ALSO BY KAREN CHARLTON
DETECTIVE LAVENDER MYSTERIES
The Heiress of Linn Hagh
The Sans Pareil Mystery
INDIVIDUAL WORKS
Catching the Eagle
Seeking Our Eagle (non-fiction)
The Mystery of the Skelton Diamonds (short story)
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 © 2016 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
ISBN-13: 9781503938243
ISBN-10: 1503938247
Cover design by Lisa Horton
For my father,
Tony James
With all my love – and thank you for your help with Chapter Thirty-One.
Love you, Dad.
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
Chapter Thirty-Six
Author’s Note
Bibliography
About the Author
Chapter One
Tuesday 20th February, 1810
Middleton, Northamptonshire
The storm woke Billy Sculthorpe.
His slanting eyes flew open in horror when the first flash of lightning rent the air. For a split second, he saw the unnatural glow of his dark furniture and sensed it straining towards him. He held his breath. The thunder exploded directly overhead. Billy clutched his ears and wailed in terror. Rain lashed against the window like the stones hurled by the bully boys, torrential and unforgiving.
Billy cried out and swung his stunted legs over the side of the bed, determined to race to his mother and the safety of her warm arms. But he stopped dead when his feet hit the cold floorboards.
Ma had gone. His pa had taken her away for burial.
A fresh wave of grief flooded through his quivering body. The wind moaned down the chimney and rattled and grated the loose roof tiles above his head. He sank down in the voluminous pool of his nightgown with his stubby hands slapped over his ears. Desperately, he tried to remember his mammy’s voice and words.
‘Ah sure, there’s nottin’ to be afeard of, Billy-Boy,’ she would soothe. ’Tis just water from the Well at the World’s End pourin’ over Middleton tonight. ’Tis a watery veil, like a lady’s veil. It keeps out the Dark Elves of Elphame and protects us from their evil.’
Another jagged bolt of white hot lightning split the sky outside.
‘Mammy!’ He clutched his shoulders and rocked on his bare heels, braced against the next clap of thunder. He longed to be back in her arms and hear her whisper soft prayers of protection into his ears. But Pa had planted her in the ground like an apple seed.
‘You be brave now, my Billy-Boy,’ she’d said as she died. ‘Yer no child no more. Be brave . . .’
A strangled sob escaped his throat. He held his breath and waited for more thunder. It never came. Was the storm moving away? His ears strained against the howling wind and the rain hammering down on the tiles, demanding entrance like the little folk. No, he had it wrong. Ma always said the rain kept the faeries away. They curled up inside the leathery leaves of evergreen bushes during a storm.
The wind still bent the boughs of the trees and rattled the panes in the window but the thunder had gone. He released his breath in a noisy gasp of relief and felt a surge of pride in his own bravery. Mammy would be pleased.
Suddenly, the old oak at the end of their yard groaned with the weight of the wind and Billy’s innards lurched. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as the ancient tree shifted and creaked again.
It was Black Agnes. She was rattling the branches with her iron claws. Soon she would reach inside the cottages of the village to snatch the children with her metal talons and drag them back to her cave. She would skin them alive, devour their raw flesh and then tan their hides to wear as an apron around her waist.
Black Agnes rattled the oak tree again and he knew she was here for him. Fear bubbled up inside his gut. Black Agnes wanted his hide for a trophy.
Another fork of brilliant light shot down like a serpent to bite the earth. She will see me!
Biting back his scream of fear, he staggered to his feet and lurched towards the door.
‘Ma!’ He threw up the latch and burst out onto the landing. ‘Mammy!’ he screamed.
He stopped short and blinked at the strange sight before him. The door to his mother’s bedchamber stood open. Three silent, dark-faced creatures watched him from inside the room. A pocket lantern on the floor cast their demon-shadows onto the crumbling plaster walls behind them. The whites of their eyes glowed unnaturally bright against the blackened skin of their faces. One of them held his ma’s chair in his hands.
Billy knew them in an instant. The water from the Well at the World’s End had failed to protect him. The liquid veil of safety had been ripped apart and the Dark Elves of Elphame had streamed through the rent from their world into his. They were in his home, seeking out his father’s gold and stealing his mother’s furniture. There was a witch at his back and now the Dark Elves stood before him, their faces as black as pitch.
Billy sobbed, sank down onto his haunches and clutched his face in terror.
‘’Tis the cretin,’ growled a voice.
Suddenly, one of the elves gave a blood-curdling yell and leapt forward with a cudgel grasped in his claw. Warm urine poured down Billy’s frozen leg and splattered over his bare foot.
His short arms flailed helplessly in defence. It was no good. The blow fell and the cudgel crashed into the side of his head.
Searing pain. A blinding flash of light . . . then nothing.
Chapter Two
Thursday 1st March, 1810
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
The Leicester-bound stagecoach swerved off the road and plunged into the shallow ford on the outskirts of Market Harborough.
Detective Stephen Lavender braced himself for the impact as the lumbering vehicle hit the river, slowed and lurched over the rocks on the river bed. For a brief moment, the ceaseless rumble of the carriage wheels that had reverberated in their ears since they left Northampton was silenced and replaced with the hiss of splashing water and the grating of churning pebbles. The coach lurched up the oppos
ite bank of the Welland and rejoined the road. The clatter of hooves and the incessant racket started again.
‘I’m so sorry, treacle.’ Across the aisle, Constable Woods apologised profusely to the pink-cheeked and startled young girl into whom he had pitched when the carriage left the road. The collision had knocked her reticule out of her hands. Still apologising, Woods bent down to retrieve it from the floor.
Woods’ embarrassment was short-lived. With a blast of his horn, the guard heralded their arrival into the town. The coach swerved into Lubenham Lane and swept under the carriage archway of The Bell Inn. The exhausted drivers reined in the horses and the ostlers leapt across the stable yard to meet them. In a few moments, the steaming animals were unbuckled and led away while other men attached the harnesses to fresh horses that stamped and snorted impatiently.
Lavender stood up stiffly, opened the carriage door and climbed down into the yard. A welcome blast of cold evening air stung his face and he relished its freshness after two days spent in the stuffy atmosphere inside the coach. It was nearly six o’clock but the nights drew in early at this time of year. Lanterns glowed around the walls of the yard, illuminating the frantic activity around him. Servants and porters bustled around the coach, loading and unloading trunks and valises for the next leg of the journey. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Woods retrieve their luggage.
The landlord, a small, sharp-faced man with huge sideburns, appeared. ‘Welcome! Welcome! Frederick Newby at your service, gentlemen,’ he boomed in a surprisingly large voice for someone of his diminutive stature. ‘We have good beds, commodious rooms, hot meals, a well-supplied larder and the best of liquors for those who wish to avail themselves of our hospitality.’
Lavender glanced across at the inn and tried to assess the quality of the place. Brightly lit inside, the mullioned windows glowed attractively against the stuccoed walls of the timber-framed tavern, casting pools of warm yellow light onto the gleaming cobbles of the yard. This inn was probably as comfortable as any in the town, he decided. He was hungry and thirsty and his body ached from the bone-rattling journey. But his business was urgent and Captain Rushperry wouldn’t wait for them all night.
Woods joined him on one side and the landlord on the other. The tavern owner’s eyes darted over Lavender’s tall frame and assessed the smart cut of his dark coat and spotless white cravat. ‘You look like a man who appreciates the finer things in life, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you care to partake of a glass of one of our fine wines?’
‘You have a room for the night?’
‘Yes, sir. A most commodious room for you and your man – and an excellent supper.’
The guard of the coach blew an ear-piercing blast from his coiled horn, while the driver thrashed at the reins and yelled out a warning. Lavender, Woods and the innkeeper hastily stepped back against the wall as the vehicle jolted forward. It swung around and rumbled smoothly out of the narrow arched exit of the courtyard, its lantern swaying behind it.
‘We will lodge here tonight,’ Lavender said, ‘but we have business to attend to first with Captain Rushperry at the Town Hall. Kindly have our bags taken to the room and point us in the direction of the Town Hall.’
‘Why, Captain Rushperry himself regularly frequents my establishment!’ the excited man exclaimed. ‘And the Town Hall, ’tis only a step away! Go back to the sheep market in the Square and follow the buildings up towards the church. The Town Hall stands directly behind it. I’ll have a good supper waitin’ for you, on your return. I hear from your accents you’re strangers to the town. ’Tis far better you return here tonight to our comfort than end up in that filthy den of sin, The Angel.’
Both police officers glanced up curiously. ‘What’s wrong with The Angel?’ Woods asked.
Their host shook his head sadly and dropped his voice to emphasise the seriousness of his next comments. ‘The landlord encourages the rabble from the new canal,’ he said, ‘the wharf hands and those dirty bargees. There’s heavy drinkin’ and fights there every night. ’Tis not the place for a discernin’ traveller like you, sir.’
Lavender bit back his smile. The nature of his job meant he was regularly immersed in the seedier side of the crime-ridden capital. He had broken up more brawls between the drunken hell-cats of Covent Garden than he cared to remember and he often rubbed shoulders with the ragtag and scum of the Seven Dials. But this man wasn’t to know about that.
They set off to follow the coach back to the main road. ‘There’ll be a glass of my best brandy waiting for you!’ the landlord called after them.
‘Fine wines? Brandy?’ Woods said. ‘I think the fellah thinks you’re a bit of a tosspot, sir.’
Lavender smiled. He’d sensed Woods’ disappointment when he’d turned down the offer of immediate refreshment from the landlord. But even a rumbling belly never dampened his constable’s good humour. ‘He’s certainly keen to gain custom for his inn,’ Lavender replied.
They turned the corner into the broad market square and the medieval spire of St Dionysius’ Church immediately drew their eyes as it rose up into the evening gloom of the sky. A few people scurried past them but the square was deserted apart from the lamplighter busy at his work on the far side.
Criss-crossed with empty animal pens, the square was also dotted with cast-iron tethering posts. The stench of the animals and their excrement still hung in the air. It overpowered the smell of roasting meat and coal fires that drifted from the chimneys of the tall houses lining the square. Despite the best efforts of the lamplighter, many of the buildings had fallen into shadow. They picked their way carefully round the stagnant puddles and indiscernible piles of refuse littering the street. Wisps of straw rustled across the cobbles in the light breeze.
The town suddenly felt eerie and hostile to Lavender and he had a surge of homesickness for his warm and spacious home back in Marylebone, followed by an intense pang of longing for the dark-eyed woman who waited for him there. He shook his head and expelled a loud breath in frustration. Concentrate on your job, he told himself. The sooner the case is solved, the sooner you’ll get home to Magdalena.
The Town Hall was a three-storey rectangular building of red brick, with stone dressings around the Venetian windows in the upper levels. The ground floor consisted of a row of open vaulted bays for the use of the town’s butchers which stank of blood. The assembly rooms and the courtroom upstairs were reached via a stone staircase on the outside of the building.
Captain Rushperry waited for them in a small office adjacent to the main courtroom. His desk dominated most of the room and the large magistrate himself seemed to dominate the rest. Lavender knew Rushperry had a distinguished military record but the man had obviously grown fat through inactivity since he had retired his commission. Unsmiling, Rushperry eased his bulk out of his chair and extended a podgy hand across the desk towards the two policemen. ‘Thank goodness you’re here!’ he said.
Lavender and Woods pulled up a pair of hard-backed wooden chairs and sat side by side, squashed between the desk and the glowing fireplace.
Rushperry’s greying eyebrows knitted together as the policemen removed their hats and gloves. Deep lines stretched across his broad forehead beneath his wig. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Lavender – we’re beleaguered with crime up here in Leicestershire and Northamptonshire,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful to Bow Street for lending us your assistance. Do you have the invoice?’ Rushperry’s eyes were deep-set in his fleshy face but they shone with concern and were swollen with lack of sleep.
Intrigued, Lavender bit back his questions and pulled out a sheaf of documents from his pocket. To hand the magistrate a bill for the services they were about to render seemed almost churlish after such an enthusiastic welcome but Bow Street Police Office only parted with its detectives for a fee. Lavender hoped Rushperry would still be as enthusiastic about paying for their assistance at the end of the case.
Rushperry pulled his oil lamp closer. He rubbed his forehead and examined the
invoice with tired eyes. ‘Everything seems to be in order,’ he said at last. ‘The Dowager Countess Fitzwilliam of Rockingham Castle commissioned your help with this murder investigation. I understand that Mr Sculthorpe used to serve her in some capacity. She is very distressed and is following the case with interest. I will send the invoice to the estate steward.’
Lavender’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He’d assumed that the Magistracy had requested help from Bow Street Police Office. The involvement of Lady Fitzwilliam was a new development. He racked his memory for information about the Fitzwilliams of Rockingham Castle. If he remembered rightly, the elderly dowager countess had an impeccable pedigree. She was the daughter of the Marquis of Rockingham and the sister of an ex-British prime minister.
‘I’m glad you have brought your constable with you,’ Rushperry said. ‘You’ll need him.’
‘What has happened?’ Lavender asked. ‘In your letter you asked for our help following a brutal attack on an elderly man in his own home by unknown assailants. Is this a murder investigation now?’
Rushperry drew in a deep breath and sat back. ‘Yes, the situation has changed. When I penned that letter to Magistrate Read, I believed we were dealing with robbery and assault.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, we now need your help to solve a murder.’
‘The victim has died?’
Rushperry nodded. ‘William Sculthorpe passed away two days after the attack. He never regained consciousness sufficiently to tell us about his assailants. Due to the viciousness of the assault on such an old man, the coroner has ruled out manslaughter and decided this is cold-blooded murder.’
‘Poor old beggar,’ said Woods. ‘The shock of the attack probably did for him, as well.’
‘Quite,’ said Rushperry. ‘I see you’re a compassionate man, Constable Woods.’
‘Well, we’ve all had parents, haven’t we?’ Woods said. ‘How old were the poor fellah?’
‘Mr Sculthorpe was eighty-six years of age.’
A spontaneous growl escaped Woods’ lips and his fists clenched in his lap.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 1
