Betsy removed the cover from her china serving dish. ‘It’s just lamb cutlets,’ she said. ‘Nothing too fancy.’
‘It smells delicious,’ Lavender said.
‘Ned? Please serve Doña Magdalena first.’ Woods picked up a large silver serving spoon, leant across the table and heaped the meat onto their plates, while Betsy dished out the vegetables.
‘Oh, please call me Magdalena,’ Magdalena said. ‘We’re all friends here. There is no need for formality.’
‘If you like,’ said their hostess.
‘I’ve been trying to get Ned to call me Stephen for years when we’re off-duty,’ Lavender said. ‘But he can’t seem to manage it.’
‘Doesn’t seem right, sir,’ Woods said. ‘And it’s too much for my brain to remember, all this switching from one name to another.’
‘You had no difficulty calling me Stephen when I first started work at Bow Street as a constable and it was your task to teach me the job.’
‘Yes, but you should have heard what he called you when he got home on a night,’ Betsy said.
Magdalena spluttered with laughter and hastily covered her mouth with her napkin. Their hostess glanced at her shaking shoulders and smiled. ‘We’ve known each other for a long time, my dear. And although I don’t say it often, we’re very proud of Stephen’s rapid rise through the ranks to principal officer.’
‘Taught him all I knew, I did,’ said Woods.
‘Well, that wouldn’t have taken long,’ Betsy said. ‘Ned. More Madeira, please for Doñ—for Magdalena.’
‘I’ll get it,’ Lavender said, grateful to be able to move away from both the fire and the attention. There was no way that his burly constable would have been able to get round that room now that they were seated.
By the time he had refilled the glasses and passed their hostess her drink, the others had already begun their meal. Lavender knew by Woods’ stiffness and the confused expression on his face that something was wrong. He took a forkful of the lamb, chewed then stopped in concern. The meat had a very strong nutty flavour that made it bitter. It was palatable, but only just. He glanced at Magdalena. She calmly ate her meal, her features composed.
‘This is an unusual flavour, Betsy,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not mint or rosemary. I can’t work it out.’
‘Ha.’ She grinned. ‘So I have foiled the great Detective Lavender, have I?’
He smiled. ‘Absolutely. This is a mystery I can’t solve.’
‘I have cooked the lamb in the Spanish fashion tonight,’ she announced grandly. ‘In honour of Doña Magdalena’s company.’ Magdalena gave Betsy a gracious smile. ‘Yes, Doñ—Magdalena told me that Spanish food is highly spiced, so I have spiced this lamb.’
‘What did you use?’ Woods asked.
‘Well, when I looked in my pantry the only spice I found was the nutmeg I use for the egg custard.’
‘You put nutmeg in lamb cutlets?’ Woods’ jaw dropped, his face incredulous.
Betsy bristled, pushed a greying curl back beneath her cap. She opened her mouth to argue.
‘It is delicious, Betsy,’ Magdalena interrupted. ‘It reminds me of the lamb dishes we cook back home in Oviedo.’ Lavender doubted that this was true but he respected Magdalena’s diplomacy. He forced himself to swallow another mouthful of the nutty lamb then changed the subject.
‘How are the children, Betsy – especially my sweet little goddaughter?’
She raised her eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘Humph! Baby Tabitha is the best behaved of the lot of them,’ she announced. ‘But those boys will be the death of me!’
‘What have they done now?’ he asked, smiling.
‘What have they done? What have they not done?’ Her voice rose into a crescendo of frustration. ‘They only tried to shoot poor Rachel, that’s all!’
Lavender choked softly on his lamb and took a hasty swig of Madeira to clear his throat. It did a good job of neutralising the strong flavour of the spice.
‘It wasn’t as bad as all that, Betsy, love,’ Woods suggested. He was immediately silenced by another withering glance from his wife.
‘I blame you for this, Stephen Lavender,’ Betsy said hotly.
‘Me? What have I done?’ He looked up, wide-eyed and innocent. Magdalena was laughing quietly to herself.
‘Do you remember when you were attacked by tobymen on the way to Barnby Moor?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, when you disarmed the one who was travellin’ inside the coach with you, my lump of a husband here pocketed his pistol.’
‘Ah yes, I remember he used it to great effect on the tobymen to save our hides,’ Lavender said. ‘And a few days later he used it to quell the excitement of a gang of rioting farmers.’
‘Well, that is as maybe,’ she replied. ‘But that pistol should have been handed into the Nottin’hamshire constabulary as evidence after the attempted highway robbery – and don’t you try to deny it, Stephen.’ She jabbed her fork across the table in his direction. ‘I’ve been a constable’s wife long enough to know how these things work. You were remiss in your responsibilities.’
‘Guilty as charged, m’lady.’ He grinned.
‘So a few days ago our Rachel starts screamin’ blue murder upstairs – and when my old legs finally got me up there, I found Dan holdin’ her down and Eddie tryin’ to shoot the poor gal in the heart with the pistol.’
‘There was no shot or powder in it,’ Woods mumbled. His cheeks bulged with food. ‘She were never in no danger.’
‘Not that that makes any difference,’ Betsy snapped. ‘Anyway, I’ve removed the pistol from the house. None of them can use it now.’ She turned back to Lavender and sighed. ‘I’ve bred a couple of sister-murderin’ heathens, Stephen.’
‘Your boys are fine, Betsy,’ he said. ‘There’s many a time I plotted to murder my own sisters – and look how I turned out.’ He suddenly realised that this might not have been the best thing to say in front of the outspoken Betsy. She knew him too well. Before she replied he hastily added: ‘They’ll make you proud one day, Betsy. Mark my words, they’re fine boys.’
She didn’t look convinced but her ruddy cheeks flushed anew with the compliment.
The rest of the meal turned out to be far more successful. Betsy was a superb cook when she wasn’t trying to experiment with continental cuisine. For dessert they had a delicious bread and butter pudding, liberally sprinkled with sugar and served with a steaming rum sauce. There was a plate of marzipan sweetmeats, glazed with rosewater and sugar. While Betsy prepared the desserts in the kitchen, Lavender leant back and dampened down the damned fire. The back of his shirt was soaked with sweat.
Magdalena ate more of the sweetmeats than Woods. Betsy noticed this and he could tell that she was delighted that Magdalena appreciated her cooking. The tension dropped from the little matron’s jawline and she beamed from ear to ear.
The Madeira had flowed freely and they all showed signs of slight intoxication. While Betsy was out of the room, Woods entertained Magdalena with the tale of how he and several other constables had struggled to restrain a frisky young bullock that had escaped from Smithfield market and terrorised shoppers and stallholders alike.
‘You should have seen the local parson run when that bullock got behind him,’ Woods said. ‘He lifted his cassock above his knobbly knees and bolted down Cock Lane and round Pye Corner quicker than Nelson could scuttle a flamin’ French warship.’
Magdalena laughed.
‘Language, Ned – don’t you start cussin’,’ warned Betsy as she re-entered the room.
‘I’ll tell you what, Betsy, love,’ Woods said. ‘If sir will help me push back this damned table so you can get to the piano, we’ll have a song or two.’
‘Yes, Betsy – give us a song!’ Lavender said. Betsy was a wonderful singer with a wicked sense of humour. He rose to his feet and helped Woods push back the table to make some space in front on the piano.
Betsy blushed and refused but Magdalen
a was also delighted with the idea and urged her entertain to them. ‘Perhaps we should let our guest sing for us,’ Betsy said. ‘I’m sure that Magdalena is very accomplished.’
‘That’s right, Magdalena,’ Lavender said, with a wink. ‘It’s a British tradition that guests sing for their supper. You must pay your dues after that sumptuous meal.’
She gave him a sideways smile. ‘You tease me, Stephen,’ she said. ‘No, no. I’m a dreadful singer and a poor musician. Please play for us, Betsy.’
Finally persuaded, Betsy sat down on the stool in front of the instrument, placed a few pieces of sheet music in the rest and stretched her accomplished fingers out over the ivory keys. She trilled out a scale to warm up. Woods pulled up a chair next to her.
‘I’ll turn the page for you Betsy, my love,’ he slurred.
Betsy began gently with a Robbie Burns Scottish love ballad and her sweet, mellifluous voice held them enraptured. She paused dramatically after the first verse then, to the delight of her audience, she launched into the second verse – in a Scottish accent.
Magdalena rose from her own chair and sat down on the sofa next to Lavender. ‘She’s really talented!’ she whispered in his ear.
His arm slid surreptitiously behind her and rested on the back of the sofa. ‘Just wait until Ned joins in,’ he replied.
Sure enough, by the third verse Woods had added his own deep baritone to Betsy’s faultless soprano and made a passable job of keeping time with his wife and the melody. They had their backs to Lavender and Magdalena but he knew by their closeness and the occasional glance they exchanged that they were thoroughly enjoying their duet. Woods inevitably fumbled turning the page of sheet music but the slight delay only seemed to amuse Betsy. Their voices rose in harmony to a strong finish with the chorus.
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ Magdalena shouted.
Lavender pulled back his arm and applauded loudly. ‘Encore!’
‘Let’s sing “None Can Love Like an Irish Man”,’ Woods suggested.
Betsy cast a glance at Magdalena. ‘It’s a tad bawdy,’ she said.
‘Please! Please sing it to me,’ Magdalena said. ‘I love your music. This is better than a night at the theatre.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Betsy smiled at the compliment. ‘I don’t need the music for this one,’ she said and launched straight into the lively ditty.
‘The turbaned Turk, who scorns the world,
May strut about with his whiskers curled,
Keep a hundred wives under lock and key,
For nobody else for himself to see;
Yet long may he pray with his Alcoran;
Before he can love like an Irishman.’
Betsy switched to a strong Irish accent for the second verse and Woods’ booming voice joined her in the last line: ‘Before he can love like an Irishman!’
Magdalena laughed and clapped her hands in time with the lively rhythm.
Emboldened by the Madeira, Lavender slid his arms around her slender waist and pulled her closer to him. She started with surprise but didn’t resist. Meanwhile, the oblivious couple at the piano continued to belt out a rousing rendition of the popular song.
‘The London folks themselves beguile,
And think they please in a capital style,
Yet let them ask as they cross the street,
Of any young virgin they happen to meet,
And I know she’ll say, from behind her fan,
That there’s none can love like an Irishman.’
It felt so good to have Magdalena’s warm body next to his. She leant into Lavender and rested her head lightly on his shoulder. He felt her soft hair brush against his cheek, its sweet perfume intoxicating. He raised a hand and stroked the smooth skin of her face, brushing back a glossy tendril of silky hair that had escaped from her hairpins. Unable to resist, he kissed her lightly on the top of her head. She glanced up at him and smiled, a mischievous light dancing in her dark eyes. A wicked smile played against the edges of her lips. She knew the effect she had on him.
‘Ehm, em.’
The music had stopped and Betsy was watching them quizzically from the piano stool. Beside her, his tipsy constable grinned from ear to ear and, unseen by his wife, he gave Lavender an exaggerated wink.
Magdalena saw it. She laughed, pulled away and smoothed down her gown. Lavender lifted his arm and rested it on the back of the sofa, above her shoulders.
‘My apologies Betsy,’ he said. ‘Your music filled me with such passion that I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed Doña Magdalena and I fear I may have compromised her.’
‘Well, you can put her down now, you devilish rake,’ Betsy said tartly. ‘And try to behave yourself. The poor gal doesn’t need to be pawed like that after a big meal.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Woods. ‘I think sir might have the right idea.’ Before his diminutive wife could protest, he scooped her up off her stool and into his own lap. He screwed up his eyes, pursed his lips and tried to force a kiss on her. She wriggled, shrieked and pummelled his chest with her fists to keep him at bay.
‘You great drunken fool!’ she shouted. ‘Now look what you’ve done, Stephen Lavender – you’ve set him off!’
Lavender and Magdalena burst out laughing. His arm encircled her waist once more and she made no effort to pull away. Betsy finally escaped Woods’ clutches by beating him across the head with a rolled-up sheet of music.
‘I think it may be time for us to go home, Stephen.’ Magdalena’s voice was husky, her skin still flushed and her pupils enlarged. Home. Home meant a cab ride with Magdalena – alone in the dark. He would pay the driver extra to take them the long, leisurely route back to her lodgings. The prospect excited him. Yes, it was time to leave.
Suddenly, the door opened and a slim, dark, pretty girl stood in the entrance. It was Elizabeth. Her quick eyes took in the scene and widened with surprise when she saw Magdalena sitting so close to Stephen, with his arm around her waist. A delighted smile spread across her young face. Magdalena shuffled nervously and tried to move away. Lavender relaxed his hold and reclaimed his arm.
Elizabeth grinned. ‘I’m off home now, Betsy,’ she said. ‘The children are asleep.’
‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ Betsy said. ‘We’re most grateful for your help tonight.’
‘It sounded like you’ve had a wonderful time,’ the young woman said. ‘I heard the laughter and the music upstairs. And look at you, Stephen,’ she added mischievously. ‘It’s not often we get to see you in your shirtsleeves with a woman by your side. Nice to meet you, ma’am.’
Magdalena nodded stiffly but didn’t reply.
‘Goodnight, Elizabeth,’ Lavender said.
‘Goodnight, everyone!’ the girl called as she turned and left.
Magdalena rose to her feet and smoothed down her dress. They heard the front door slam. ‘Well! Your nursemaid is rather forward,’ Magdalena declared, indignantly. ‘Is it normal for English servants to make such comments?’
Betsy laughed. ‘Oh, that’s not my nursemaid,’ she said. ‘That’s Elizabeth – Stephen’s youngest sister. I asked her to help keep the children out of our way tonight.’
‘Now you can see why I was often tempted to murder my sisters.’ Lavender smiled as he rose and fastened the buttons on his waistcoat.
‘That was your sister?’ Magdalena looked horrified.
‘Yes, don’t worry about it,’ he said as he reached for his coat. ‘Elizabeth is the best of the whole bunch.’
Magdalena clapped a hand to her mouth, her face contorted with distress. ‘I’m so sorry, Betsy,’ she wailed. ‘I have embarrassed you; that was so rude of me. I have made a fool of myself and ruined the whole evening.’
‘Nonsense! We have had a wonderful time, haven’t we, Ned?’ Betsy smiled, stepped across the room and gave Magdalena an affectionate hug. ‘Please don’t worry about it, my dear. I often get mistaken for a woman who has servants.’
The men laughed but Magdalena stil
l looked inconsolable.
The journey home wasn’t as Lavender had hoped. Magdalena resisted his attempts to pull her back into his arms when they took their seats in the cab.
‘I’m tired, Stephen, and must return home to sleep. I have a busy day tomorrow – and a lesson to prepare for my Spanish class.’
Sighing, he sat back and examined her strained profile in the semi-darkness of the cab. She had no need to still be embarrassed about her comment, as Betsy was amused rather than insulted. Something else must be bothering her.
‘Are you still upset by Elizabeth’s sudden appearance?’ he asked.
‘Of course!’ she snapped. ‘What must she think of me! I was nearly sat in your lap. Such intimacy seemed fine with Betsy and Constable Woods – they know of our, of our friendship. But in front of a perfect stranger? Your unmarried younger sister? Thank goodness she didn’t arrive a few moments earlier! No doubt she will go home and tell the rest of your family how she found us – so compromised.’
‘Please don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘My mother is always telling me that I work too hard and need to have more fun.’
‘Fun?’
He could have bitten his tongue off.
‘Is that what I am to you, Stephen?’ she yelled. ‘A lewd squeeze in a darkened room? A bit of fun?’ She half rose in the swaying vehicle and he thought for a minute that she might try to leap out of the moving carriage. He grabbed hold of her arm, pulled her back down but she shook him off.
‘You’re far more to me than that, Magdalena’ he said firmly. ‘And if you will give me some time, I will prove it to you. I’m incredibly fond of you – and my affection grows stronger by the day. What Elizabeth saw was just that, a demonstration of my affection. She will understand.’
Magdalena paused to consider his words but they didn’t have the softening effect he had hoped. ‘I doubt that your mother, a church dean’s daughter, will see it that way,’ she said icily.
‘Trust me, Magdalena. I will make this right. I will send a note to Elizabeth tomorrow. I will tell her to say nothing to anyone else.’
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 18
