman with a nipper.’
‘Good,’ said Price. ‘Now maybe we can get on with our job and demolish the place.’ He turned towards the group of labourers behind him but as he opened his mouth to instruct them, the sound of a mewling infant once again emanated from the dwelling.
‘Stop! Stop!’ screamed Mistress Higgin.
‘This is ridiculous!’ Price snapped.
‘It came from the left-hand side this time,’ said Lavender, thoughtfully.
‘Gawd’s teeth, sir!’ Woods said. ‘I swear to you, there is no woman or child in that buildin’!’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Lavender. ‘I don’t think it’s human.’
‘What, a ghost? A spirit?’ interrupted Mistress Higgin. ‘Some poor lost soul, you think?’
The rest of the crowd now took up the cry.
‘A ghost!’
‘The detective thinks it’s a ghost!’
‘’Tis a poor woman and child who died in there!’
‘Was she murdered?’ someone asked.
Exasperation flashed across Lavender’s face and he turned to address the agitated crowd behind them. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts – and certainly not in broad daylight. This is Gracula religiosa.’
‘It’s a foreign ghost!’ someone yelled.
‘Catholic most like,’ said another.
‘Speak English, sir,’ Woods suggested, gently.
But it was too late. The seed of superstition had been planted in the mind of the mob.
‘’Tis the spirit of the dead!’ one woman shrieked.
‘’Tis witchcraft!’ screamed another.
Suddenly, Lavender pulled out his pistol and fired a shot into the air above their heads. Many of the hysterical mob squealed and stepped back in alarm. The starlings rose in a beautiful, swirling murmuration. They circled above their heads and settled once again on a dilapidated corner of Raleigh Close.
In the shocked silence that followed, Lavender pointed his smoking pistol towards the flock of birds and raised his voice again. ‘The next time we hear the wailing, the sound will come from over there.’
Woods’ shaggy eyebrows met in consternation: ‘How do you know that?’
Lavender’s reply was interrupted as the plaintive cry drifted towards them from the far side of the building; from the area Lavender had predicted.
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Price. ‘How did you know that?’
The crowd fell silent now. Many leant forward to hear Lavender’s response.
‘Look among those starlings,’ he said, loudly. ‘There’s one with a green gloss to its plumage and a purple tinge on its head and neck.’
‘Where?’
‘What is it?’
‘Where?’
‘It’s Gracula religiosa, a distant relative of the starling from the Asian subcontinent.’
‘English, sir,’ Woods reminded him.
‘It is also known as the mynah bird; it can mimic human sounds.’
‘I can’t see it!’
‘What’s he call it, again?’
‘Is it valuable?’
‘Shall we trap it?’
‘What is it doing here – in Covent Garden?’ Price asked.
‘I suspect that it wi
ll have been imported by the East India Company, bought by a family in London and then escaped from its cage.’
‘Why a family?’
‘They mimic the sounds they hear,’ Lavender explained. ‘Its owners must have had an infant.’
‘Ahh,’ said Woods. ‘I’ve heard of them birds.’
The writhing crowd strained their necks and pointed. Everyone was trying to catch a glimpse of the mynah bird.
‘Fire your pistol again, Detective!’ someone yelled. ‘Make it move!’
‘Mind you,’ Woods added, ‘the owners probably released it on purpose. If I had a creature like that, I’d soon get rid of it. Damned thing would have me teeth on edge night and day with that wailin’.’
‘And there speaks the family man,’ said Lavender with wry smile.
‘It’s because I have nippers that I know what I’m talkin’ about,’ said Woods, grimly. ‘There’s nothin’ more distressin’ in the world than a cryin’ child.’
‘Can we begin the demolition?’ asked Price.
‘Yes,’ said Lavender. ‘The starlings and the mynah bird will move on to another roost when you pull it down.’
As if triggered by an unseen signal, the starlings rose once more into the sky and wheeled around gracefully. The expectant crowd was not disappointed. There was an unusual flash of white beneath the mynah bird’s wing, which made it distinct from the rest. They pointed it out to each other and ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’. Now they knew what to look for, the bird was clearly visible.
Constable Woods turned round and addressed the milling throng. ‘Right, you’ve heard what the detective said: there’s no young woman or child in that buildin’ – it’s just a bird. It’s time to get back to your business, the show is over.’
Satisfied, the crowd began to disperse.
‘We should have sold tickets,’ Woods added under his breath. ‘We’ve had a bigger crowd than Drury Lane Theatre. We’d have made a tidy sum.’
Mistress Higgin and her son remained at Lavender’s side. Lavender could see by her frown and compressed lips that the woman wasn’t wholly convinced by his explanation.
Algernon Price breathed a sigh of relief and beckoned his labourers forward. ‘Thank you for solving this mystery, Detective,’ he said.
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 1
