‘Is that Miss Clare’s heart?’ Lavender asked in surprise.
‘Of course,’ said the surgeon. ‘I extracted it during the autopsy yesterday and I plan to use it in a lecture on anatomy I will give this afternoon.’ Lavender was momentarily speechless. ‘But don’t worry, Detective,’ Sir Richard continued cheerfully. ‘She won’t miss it now – and neither will any of her grieving relatives. I sewed her back up afterwards.’
‘Quite.’ Lavender cleared his throat. The man’s casual – almost flippant – attitude to the dead never ceased to amaze him. He also found it disturbing that Sir Richard systematically removed organs from the deceased for his lectures. He was unsure about the legality of this situation.
‘So what is, or was, the problem with her heart?’
‘This.’ Sir Richard reached for another grisly specimen and placed it next to April Clare’s organ for comparison.
Lavender stared. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard, I don’t see—’
‘Look at the size of her heart, man. Can you see it now?’ The surgeon podded at the flaps of tissue on either side of the specimen with a silver scalpel. Each jab made more blood seep from the tissue. ‘The walls of both the left and right side of the heart had become thin and stretched,’ he explained, ‘resulting in a considerable increase in the size of the organ. It is dilated cardiomyopathy, better known as an enlarged heart. This young lady was gravely ill and her heart could have given way at any time.’
‘I can see the difference now,’ Lavender said. ‘We now know that Miss Clare was brutally kidnapped. Could the trauma of her abduction and captivity in the squalor of Raleigh Close have contributed to her death?’
‘Almost certainly. That level of strain on her heart would have been unsustainable during such a terrifying event.’
‘What about if she had borne a child?’ Woods asked suddenly.
Sir Lawrence frowned at him. ‘I’ve already told you, Constable – this dead woman has never borne a child. But in a hypothetical situation, yes, a pregnancy and the ensuing birth would have probably killed her; her heart would never have stood the strain.’ He turned back to Lavender. ‘Did the kidnappers ever ask for a ransom?’
‘No.’
‘If she died soon after they took her to Raleigh Close then that would have thrown the kidnappers’ plans into a right mess,’ Woods said, ‘and it explains why they never made a ransom demand. They simply stuffed her corpse beneath the floorboards and hurriedly left the scene.’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Kidnappers they may be, but murderers they’re most certainly not.’
Lavender frowned, sat back and exhaled heavily. His mind was whirling with the implications of this latest revelation and the faint ferrous-tinged smell from the dead girl’s organ made him feel nauseous.
‘This explains why there were no obvious marks on the corpse or signs of violence,’ Woods continued.
Sir Richard pushed the morning news-sheet across the desk. ‘Are you responsible for this, Detective?’
Lavender glanced down. There, in thick, black typeface, was the headline: Actress Brutally Slain.
‘No,’ he said sharply.
‘Well, some ignoramus has been blabbing to a reporter,’ Sir Richard said, coldly. ‘This inaccuracy needs correcting as soon as possible.’
Lavender scanned the article and frowned at its lurid and dramatic tone. He had no doubt who was the source of the information: the melodramatic writing style of Jane Scott was all over the piece and the Sans Pareil Theatre was mentioned three times. Miss Scott clearly knew the value of publicity and was happy to exploit the death of one of her cast for financial gain.
‘I’ll see that the paper prints a correction and gives the proper facts in tomorrow’s edition,’ Lavender promised. ‘Thank you for your professional expertise, Sir Richard. At least now we have solved the riddle of the poor woman’s death.’
‘Ah, but as one mystery is solved,’ said the surgeon, ‘another rears its head.’
‘What do you mean?’ Woods asked.
Lavender heard the irritation in his constable’s voice. He wondered what new revelation the surgeon was about to leave them with today. Sir Richard had obviously spent too much time at the Covent Garden theatres; each autopsy had now become a major drama.
‘Are you gentlemen familiar with the symptoms of dilated cardiomyopathy?’
‘No,’ said Woods. ‘But I hope that you’re goin’ to tell us that the patient’s feet shrink and their shoes don’t fit any more.’
Sir Richard raised his eyebrows and frowned. ‘I’m not in the mood for humour, Constable,’ he snapped. ‘Dilated cardiomyopathy is a progressive disease and sufferers experience shortness of breath, fatigue and palpitations, amongst other things.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, it is a very debilitating and leaves the patient unable to carry out mundane tasks such as walking or climbing stairs. Most can’t live an ordinary life and for a case as advanced as this, the misery and exhaustion must have been severe.’
Lavender stared hard at him. He knew what this new revelation meant but he let Sir Richard put it into words.
‘Quite simply, Lavender, it would have been impossible for April Divine, or April Clare as you now call her, to have held down such an active, lively career as an actress at the Sans Pareil. There is your mystery – our mystery. The woman who performed at the theatre last month for Lady Allison and I didn’t suffer from advanced dilated cardiomyopathy.’
‘That fellah is only one step away from the bodysnatchers who haunt the Cross Bones Graveyard,’ Woods announced angrily as they strode across Westminster Bridge towards Covent Garden. ‘Lord save us from his kind! I tell you, that fiend would rip out your innards before you can draw your last breath.’
Lavender smiled and let Woods continue his rant. He stopped, leant over the stone balustrade and peered down at the black water below. He could just make out the bulbous oak hulls of tall ships that loomed out of the mist. It was quieter out here on the bridge away from the frantic activity on the riverbank. The heaving water slapped against the stone arches of the bridge below him. He heard the faint, monotonous creak of metal oarlocks from the river taxis. These and the occasional rumble of wagon wheels and the cry of an invisible seabird wheeling high above them in the fog were the only sounds that ruptured the eerie silence.
‘I just hope that when I peg it Betsy gets the lid nailed down on my wooden surcoat before any of Sir Richard’s kind come snoopin’ around my corpse.’
‘If she’s any sense, she will sell you off piece by piece to Sir Richard.’ Lavender grinned. ‘There’s enough of you to make a tidy sum.’
‘Don’t you go puttin’ that notion in her head!’ Woods exclaimed, in genuine alarm. ‘Especially when you come to our house for supper, tonight. We’ve had another incident with the lads and apparently it’s my fault. I’m in enough trouble as it is.’
Lavender turned his head. ‘Oh?’ The untamed liveliness of the Woodses’ boys was a constant source of vexation for their diminutive mother, and their antics amused Lavender. But Woods would not be drawn about his sons’ latest indiscretion.
‘You hadn’t forgot that you and Doña Magdalena are due at our house for supper tonight, had you?’ Woods asked. ‘Betsy will be cross if you forget.’
Lavender smiled. He had forgotten but the prospect of an evening with Magdalena was a cheering thought. ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting Betsy down,’ he said. ‘Her home-cooked fare is the highlight of my existence.’
Woods grinned. ‘She said to tell you that the cobbler, Kinghorn and Naylor, is on the Strand.’
‘Please thank her for me, Ned. I will pay them a visit about those shoes and see if we can establish who they were made for.’
‘Do you think that those twins changed places again?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Lavender confessed. ‘The dead woman was clearly very ill – and Miss Clare took an unexpected break in her career last summer. When she
finished work at Drury Lane Theatre last February she appears to have disappeared until the end of August when she asked Dorothy Jordan for an introduction to Jane Scott at the Sans Pareil. Was it ill health that forced her off the stage? Was the story of a sick aunt merely a lie to account for her absence and avoid speculation rising about her health? Yet Sir Richard seemed adamant that the woman whose body we recovered couldn’t have performed at the theatre last month.’
‘The gal lied to Mrs Jordan about where she had been,’ Woods said. ‘Lady Caroline was quite clear yesterday that them gals didn’t have any other family except her.’
‘And Sir Richard was also adamant that the dead girl had never borne a child – so the child in the Willoughby nursery must belong to the living sister.’
‘It seems to me that Sir Richard is adamant about quite a few things,’ Woods said coldly. ‘What if he’s wrong?’
Lavender paused for a moment and considered this option. A lively breeze began to clear the mist. It also stirred up the miasma from the murky waters beneath them. The stench of rotting vegetation reached his nostrils. He was well aware that Woods’ bias against the surgeon had prompted his last remark, but could it still have value? Did Woods’ prejudice make him more objective about the abilities of Sir Richard? Had Lavender placed too much store on the word of the surgeon?
Lavender shook his head. ‘If he’s wrong,’ he said, ‘then it will be the first time I have known it to happen. Sir Richard can be difficult and repulsive, I know, but I have never known him to be wrong.’
As the fog continued to clear and the weak sunlight pushed its way down to earth, the city took shape before them. The great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral dominated the skyline. Buildings were sprawled out endlessly along the curving riverbank. For once not obscured by clouds of smoke, the buildings glittered in the weak light. As far as the eye could see, there was a multitude of little boats criss-crossing the Thames like water-skaters and tall ships lying at anchor.
‘I will go back to see Mrs Willoughby again today,’ Lavender said. ‘And Lady Caroline. We need more information about April Clare. I will call back at the Sans Pareil this evening to speak to the other actors. Hopefully, someone today will be able to cast light on some part of this mystery.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Woods.
‘No. But can you follow up on the inquiries the other constables made at April’s lodgings? Magistrate Read promised me yesterday that he would send some men round to question the other tenants about the intrusion into April’s room. The more I think about it the more I’m come to the conclusion that the break-in is linked to the kidnapping. Those men were after something, and it doesn’t seem to be money.’
Woods nodded. ‘It sounds to me like she were mixed up in somethin’ dangerous.’
Lavender agreed. ‘God knows where this investigation will lead us.’ He turned up his collar against the cold and shivered. Below him a boatman hauled in oars dripping with slimy weed, and reached out for the swaying wooden ladder which led up to the jetty.
‘“Earth hath not anything to show more fair,”’ Lavender said. ‘“Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty . . .”’
‘You what?’ Woods’ eyes widened.
‘It’s part of a poem by William Wordsworth,’ Lavender explained. ‘It was written a few years ago about this view from Westminster Bridge. The same view that we can see now.’
Woods glanced about uneasily as if he half expected the poet to pop up behind them. ‘Wordsworth, eh?’ he said. ‘Wasn’t he one of those romantic poets who see pretty things in a pile of muck and a clump of daffydils?’
Lavender smiled. ‘Yes, he loves London and feels that this man-made terrain before us can be compared to nature’s grandest natural spectacles. He describes the river as the mighty heart of the city.’
Woods greying eyebrows rose cynically and the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘North Country lad, ain’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, speakin’ as one of those born within the stench and racket of the East India Docks, I could tell him a thing or two about our Mother Thames.’
Lavender grinned. ‘What would you tell him?’
‘That there is nothin’ “fair” about Mother Thames. She’s a foul open sewer and a deep and treacherous bitch. If he took a leap into her arms, she would drag him under within seconds and then poison him for the hell of it.’
Lavender smiled again. ‘Well, it’s not Shakespeare, but I do believe we’ll make a poet of you yet, Ned. Your grasp of personification is excellent.’
Alarm flashed across Woods’ features. ‘My what?’
‘Never mind. Come on, back to work.’
Chapter Sixteen
Magdalena was surprised but delighted when Stephen called round that morning. He apologised for his unexpected arrival and handed her the purse, which he said the Duke of Clarence had given to him at Bushy House the previous day. She poured the coins out into her palm and was pleased to see that there were two guineas in the purse as well as a few copper coins. The presence of the copper coins was curious but she dismissed them from her mind as soon as she saw them.
‘This is wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘How generous the duke has been! I will be able to buy two pairs of new boots with this money – and a pair for Teresa. Would you like a new pair of boots, Teresa?’
The little maid said nothing but flushed pink with excitement.
Stephen smiled at their delight, but Magdalena saw in his eyes that he was troubled by something. He looked as smart as ever in his pristine cravat, brushed black coat and gleaming leather boots, but he was obviously upset about something. She wondered if there were problems with the case of the dead actress. Stephen had told her about the connection between the two women and it had saddened her nearly as much as it had saddened him. She had already written a letter of condolence to Lady Caroline.
‘Fetch our cloaks, Teresa,’ she said in Spanish. ‘We shall visit the cobblers immediately.’ Teresa raced off towards their closet, behind the ragged curtain that discreetly hid the bed at the other end of the room.
‘Would you mind if I accompanied you?’ Stephen asked. ‘I’m on my way to Wandsworth but need to visit a shoemakers called Kinghorn and Naylor on the Strand, with reference to my case. That may a good place for you and Teresa to purchase some boots.’
She tilted her head on one side, lowered her lashes and smiled at him through half-closed eyes. ‘Why Teresa!’ she said. ‘I do believe that the detective wants to see our ankles.’
Stephen’s lips curled into a smile. ‘Alas, you have discovered my devious motive, Doña Magdalena,’ he said.
‘Well, maybe just this once you may view our ankles, Detective Lavender,’ she replied with mock grandeur. ‘It is your reward for bringing me the duke’s money. But you must not make a habit of it. No doubt, you will ask to see our elbows next.’
‘You’re so kind to a poor flesh-starved man,’ he said and winked roguishly at Teresa who had just reappeared from behind the curtain with their cloaks over her arm. The maid let out a strangled squeak and suddenly seemed unstable on her legs.
Magdalena laughed. ‘You must behave with Teresa, Stephen,’ she said. ‘Or she will have an attack of the vapours and I will have to revive her with the sal volatile. She’s most fond of you.’
‘Well, I’m glad there are some women who still are pleased at the sight of me.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve feel like I’ve been the harbinger of bad news for half the female population of London over the last few days.’
Magdalena patted his arm reassuringly. ‘But you will be the bringer of good news when you solve the mystery of the poor girl’s death – which you will do, eventually.’ She turned away as Teresa held up her cloak.
He smiled and pulled a dusty woman’s shoe out of his coat pocket. ‘This is the reason I want to visit Messers Kinghorn and Naylor.’
‘Dios mío!’ Magdalena froze. ‘Is that t
he dead girl’s shoe?’
Confusion flashed across Stephen’s face. He hastily replaced the shoe in his pocket. ‘My apologies, I shouldn’t have brought it to your attention.’
Magdalena relaxed, laughed and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘Do not worry, Stephen. Teresa and I are not as – how do you English say it? – squeamish about death in the way of most our sex. Unfortunately, we have seen too much of it in our short lives. We’re grateful for your kindness and will happily allow you to take us to the shoemakers. However, we also have to visit the shop of Mistress Evans on Long Acre. Mrs Jordan was most particular in that recommendation.’
Their cab driver frowned when they asked him to take them to Mistress Evans’ shoe establishment on Long Acre.
‘Do you not know of it?’ Lavender asked.
‘Yes, I know the old scold well enough,’ the man replied. ‘But yer may change yer mind and want to stay in the cab with the ladies.’
‘What did he mean?’ Magdalena asked as the three of them squashed themselves in the rocking vehicle.
‘I don’t know,’ Lavender replied.
The cab driver pointed out Mistress Evans to them from a distance. Her ‘establishment’ wasn’t a shop but a wooden stall on the pavement on one of the seedier stretches of Long Acre. It displayed a dismal selection of worn-down, second-hand shoes and boots and factory clogs. The clientele who gathered around her were some of the poorest women of London, including several of the Covent Garden Nuns. Mistress Evans herself was unclean, slatternly and obese. She sat on an upturned barrel next to her stall with a tankard of ale in her hand. From her disjointed movements and glazed eyes, it was obviously not the first drink she had imbibed that morning.
‘Ah, as the duke reminded me yesterday,’ Stephen said, sharply. ‘Mrs Jordan has a great reputation as a comedienne.’
If this was Dorothy Jordan’s idea of a joke, Magdalena decided it wasn’t very funny.
‘Drive on,’ Stephen instructed the cabbie. ‘Take us to Kinghorn and Naylor on the Strand.’ Magdalena could see that Stephen felt the insult as keenly as she did.
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
