The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen Charlton

  Lavender dismounted, tied up his mount next to the trough and stooped to enter the low threshold of the Black Horse tavern. The inn was as deserted as the rest of the village. He took a glass of ale and warmed himself in front of the fireplace. The innkeeper was a big fellow and not much inclined to conversation but he did tell Lavender that the local church was about two miles down the road towards Welling.

  ‘I’m trying to find out about a family who used to live hereabouts,’ Lavender said. ‘The Forsyths. I understand that most of them were tragically killed in a house fire over twenty years ago.’

  The landlord shook his grey, shaggy head. ‘Before my time,’ he said. ‘Sorry guvnor, I can’t ’elp you there.’

  Despite the refreshments and the warmth of the inn, another wave of misery swamped Lavender as he remounted his horse and turned it down the Welling Road. Perhaps Sackville had been right to suggest that he should cast his net wider for suspects. Was Magistrate Read right? Had his obsession with Forsyth become personal? He couldn’t shake off a lingering suspicion that, prompted by Forsyth’s interference, Magistrate Read had said something to upset Magdalena, which had caused her to reject his proposal. He clenched his jaw and felt the anger stir within him. If his instincts were right, then both men would feel the full force of his wrath.

  He shook his head to chase away his vengeful thoughts and tried to focus on the dismal landscape before him. There was no church spire or tower on the horizon. Only a few stunted alder and hawthorn trees broke up the flat, dark wilderness of the marsh. The area would have been perfect for highwaymen except that the lack of traffic would have meant lean pickings for even the most opportunist tobyman. He had found his way to the back of beyond. ‘Have faith, man,’ he said to the wind. He dug his heels into the flank of his horse and spurred it to a canter.

  After a mile, the squat church with its crumbling, buttressed walls and overgrown graveyard finally came into view. The rusty iron gate had come off its hinges and he had to lift it to enter, pushing hard against a clump of weeds. He looked around in frustration. Weathered and indecipherable headstones leant drunkenly amongst the nettles.

  Lavender sighed and was about to turn back when he saw a stooped figure bent over a spade at the far corner of the graveyard. An old man with a filthy old coat and neckerchief, and a pinched, hungry face below a wiry shock of greying hair, was digging a grave. The old man touched the brim of his hat as Lavender approached. The joints of his hand were red and swollen with arthritis. ‘Can I ’elp ye, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you the sexton?’ Lavender asked. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Yessir. I’ve bin here nigh on forty years – and me father were ’im that dug graves afore me.’

  For the first time that day, Lavender felt his hopes rise. ‘You may be the man I need to help me.’

  ‘’ow’s that, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for the grave of a family called Forsyth. They were killed in a house fire about twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘What? Them from over in Bexley’eath, yonder?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lavender said. His eyes narrowed as a new thought came to him. ‘Do you remember the fire?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, yessir, I do. ’Twas a terrible loss of life. I dug their grave meself.’ The old man laid down his spade, turned and shuffled off towards the east side of the church. Lavender followed him. He carefully picked his way through the brambles and nettle clumps and tried to avoid tripping over the raised green mounds of the graves.

  The lettering of the Forsyth grave was still just about visible:

  In loving memory of

  Thomas Forsyth

  and also of his wife,

  Agnes

  and their children,

  Abigail, Benjamin,

  Simon, Lucy and Anne.

  Who departed this life on

  December 9th

  in the year of our Lord,

  1784.

  ‘’Twere a terrible tragedy.’ The sexton shook his head sadly. ‘All of them nippers killed.’

  ‘You remember the night of the fire?’ Lavender asked.

  ‘Yessir, I were there. I tried to ’elp out with the pump and the chain passin’ the buckets of water. Most o’ the villagers were there. The ’ouse were razed to the ground. They said it were a night candle which started it.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone survive?’

  The old man nodded. ‘One of the boys were still alive. We managed to pull ’im outta the rubble when part of the house collapsed. ’E were in a bad way, though – and scarred with it.’

  ‘Scarred? How so?’

  The old man bent his stiff arm and pointed to behind his own back. ‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘one of the burning timbers fell across ’is back and burnt through ’is nightshirt. ’E were screaming in agony at the pain.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Lavender asked.

  The old man shook his head. ‘Some relatives took ’im away,’ he said. ‘I never ’eard no more about the boy.’

  Lavender tossed him a shilling. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You have been very helpful.’ And for the first time that day, Lavender smiled.

  George Chandler’s artistic studio was a spacious but cluttered room in the rear of a large stone house in Sidcup. The strong odour of turpentine and oil-based paints hung heavily in the air. It reminded Lavender of Lady Caroline’s studio in the orangery at the back of her apartment but the paintings that lined the walls of Chandler’s home were of magnificent seagoing vessels.

  George Chandler himself looked well fed and contented beneath his paint-splattered smock. His rotund body balanced confidently on his wooden leg in front of his easel as Lavender explained his business. A beaming Mrs Chandler brought in tea and fruitcake; she was nearly as plump as her husband. Young, children with fat cheeks peeped shyly at him from behind their mother’s voluminous skirts. The two men sat down to eat and drink their tea while the voluble Chandler waxed lyrical about his career in the navy. The man had loved his life at sea and missed male company since his enforced retirement. Lavender complimented him on his artwork and asked if he had heard of Lady Caroline Clare,

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of Lady Caroline,’ Chandler said. ‘She has a good reputation as a landscape artist but I believe that she mostly paints portraits these days?’

  ‘She has to keep the wolf from the door,’ Lavender replied, ‘and I understand that this is a more profitable occupation.’

  Chandler nodded. ‘Shame though,’ he said, ‘to waste your talent like that. I’ve been lucky, I suppose. There’s a large demand for naval-themed paintings. I paint what I love and still make a good income from it. Not everyone has that freedom or my luck.’

  Luck? Lavender eyed the ex-lieutenant’s stump and marvelled at the fellow’s jovial good humour.

  Chandler wagged a paint-splattered plump finger in the air. ‘I tell you who we need to watch out for though,’ he said, ‘that Joseph Turner. Did you ever see The Fishermen at Sea, exhibited at the Royal Academy?’

  ‘I don’t think that I did,’ Lavender said.

  ‘Turner’s an outstanding artist,’ Chandler said. ‘He’s young yet – but I have no doubt that he will prove a better landscape and nautical artist than either Caroline Clare or myself. The fellow has talent in buckets.’ Chandler took a large bite of his cake.

  ‘Lieutenant Forsyth of HMS Berwick,’ Lavender said. ‘Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course, I do.’ Chandler’s cheeks bulged like a rodent’s as he talked and chewed at the same time. ‘“Old Shorty Forty” we used to call him. Haven’t seen Shorty Forty since the Berwick sailed out of San Fiorenzo Bay.’

  ‘You’ve not seen him since then?’ Lavender was disappointed. He didn’t know what he had expected to discover this morning but so far there had been no new developments. Even Forsyth’s navy nickname was apt for a man whose backside hung that close to the ground. ‘Didn’t you make contact with him when he was released by the French in tha
t prisoner-of-war exchange in 1802?’

  ‘Well, I tried,’ Chandler said, spitting out a few crumbs. His great jovial face creased with consternation as he thought back.

  ‘You were the last remaining officer from the Berwick, were you not?’ Lavender asked. ‘The others were either dismissed or were dead.’

  ‘I wanted to see him and shake his hand. I thought I ought to congratulate him on surviving imprisonment by those damned French dogs. But he wasn’t interested.’

  ‘You’ve not seen him?’

  ‘No. I wrote to him and suggested we met up at the Admiralty Club in town one night for dinner. He sent back a brusque note saying that he was too busy. I half expected that he had been assigned another ship but the next thing I heard, he was aide to the Duke of Clarence. Mind you, he’d always been badly bullied at sea by the other officers, so at least now he’s escaped that torment.’

  Lavender held his breath. ‘Why was he bullied? Was it because of his scarring?’

  ‘Scarring? You mean those burn marks he got from the house fire that killed his family?’ Lavender nodded. ‘No. No, the scarring was beneath his uniform – you couldn’t see it. No, the other officers made his life a misery because of his baldness.’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘His baldness. He’d lost his hair at an early age – he said it was caused by the shock when his family were killed. It fell out in the weeks after the fire. Anyway the other officers thought this was hilarious. They ribbed him badly.’

  ‘He is bald.’ It was a stunned statement rather than a question. Lavender couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘Bald as a pebble on the beach,’ Chandler said. ‘He wore a wig, of course, to try to hide it, but everyone knew. His other nickname was “Baldy Forty”. He hated it and used to react with his fists to the chanting. He was forever in fights with the other fellows. Detective? Is something the matter? You look rather strange.’

  ‘He’s an imposter.’

  Lavender was frozen, mud-spattered and breathing heavily. He had ridden like a fury to get back to see Sackville before the captain left his office at the end of the day.

  Sackville turned pale. For a moment he seemed to be lost for words. ‘Forsyth is a what?’

  ‘The man working as aide to the Duke of Clarence is an imposter,’ Lavender repeated. ‘He’s not the same Lieutenant Lawrence Forsyth who sailed on HMS Berwick and was taken prisoner by the French in 1796. According to Lieutenant Chandler, his fellow officer was as bald as a coot. Unless Forsyth has concocted a miraculous cure for baldness – which would surely have made his fortune by now – then that man is not your naval officer.’

  Sackville swore, threw down his quill and rose angrily to his feet. ‘What the—? Well, who the hell is he?’

  ‘I presume he’s a French spy,’ Lavender said. ‘The real Forsyth probably died in captivity and they have sent you back an imposter. They have been clever. Forsyth was a nondescript man, with no close family and hardly any surviving colleagues – and he had been imprisoned for seven years. This is long enough for most people back in England to forget him. Lieutenant Chandler was probably the only man left who would have recognised him as an imposter and Forsyth was careful to avoid any contact with Chandler.’

  Sackville cursed again, pulled on his coat and reached for his gloves. His handsome face was dark and contorted with anger. ‘I’ll get my men and have him arrested immediately,’ he snarled. ‘At least now we know who has leaked Admiralty information to the French.’ He strode out of the door and Lavender fell into step beside him.

  ‘I’ll leave you to the arrest,’ Lavender said. ‘I need to join Woods at the theatre. Forsyth may have left the document on the table in the green room last Thursday night, but I doubt it was by accident. Someone else was supposed to collect it. With any luck the other party in this spy ring will show his hand tonight.’

  ‘I can rely on your discretion, can’t I, Lavender?’ Sackville asked. ‘And that of your constable?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sure you can imagine the scandal and the outcry if the news-sheets and the general public ever found out that Prince William had had a French spy in his entourage for the last five years.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I understand. Please be assured that Woods and I know how to be discreet.’

  They took the steps of the grand marble staircase two at a time. Suddenly, Sackville stopped dead. He spun around and Lavender saw the sudden doubt in his eyes. ‘Are you absolutely sure about this, Lavender? It’s one hell of an accusation.’

  ‘If you want further proof about this imposter,’ he reassured the captain, ‘I have found a witness to the fire that killed Forsyth’s family. He claims that the real Lawrence Forsyth suffered bad scarring on his back from the fire; Chandler verified this claim. I’m sure both witnesses would stand up in court to testify.’

  ‘It’ll never come to court,’ Sackville muttered ominously. He resumed his descent of the staircase. ‘When I get my hands on Forsyth, the first thing I’ll do is rip the bloody shirt off his back. If there’s no scarring – then I will rip off his bloody head.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Constable Woods was fed up. He had endured about as much of preening thespians as he could stand. The men strutted around like cocks and were just as bird-brained, and the women were lewd, foul-mouthed, jealous doxies who spat like wildcats at imagined slights. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that several of the cast were embroiled in jealous squabbles or simmering feuds. The only good thing about Woods’ second day in the theatre was that his bruised buttocks had recovered from the twanging they had received the previous day at the nippy fingers of John Isaacs. Isaacs had lost interest in him and had found another niffynaffy fellow to torment, the new stagehand.

  Woods dragged a stool out into the corridor and spent as much time as he could lolling against the wall pretending to be asleep with his mop idle by his side. He wanted to become so inconspicuous that no one would notice or question his presence. His ploy was working: no one had spoken to him all day. He had blended into the background.

  During the afternoon rehearsal, two of the feuding actresses came to blows over some silly mistake one of them had made in the previous night’s performance. ‘You did it deliberately, you poxy old slamkin!’ screamed the complainant as she leapt onto her rival, yanked at her dress and ripped off her sleeve. The screaming women whirled in a hair-pulling, face-scratching frenzy. Three of the men struggled to break it up. Woods found it hard to resist his ingrained response to arrest both of the hellcats for affray.

  He decided to slink away and hide for a while in the office that Jane Scott used for meetings. As he approached the room, he heard the desk banging hard against the floorboards and the unmistakeable grunts and groans of a copulating couple.

  ‘Ah mon petit villain! T’es méchant, toi!’ shrieked the woman.

  Isn’t that French? Woods stopped in his tracks. His eyebrows met across his brow in a frown. He went through a mental list of the actors and actors in his mind and soon realised that he hadn’t seen William Broadhurst for some time – or the Italian actress, Miss Helena Bologna.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ the woman screamed again. Woods stepped away embarrassed. If Miss Bologna’s moans of delight were anything to go by, then Broadhurst gave as good a performance offstage as he did as an onstage lover. But it was the new discovery about Miss Bologna’s nationality that distracted him the most. He filed this bit of information carefully in the back of his mind; after all, they were looking for the members of a French spy ring and if there was one thing he had learnt this week, it was that the female of the species could be as devious as the male.

  Woods dragged his bucket of filthy water outside the stage door and climbed up the short flight of stone steps to empty it out into the street. The chill, coal-scented air of the capital was a welcome escape from the musty odours inside the theatre. It was almost dusk and folks were hurrying to get home before it got dark. The chimney stac
ks and church spires of the skyline were silhouetted against a flaming-red sky and dark, billowing clouds. The lamplighters were already out and the streets were full of carriages taking home the wealthy shoppers and workers from the city. Empty wagons rumbled northwards towards the farms and market gardens of Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire. They would be refilled with produce overnight and returned to Covent Garden before dawn. The appetite of the capital was gargantuan.

  He wondered where Lavender was today and frowned when he remembered Lavender’s argument with Magistrate Read over the Duke of Clarence and Read’s disparaging comment about Lavender’s ‘Spanish widow’. That hadn’t been uttered in jest. The two men usually worked well together. Read had an incredible encyclopaedic memory: he remembered nuance and mundane details about the criminals who passed through his dock and the other citizens of London who appeared in his news-sheet. And none of the other principal officers at Bow Street possessed Lavender’s incredible ability to make sense of the twisted, corrupt behaviour and motives of the criminal and insane. He could unravel a case in half of the time it took the others. Read relied heavily on him and was ferociously protective of his best detective. He had brushed off several attempts by other London police offices to poach or borrow Lavender.

  Woods knew that ever since poor Vivienne had died, his friend had thrown himself into his work like a demented fiend. Lavender stormed through the seedy underworld of the city, slicing through one unpleasant case after another. He solved mysteries with the same speed and precision that Sir Richard Allison carved up a cadaver. Even the criminals themselves had a grudging respect and fear for Stephen Lavender’s amazing powers of detection, and everyone at Bow Street assumed that the man was married to his job.