‘No, ma’am. I shall not.’
A wry smile twitched at the corners of her thin lips. ‘No, Lavender, you wouldn’t, would you? You’re an ambitious man.’ Her smile broadened but it didn’t reach her eyes.
‘His career means too much to him,’ Erskine interrupted. Her pale face was devoid of emotion as she addressed her mistress. ‘He puts the pursuit of gold before his God. You can’t serve God and Mammon: no man can serve two masters.’
‘Isn’t that Matthew six, verse twenty-four, ma’am?’ Lavender asked, pleasantly.
‘You know your New Testament, Detective,’ Lady Anne sighed. ‘That is some comfort, I suppose.’
The two women seemed determined to rile him and he wondered why. For their own amusement, perhaps? Their behaviour and interaction reminded him of a pair of actors he had seen at a comedy show at a theatre in Covent Garden. The two performers had worked together to ridicule several members of the audience. Another thought jumped into his mind. ‘Do you follow the old faith yourself, Lady Anne?’ he asked.
She gasped at his perception, then frowned. ‘It’s not the old faith, Detective. It’s the one true faith,’ she retorted, ‘and yes, I have been a Catholic since I was a young woman. Do you know your politics, Lavender?’
‘I do.’ Where was this interrogation leading?
‘Then you will know of my son, William Fitzwilliam, the Whig politician.’
‘Indeed I do, ma’am,’ Lavender replied, ‘and I know he’s favoured by the Prince of Wales. There is much talk of a possible Regency this year. If this transpires, Earl Fitzwilliam may follow in your brother’s footsteps and become the next prime minister. There can’t be many great houses in the country that can boast of two prime ministers in their number.’
She nodded. ‘You’re well informed, Detective, but what you may not know is that my son intends to reconcile Catholics to British rule in Ireland by delivering Catholic emancipation and ending the Protestant Ascendancy.’
‘I would welcome a Catholic emancipation act, Lady Anne,’ he said. ‘I believe the current system of inequality to be both unjust and unsustainable. The threat to the nation from the Jacobites receded decades ago. To continue to deprive a large section of British citizens of their right to buy land, enter universities or serve in parliament, the military or the magistracies is both unfair and probably detrimental to the country.’
She said nothing but her gaze seemed softer.
‘But to return to the case in hand,’ he continued. ‘I’m curious about William Sculthorpe. I understand he once worked for you, ma’am. Will you tell me in what capacity?’
She waved a thin hand dismissively in the air. ‘All you need to know, Detective, is William Sculthorpe once performed a great service for me, for which I rewarded him generously.’
‘Will you tell me what that was?’
‘I will not. Needless to say, I have retained a great affection for the old curmudgeon ever since. I can’t bear to think of him hewn down by cowards. I need you to solve this dreadful case, Detective.’
‘Are you familiar with the profession or trade he followed in his youth?’
‘I am not.’
‘Was part of his reward for this great service he rendered unto you an occasional bottle of expensive brandy?’
Lady Anne smiled broadly and revealed her gums.
‘The brandy was a joke, Detective,’ Erskine said.
‘A joke?’ What joke did a dowager countess share with a common man like William Sculthorpe?
‘Bill Sculthorpe was eighty-six years of age. Next month I will also be eighty-six years old.’ Lady Anne bristled with pride.
‘Congratulations, ma’am,’ he murmured.
‘There are not many people who achieve this great age,’ Lady Anne continued, ‘and Bill Sculthorpe and I were determined to outlive each other. Twice a year – on Sculthorpe’s birthday and at Christmas – I would send him a bottle of brandy in the hope he would drink himself to death. Twice a year on the same occasions he would send me the same – with exactly the same wish.’
Lavender’s eyebrow rose at the thought that William Sculthorpe sent gifts to the Lady Anne in the hope that they would kill her.
‘This joke has gone on for years between us, Detective. You may think we were an eccentric couple of old fools but our longevity was a great source of pride for both of us.’
He didn’t know what to think. The way she spoke about William Sculthorpe suggested they had shared an intimacy far beyond that of the normal relationship between mistress and servant. ‘Did you ever send him other gifts?’ he asked. ‘Food baskets, perhaps? Fruit? Vegetables – mushrooms?’
She frowned and looked confused. ‘No.’
‘How long have you known William Sculthorpe?’ he asked.
‘Since I was a young woman,’ she replied.
So you will know what profession Sculthorpe followed. ‘May I ask how you met him?’
A wave of sadness contorted her wrinkled face. Her thin shoulders fell forward. For a moment Lavender thought he had distressed her with his questioning before he realised that she had no intention of answering his last question.
‘The thought of outliving the old curmudgeon was one of the few pleasures I had left in life,’ she said softly.
Her companion leant forward towards the bath chair. ‘But you have won the competition, ma’am. In a couple of months’ time you will have lived longer than him.’
‘If I live for another couple of months,’ the dowager countess replied.
‘I feel cheated, Erskine,’ Lady Anne complained. ‘Bill Sculthorpe didn’t die a natural death. Those murdering scoundrels ruined our contest. It’s a hollow victory now.’ Her voice trailed away in sorrow and Lavender saw for the first time the despondency, exhaustion and frailty of the feisty old woman who had harangued him a few minutes before.
‘I will find his murderers,’ he said, ‘but before I take my leave, is there anything else you can tell me about William Sculthorpe that you feel may help my inquiries?’
She eyed him quietly for a moment. ‘Have you seen the coroner’s report, Lavender, and the doctor’s statement?’
He nodded.
‘Erskine and I have seen a lot of illness and death in our lives, haven’t we, Erskine?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Between us we’ve buried three husbands.’
Lady Anne’s shoulders stiffened beneath her shawl. She sat up straighter and stared unblinking at Lavender. ‘In fact, we’ve probably seen more dead bodies and dying people than that fool of a coroner.’
Lavender frowned. ‘What are you saying, ma’am?’
‘I saw William Sculthorpe in Middleton on the day he died. I was out in my carriage and he was striding through the village. He waved at me and grinned.’
‘He was showing off his fitness,’ Erskine said. ‘We saw no breathlessness, palpitations or change of colour in his complexion.’
‘He was the very picture of health, damn him.’
‘Ah,’ Lavender said, as realisation dawned. The two women had noted Doctor Wallace’s description of Sculthorpe’s symptoms just before he died and, like him, they found them incongruous.
‘If it is the symptoms described by Doctor Wallace that are bothering you, then I think I can explain,’ he said. ‘I haven’t reported this to the coroner yet but I will do. I found evidence of ink cap mushrooms and brandy in the remains of Mr Sculthorpe’s kitchen. I believe he had ham and mushrooms for his supper that night and washed it down with a glass or two of your brandy.’
Lady Anne gasped. ‘The stupid fool.’
‘Yes, it looks likely that he poisoned himself.’
Lady Anne began to drum her bony fingers on the arm of her bath chair. ‘He poisoned himself,’ she repeated slowly and turned to her companion. A knowing glance passed between them.
What are you thinking? he wondered.
‘Where did he get those poisonous mushrooms?’ Lady Anne asked.
He hesitated. ‘
I’m unsure at the moment but we are trying to find out.’
Lady Anne sank back down against her cushions and sighed. He couldn’t read her expression now. ‘You are an intelligent man, Lavender,’ she said. ‘I need you to keep an open mind during this investigation. Something is not right about William Sculthorpe’s murder. I can feel it in my old bones – and I think you feel it too. You can take me back to my room now, Erskine – I need to rest.’
Lavender bowed, a little surprised at such an abrupt dismissal. Erskine rose, stepped behind the bath chair and took hold of the handles. But as the two women moved towards the door, Lady Anne held up her hand to stop. She turned back to Lavender.
‘I want you to catch those murdering scoundrels who attacked William Sculthorpe, Detective. That is why I am financing the investigation into his death. I don’t want you to leave any stone unturned. Not one. Do you take my meaning?’
Lavender bowed again. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I wish you the best of luck with your investigation – and please don’t forget to enlighten me about the outcome.’
Chapter Fourteen
Woods found Billy Sculthorpe sitting in exactly the same place as the day before, still in his voluminous nightgown and surrounded by his beloved drawings. His slanting eyes crinkled with pleasure when Woods walked into the room, the grin stretching across his flat face from ear to ear.
‘Ned! You came back!’ he said, in his strange, muffled voice.
Due to the warm weather outside, there was no fire in the grate today and the sash window had been raised to allow in some fresh air. The noisy rumble of farm wagons in the street below drifted in through the open window. Woods grinned and sat down on the edge of the bed close to the young man. It wasn’t often he got such an enthusiastic welcome.
Billy swivelled around on the floor and rifled through his piles of paper. ‘It’s good you and Stephen have come back,’ he said. ‘I have finished the picture of his Magdalene.’ He lifted up a drawing, turned and held it out to Woods.
‘I’m afraid that sir – Stephen – has to work today,’ Woods said, ‘but he has sent you this gift.’
Disappointment flashed across Billy’s face and he glanced at the closed door, obviously hoping Lavender might still appear. Then his eyes lit up at the sight of the new crayons and pad of paper Woods held out towards him. Billy’s excitement in the simple gift was moving. How much kindness and company had the young man known in his life?
‘I’ll take the picture to him, if you want,’ Woods said. ‘I’m sure Stephen will like it.’
He took the drawing from Billy and the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. In true Billy-style, Magdalena had mutated into an evil witch. The biblical beauty with flowing hair and a swirling gown now had vicious red eyes, claws instead of fingers, and a bloated toad sat on her left shoulder.
‘I drew Stephen too.’ Billy shuffled through the piles, looking for another piece of paper. ‘But I only did his eyes and hair. I couldn’t remember the rest.’ He handed Woods the top half of Lavender’s head for inspection.
‘Ooh, that’s a good likeness.’
Billy had captured the shape and mysterious depths of Lavender’s slightly hooded and inscrutable eyes. He had also noticed the gentle wave in the detective’s dark hair and the strand poised to fall forward over his forehead. ‘Are his eyelashes really as long as that?’ Woods asked, surprised. ‘They should be on a gal.’
‘Ah sure, they are,’ Billy said, ‘but I need to draw the rest of his face.’
‘Well, perhaps I can help you there.’ Woods leant forward and felt the corners of his mouth twitch again. ‘I shall tell you about the rest of his features.’
Billy picked up his pencil. ‘Very well, we shall start with his nose.’
‘Oh, that’s easy. It’s large and curves out and bends like a meat hook.’
Billy blinked and he frowned in confusion. ‘I, I . . . don’t remember that.’
‘Oh, it’s right, son,’ Woods said. ‘He’s got a right conk, he has. It walks through the door several paces ahead of him.’
The shoulders of the nightgown shrugged and the pencil flew across the page. Billy sat back on his haunches to examine his work. ‘It looks like a Goblin’s nose,’ he said.
‘Yes, but you’ve forgotten the wart.’
‘The wart?’
‘Yes.’ Woods tapped the left-hand side of his own nose. ‘It’s a big one, just here. Didn’t you see it yesterday? Huge, it is.’
‘With hairs stickin’ out of it?’ The thought seemed to delight Billy.
‘Oh, yes,’ Woods replied.
Billy returned to his drawing with renewed enthusiasm and the pencil flew across the paper once more. ‘I can remember his mouth,’ Billy said. ‘He had a kind mouth and his face lit up when he smiled.’
‘Ah, but don’t forget about his missin’ teeth,’ Woods said.
‘Missin’ teeth?’
‘Yes, he’s lost his teeth – here – and here.’
Billy’s lips curved up. ‘My pa had no teeth left,’ he said, and giggled.
Woods saw an opportunity. ‘What did your pa do for work, Billy? How did he earn the money to keep you and your ma?’
‘Oh, he didn’t work,’ Billy replied, as he picked up his pencil again. ‘He was too old to work.’
‘So how could you afford to buy things?’
‘I don’t buy things.’ A wave of sadness flitted over Billy’s face. ‘I don’t go outside.’
‘So money is no use to you?’ Woods asked.
Billy nodded, then cocked his head on one side and gave Woods a charming smile with his crooked mouth. ‘I think that people worry too much about money.’
‘Do you know where your father got his money from, Billy-Boy?’
The young man returned his attention to the drawing. ‘Yes, Lady Anne sent us the money.’
Woods watched as Billy blacked out two of Lavender’s teeth. ‘Don’t forget to give him a pointy chin,’ he said. ‘And he has another wart just here on the chin.’
Billy giggled and his face broke out into a broad grin. ‘I think you’re jestin’ with me, Ned. I like your name: Ned. But I like Neddy better, I’m sure. I shall call you Neddy.’
Woods smiled. ‘I haven’t been called Neddy in a while.’
As Billy sketched out another grotesque wart on Lavender’s chin, the sound of conversation drifted in through the open window, along with the delicious smell of freshly baked bread. Two women left the bakery on the street below, talking as they went.
Finally, Billy finished the grotesque caricature of Lavender. Woods winked as he took the paper. ‘Why – what a superb likeness! All it needs is a couple of horns to finish it.’
He folded the drawing carefully, along with the one of Magdalena, and tucked them both into the inside pocket of his old brown coat. ‘I’m sure, sir – Stephen – will like it.’
‘Ah sure, he will – oh, and I drew you the Dark Elves.’
Woods’ grin faded. He snapped to attention. ‘That were very helpful of you, Billy-Boy. Where is it?’
Billy handed across a smudged and heavily shaded drawing of three black-faced, red-eyed demons with pointed ears and grotesque shadows billowing up the wall behind them.
Disappointment flooded through Woods. The faces and features of the men who had murdered William Sculthorpe were indistinguishable black smudges.
‘It were dark,’ Billy said. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I do indeed,’ Woods said. ‘It will help us track down those coves who murdered your pa and stole his gold.’
Billy glanced up and frowned. ‘I’ve told you before, Neddy,’ he chided. ‘They didn’t get the gold. They got it wrong.’
‘What do you mean, son?’
Loud laughter suddenly emanated up from the street below. A group of men had paused just below the window, talking loudly.
Billy froze and Woods saw terror flash across his chubby, flat face.
‘When yo
u said that “they got it wrong” . . .’
Woods never got any further with his questioning. The man outside laughed again. Billy shrieked and scrambled across the floor towards Woods. Startled, Woods leapt hastily aside. But Billy threw himself onto his stomach, thrashed his short legs and deformed bare feet and propelled himself beneath the fringed coverlet of the bed. A trail of urine gleamed on the floorboards behind him.
‘It’s him!’ Billy screamed. ‘He’s come back! The watery veil has breached!’ He howled like an animal in pain.
Woods was stunned. He strode over to the open window. Below him in the street, three men stared back up at him, framed in the window: Constable Sawyer, Alby Kilby and a third man he didn’t recognise. They had been distracted from their conversation by the terrified wailing emanating from the room behind him. The unknown man turned and dashed back through the door of the bakehouse. Sawyer turned away and walked off down the street.
But Alby Kilby remained rooted to the spot. His hard eyes narrowed and fixed on Woods’ face. His brow furrowed and dragged the bushy grey eyebrows across the bridge of his nose to meet in the middle. Something about the big man’s anger, his arrogant stance and his glare made Woods start with surprise. Kilby was looking at him as though he hated him.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Who was he?’ Lavender asked as he swung himself out of the saddle. ‘Who was the third man in the group?’ Woods held the reins while Lavender dismounted. He had waited at the forge for Lavender to return from his trip to Rockingham Castle.
‘It were Doctor Wallace,’ Woods said. ‘He raced upstairs when he heard Billy wailin’. It took the two of us – and Mrs Tilley – twenty minutes to persuade Billy to come out from under the damned bed.’ Woods’ face grimaced at the memory. ‘He were sobbin’ and insensible.’
Having given the sweating horse to the leather-aproned blacksmith, who led it away towards the stables, they walked across the cobbles to a quieter, shadowy corner of the yard. Beside them old axles and a pile of rusting iron hoops leant against the stone wall of the outhouse. Weeds sprouted at their base.
‘So it wasn’t the voice of Doctor Wallace that upset him,’ Lavender said thoughtfully. ‘Billy clearly trusts him. It must have been one of the other two.’
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 11
