As they descended down the steep hillside into the village, they passed a stinking lime kiln. Dust-covered men turned their heads to watch them pass. A group of young boys outside a redbrick school also watched their progression with interest.
The main part of the village of Middleton, a long, single street of stone cottages and farms, lay at the bottom of the hill. Halfway down the street stood the blacksmith’s forge, opposite a water trough and a black, iron-handled pump. Woods filled up the trough and they let their sweating horses drink while they swigged from their own hip flasks.
A creaking wooden sign further down the street indicated the location of a solitary shop and the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread suggested a bakehouse nearby. The main road through the village was a rutted mud-track where chickens picked their way delicately between piles of animal dung. A group of women stood talking further down the street while small children played at their feet in the dirt. This was the last place in England where Lavender would have expected to investigate a brutal murder.
‘I imagine you’ll want to speak to Constable Sawyer first,’ Clancy said.
‘No, let’s start with the scene of the crime,’ Lavender replied.
They left the horses with the blacksmith, then Clancy led them down a short alleyway to two humble stone cottages set back from the road and facing each other. He stopped in front of the most dilapidated of the cottages. Paint peeled away from the low, rectangular window frames and wooden door, and weeds sprouted up around the step. ‘We’ve left it alone for you,’ he said. ‘Captain Rushperry were most particular about that.’
Lavender glanced at the cottage directly opposite Sculthorpe’s home. A curtain twitched in an upstairs window and he glimpsed a pale face.
‘Wait’ he said, as Clancy reached for the door handle. ‘Did anyone ever ask these neighbours if they saw or heard anything on the night of the attack?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Clancy said, bristling with pride. ‘There’s only Miss Bennett in the house opposite. She looks after her bedridden mother. She said she didn’t see or hear anythin’ out of the ordinary. There were a terrible storm ragin’ that night,’ he added. ‘Most folks never heard anythin’ over the noise of the thunder.’
‘Maybe that’s why the thieves picked that night to carry out the robbery,’ Woods said.
The young constable pushed open the creaking oak door and they stepped inside the musty gloom of a cramped hallway.
‘Why isn’t the door locked?’ Woods asked.
‘Folks tend not to bother lockin’ their doors in this part of the world. They don’t expect any trouble. I searched for a key but never found one.’
‘Well, there’s no doubt how Sculthorpe’s attackers entered the property,’ Lavender said wryly.
They turned to a room on the left first. ‘This was the old man’s bedchamber,’ Clancy said.
A single bed stood against the far wall of the room. Lavender pulled back the thin drapes across the window to let in more light. The bed sheets and blankets were rumpled and trailed over the edge onto the wooden floor as if the sleeper had been roused suddenly and left the bed quickly. Across an old hard-backed chair lay a fraying white shirt, a pair of darned woollen trousers and an old black coat with tarnished buttons. Everything was folded neatly and on top of the clothing sat a battered black Bible.
‘It doesn’t look like the intruders came in here,’ Lavender said. He picked up the white shirt from the pile of clothes. ‘Was Sculthorpe found dead in his nightshirt?’
Clancy nodded.
‘So, the thieves – or perhaps the storm – wake up the old man,’ Lavender said, ‘and a few moments later he stumbles across the intruders in his kitchen.’
Apart from the washstand and a battered trunk on the floor, the only other furniture in the room was a tall cupboard in the corner. A large wooden cross over the mahogany bedhead broke up the monotony of the crumbling plaster walls. Candle stubs sat in stands on the floor and a razor and shaving cup rested on the washstand. The spartan nature of the room reminded Lavender of a monk’s cell.
Woods lifted up the lid of the trunk and rifled through the contents. ‘Old clothes,’ he said, ‘and these.’ He pulled out a pair of creased and battered working boots from the bottom of the chest. Despite their obvious age, they had a strange sheen and gleamed like satin. Woods peered closer and laughed. ‘Heaven and hell!’ he said softly. ‘He’s varnished them with wood varnish, tryin’ to make them look like new. This old man weren’t payin’ out for a new pair of boots!’
Lavender moved across to the tall, narrow cupboard in the corner of the room. ‘So if the clothes are in the chest, what’s in here?’ He tugged at the handles of the two doors and frowned when they refused to yield.
‘I can’t find the key to that either,’ Clancy confessed.
Lavender pulled his pocketknife and a length of thin wire from his coat pocket. ‘Well, luckily for you, Clancy,’ he said, ‘Constable Woods and I have spent a lot of time with some of the best picklocks, thieves and coves in the capital.’ He inserted a blade into the tiny lock and twisted. Still the door refused to budge. Abandoning the knife, he tried a folded loop of the wire. Clancy moved closer and watched. The door swung open with a quiet click. Lavender reached up for the inside catch of the second door, released it and pulled it back.
The men stared in silence at the glittering, silver-gilt and enamelled artefact that stood before them on the shelf in the cupboard.
‘Now we know why Sculthorpe and his wife didn’t go to the village church,’ Lavender said.
‘What is it, sir?’ Woods asked.
‘It’s a Catholic reliquary,’ Lavender said. ‘Judging by the candle stumps set around it, Sculthorpe used it as a shrine for worship.’
A beautiful gilt carving of the Madonna and child stood on the lid of the box surrounded by two angels. Above their heads rose three pointed arches, which culminated in elaborate silver finials. Although the artefact was only some ten inches high, the arches and finials emphasised each apex and gave the impression the figures were seated in a cathedral of immense proportion and wealth. Translucent blue enamel was used as a background for the main carving and also on the fragile and decorative side panels.
Lavender pointed to the intricate paintings on the side panels. ‘These are scenes from the life of the Virgin and the Infancy of Christ.’ The translucency of the enamel reminded him of the stained-glass windows in Westminster Cathedral.
‘Sculthorpe were a Catholic?’ Clancy’s face registered shock.
‘It would appear so,’ Lavender said.
‘Do you think there’s money in the bottom?’ Woods asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Lavender replied. ‘You’re more likely to find the mummified finger bone of a saint in there.’
Clancy shuddered.
‘That’s the purpose of a reliquary,’ Lavender told them, ‘to keep ancient religious artefacts safe.’
Carefully, Woods supported the statue and lifted the lid of the box. ‘Eugh.’ His face crumpled in disgust and he lowered the lid far more quickly than he had raised it. ‘It looks like hair and a bit of scalp. It’s not Sculthorpe’s missin’ fortune, that’s for sure.’
Clancy sighed and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe he were a Catholic. Everyone said he were a decent old man.’
The corners of Lavender’s mouth twitched. ‘Not all Catholics have three heads and horns,’ he said.
‘Is this valuable?’ Woods pointed to the reliquary.
Lavender frowned and tried to assess the value of the glittering object. To his untrained eye it looked more elaborate and antique than the family reliquary owned by Magdalena. Silver-gilt and enamel weren’t particularly expensive but the skill of the craftsmen who had made it was exquisite and he had no idea about the antiquity of the piece.
‘I don’t know. It needs to go to an expert for valuation,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I recommend we take it back to Market Harborough with us for safekeepin
g tonight. Let’s examine the rest of the cottage.’
They crossed the hallway into the kitchen and paused in the doorway, shocked at the carnage that lay before them. The wooden chairs in the room had been upended and smashed and someone had yanked out the drawers from the wooden dresser and tipped their contents onto the floor. A stained and sagging fireside armchair had been ripped to shreds. The stuffing from the cushions had been kicked around the room. The mantelpiece above the fireplace had been swept clean of its objects, the clock and the ornaments. These now lay shattered on the floor among the broken crockery, strewn papers and kitchen utensils.
Clancy pointed to the gap between the dresser and the corner of the room. A large bloodstain covered the flaking plaster on the wall.
‘The neighbours found Mr Sculthorpe down here,’ he said. ‘He’d been knocked backwards and had slumped down into this corner against the wall.’
They opened a window to let out the unpleasant smell of rotting vegetation that permeated the room, then meticulously examined the debris of William Sculthorpe’s life. Broken pieces of pot crunched beneath Lavender’s boots as he scooped up the papers lying on the floor.
‘Receipts,’ he said, disappointed. ‘Receipts for everything – food, coal, socks and tobacco.’ He had hoped to find more detailed accounts or correspondence among the scattered papers.
He moved over to the fireplace and examined the inside of the chimney for secret ledges and alcoves. His glance rested on the greasy pan and the cracked and dirty food plates thrown on the floor by the hearth. He picked up the iron pan and sniffed it.
‘Fried ham,’ he said. ‘Sculthorpe had fried ham for his last supper.’ A black residue on the bottom of the pan attracted his attention. He poked it, drew back his blackened finger and sniffed. Frowning, he put down the pan and moved into the scullery at the back of the kitchen. The food shelves were bare apart from a half-empty basket of rotting mushrooms. He carried it back into the kitchen and moved over to the light by the window. ‘Here’s the source of the smell,’ he said.
‘What is it, sir?’ Woods asked.
Lavender poked the congealed mass at the bottom of the basket again and lifted his inky hands to show the other two men who had gathered round. ‘Coprinopsis atramentaria,’ he said. ‘Ink cap mushrooms. No wonder Doctor Wallace said Sculthorpe’s fingers were black when they found him.’
Clancy frowned. ‘Aren’t they poisonous?’
‘Not usually,’ Lavender replied. ‘Only if ingested with alcohol. Did Sculthorpe drink spirits or ale?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Clancy replied. He moved across to the other side of the room and pulled out a bottle from under the table. ‘It’s half-full,’ he said, ‘and it’s brandy.’
Lavender took the bottle from him and raised his eyebrows at the label. ‘It’s expensive brandy, as well. It looks like our victim wasn’t quite so miserly when it came to treating himself to some of the finer things in life. Is there any evidence he had been drinking this on the night of his death?’
They glanced around the debris. Woods bent down and picked up the shattered remains of a glass. Carefully, he ran his finger along the residue on the bottom and licked it. ‘Brandy,’ he confirmed.
‘But what does this mean?’ Clancy asked.
‘It means,’ Lavender said, ‘we now know why William Sculthorpe had palpitations, vomited and was red in the face when Doctor Wallace went to assist him. The man had poisoned himself with ink cap mushrooms and brandy. When the thieves attacked Sculthorpe, he was already a dying man.’
Chapter Five
‘Does this mean we’re no longer lookin’ at a murder charge?’ Clancy asked.
‘That will depend on the coroner,’ Lavender said calmly. ‘He will make a decision when he’s apprised of all the facts. It is obvious to me that both Doctor Wallace and the coroner failed to recognise that Sculthorpe’s symptoms suggested he’d been poisoned. They were distracted by the injuries he received during the attack.’
Woods’ mouth had been hanging open in surprise. He closed it and shook his head. ‘I’m not surprised about that. Who would have thought the poor old fellah had poisoned himself on the day he was attacked?’
‘We’re still looking at a vicious robbery where three people were badly injured,’ Lavender said. ‘We need to catch those villains and bring them to justice, whether they were ultimately responsible for Sculthorpe’s death or not.’
‘I wouldn’t want to be in that coroner’s shoes and have to sort out this pickle,’ Woods said.
Lavender turned to Clancy. ‘Where did the neighbours and Doctor Wallace find Sculthorpe’s son?’
Clancy led the way up the narrow wooden stairs and paused on the landing between the two bedrooms next to an ominous dark stain on the wooden floorboards. ‘The neighbours found Billy Sculthorpe here,’ he said. ‘He’d been hit on the head and was slumped on the floor, unconscious and bleedin’ badly. He were terrified when he came round. The thieves had scared him out of his wits.’
‘Where is he now?’ Woods asked.
‘Mrs Tilley at Willow Cottage has taken him in until he recovers. She has rooms to let. Captain Rushperry has agreed to pay for it until Sculthorpe’s financial affairs are settled. Doctor and Mrs Wallace have accommodation there too. I think the doctor wanted to keep an eye on him and make sure he recovered.’
‘Who were these neighbours who found the Sculthorpes, raised the alarm and fetched Doctor Wallace?’ Lavender asked.
‘’Twere Frank Bunnin’, the landlord of The Woolpack, his nephew, Isaac, and one of their customers, Harry Goode. Constable Sawyer staggered into The Woolpack to raise the alarm after he was attacked. He knew there’d be someone still there.’
‘That were good thinkin’,’ said Woods.
Young Clancy beamed. ‘Yes, Jed Sawyer is a real hero. Anyway, the Bunnin’s and Harry Goode came straight here. Frank Bunnin’ sent his nephew to rouse Doctor Wallace when he saw the terrible state of the Sculthorpes. They thought the old man were already dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Lavender. ‘I’ve read about his injuries in the coroner’s report. What time did this attack take place?’
‘Frank Bunnin’ said it were just before ten o’clock. He were about to call time in the tavern and shut up for the night when Jed Sawyer staggered through the door with his face smashed up and a broken arm.’
‘So how is Mr Billy Sculthorpe now?’ Lavender asked. ‘Has he recovered enough for us to interview him about the attack? Or is he still out of his wits with fear?’
Clancy shuffled his feet and dropped his eyes down onto the bloodstain on the floor. ‘I can’t rightly say,’ he said. ‘Captain Rushperry told me to leave him alone. He weren’t to be interviewed.’
‘Why is that?’ Lavender snapped.
‘Billy Sculthorpe’s a bit simple-minded.’ Clancy glanced up, embarrassed. ‘He’s an imbecile.’
‘An imbecile?’
‘Yes.’ Clancy fixed Lavender with his troubled blue eyes. ‘You know, one of those simpletons who never go out. Sculthorpe and his wife kept him shut up in the house. The villagers knew he lived here, of course, but no one ever saw him.’
‘His evidence will still be valuable,’ Lavender said.
Clancy shook his fair head. ‘He said three dark spirits attacked him that night – but Constable Sawyer said there were five villains.’
‘Dark spirits?’
‘Yes, elves or sommat.’ Clancy tapped his head. ‘He’s touched, feeble-minded.’
Lavender sighed. He now understood what Captain Rushperry meant when he said one of the witnesses was unreliable.
Lavender remembered a similar situation up in Northumberland the previous year. On this occasion, he’d overlooked the mute, childlike brother of the missing heiress Helen Carnaby during his investigation. This had been a terrible mistake – and an innocent young woman had paid with her life. ‘We still need to speak to Billy Sculthorpe at some point,’ he said firmly. ‘Let’s examine
these rooms while we’re here.’
The first bedchamber they entered was Billy Sculthorpe’s. Lavender and Woods stopped in surprise at the entrance.
‘Gawd’s teeth!’ Woods exclaimed. Lavender felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
Sheets of paper were stuck all over the rough stone walls of the room, covered with pencil drawings of fantastical and sinister mythical creatures. Slavering, red-eyed wolves glared out at them, disturbed from their feast of maggot-ridden carrion. Venomous serpents curled around the pages, crushing their prey to death in their coils. Scowling Valkyries hovered in the corners like angels of death.
Billy Sculthorpe obviously had a fevered imagination. Lavender pulled a drawing from the wall and examined it. Despite the untrained hand of the artist and some awkwardness of proportion, Billy Sculthorpe had talent. There was dexterity and skill in the shading and smudging of the figures and their features.
‘How old is Billy Sculthorpe?’ Lavender asked.
Clancy shook his head and shrugged.
Woods stood immobile and tense in the doorway. ‘What is all this?’ he growled.
‘The life’s work of Billy Sculthorpe,’ Lavender replied, simply. He walked across the room to the corner where pencils, paper and crayons were scattered across the floor and piled haphazardly on an old chest, along with some ragged and well-thumbed books. The books were a collection of illustrated children’s fables and Celtic fairytales but Lavender wasn’t surprised to also find a book of Norse folklore and an illustrated copy of Dante’s Inferno among them. Billy Sculthorpe had copied out several illustrations from these books onto paper.
Lavender glanced around the rest of the simply furnished room and wondered how Billy’s mother could have afforded all this stationery and the books. Books were not common among working people, but then again, he reasoned, most of them didn’t have a jewelled reliquary in the closet either.
‘It looks like the thieves didn’t venture inside here, either,’ he said. The thin blankets on the bed were rumpled but there was no sign of disturbance anywhere in the room.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 4
