Lavender bowed low but made no attempt to follow Lady Caroline’s example and kiss the old man’s hand.
Bishop Douglass’ white eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Is it a matter of spirituality, my son?’
‘No, Your Grace.’ Lavender straightened up and cleared his throat. ‘It’s a secular matter concerning one of your flock. I have just returned from Northamptonshire, where I was called to investigate the brutal murder of an elderly Catholic man. I believe he lived and worshipped in London twenty-five years ago and you may even know of him.’
Bishop Douglass crossed himself and shook his head sadly. ‘Ah, the weakness and frailty of mankind,’ he murmured. ‘Such a terrible loss . . .’
‘The murdered man was eighty-six years old,’ Lavender added.
‘Pray tell me, Mr Lavender, are you a thief-catcher, a constable . . . ?’
Lavender took in a deep breath. ‘No, I’m a Principal Officer with the Bow Street Police Office in London. I was summoned up to Northamptonshire to investigate this terrible crime by Lady Anne Fitzwilliam of Rockingham Castle.’
‘Ah, the Lady Anne Fitzwilliam.’ Lavender caught the slight look of alarm in the old man’s eyes when he mentioned Bow Street but the bishop’s face softened again when he heard Lady Anne’s name. ‘Well, I’m not sure how I can help you, Detective Lavender, but I will try. Shall we retire to my office and discuss this terrible incident further?’
Lavender bowed his head again. ‘I’m most grateful, Your Excellency.’
‘Don’t thank me yet, young man. There may be nothing I can do to assist you.’ Bishop Douglass turned back to Lady Caroline. ‘Would you care to take my arm, my dear? I can see that you struggle to walk.’
Lady Caroline gave him her most enchanting smile, slipped her arm through his and enquired about his health. As Lavender followed the hobbling old man and limping woman out of the chapel and into the bishop’s office he allowed himself a wry smile. It was unclear who was supporting whom. Hopefully, thanks to Lady Caroline’s charm and the influence of the Fitzwilliams, those ardent supporters of Catholic emancipation, he would get some answers today.
A thick Turkish carpet covered the floor of Bishop Douglass’ office. In front of the window, an oak Chippendale desk gleamed with inlaid brass ornaments and the glossy veneer of rosewood. A small fire burned in the grate and in the alcoves beside it the fireplace was flanked by two tall ebony and gilt baroque cabinets inlaid with pietra dura. It looked to Lavender as though the cabinets had been specially commissioned from their seventeenth-century craftsman; each panel depicted the life of a saint. On the other walls stood floor-to-ceiling bookcases containing hundreds of leather-bound books, most of them religious tracts. Gold crucifixes and paintings of religious scenes from the Bible and the martyrdom of the saints covered the rest of the walls. Dozens of candles in the gold candelabra and chandeliers had been lit to dispel the darkness cast by the miserable day outside.
Bishop Douglass sank painfully into the ornate, high-backed chair behind his desk and gestured for them to sit down opposite, asking his assistant to fetch coffee. Seating herself on one of the chairs facing the bishop, Lady Caroline chattered to him about various aristocratic members of their congregation. Lavender sat beside her, glad that his back was turned against most of the gilt and ornate opulence of the furnishings. He wasn’t a particularly religious man but the Protestant in him was far more comfortable in spartan whitewashed churches with a simple wooden cross. There, and only there, did he occasionally feel the shadow of the presence of that simple carpenter from Nazareth. His grandfather had taught him that he didn’t need the ancient gold and silver artefacts or precious jewels to evoke the Holy Spirit and find peace, and it was a lesson he couldn’t shake off. More than anything this morning, he needed to concentrate and avoid distractions.
‘So, how can I help you, Detective?’ Bishop Douglass asked.
‘Firstly,’ Lavender said, ‘I need to know about the elderly man who travelled down from Northamptonshire with the body of a woman for burial. I believe the deceased woman was called Bridget and this happened last August.’
Bishop Douglass narrowed his eyes and frowned. ‘We’re asked to administer the last rites to so many poor souls . . .’
‘The woman had already been dead for several days,’ Lavender reminded him gently. ‘It would have been an unusual situation.’
‘Of course, of course. Please understand, Detective, we don’t encourage our parishioners to travel great distances with the corpses of their loved ones, but so many of them are desperate for the proper rites and burial . . .’ A jolt of recognition flashed across the bishop’s lined face. ‘Northamptonshire, did you say?’
‘Yes.’
Bishop Douglass rose to his feet and padded across the carpet to one of the cabinets by the fireplace. ‘Do you know, Detective, I think I might be able to help you after all . . .’
He lifted a key on the chain swinging from his belt and unlocked one of the doors. ‘I do remember the incident. The bereaved husband was an extremely frail old man, quite exhausted by the time he arrived here – yet still determined to give his wife a Catholic burial.’
Lavender caught a glimpse of a huge pile of leather-bound registers. Bishop Douglass removed one of them and hobbled back to his seat.
‘Did you meet him yourself, Your Grace?’ Lavender asked.
‘No, Father James conducted the ceremony but he told me about it afterwards. He was struck by the man’s love and piety.’ Bishop Douglass continued to turn the pages of the register. Reading upside down, Lavender saw that these were the church records from the previous year. He glanced back at the cabinet with its stacks of leather-bound volumes and he wondered how far those records went back through the years. Maybe this trip to London wouldn’t turn out to be futile after all.
Bishop Douglass’ amethyst ring flashed as he stabbed at an entry in the register. ‘There! See! Mrs Bridget Ahearn, buried on 25th August 1809, aged fifty-three years. God rest her soul.’
‘Ahearn?’ Lavender echoed, surprised.
‘Yes, Ahearn. Is this not the right woman?’
‘Is there an address?’
Bishop Douglass glanced down at the register. ‘Middleton, Northamptonshire,’ he confirmed.
‘Then it’s the right woman.’ Lavender’s mind raced, trying to work out what William Sculthorpe had been up to. Why did he bury her as Bridget Ahearn when the woman was known as Bridget Sculthorpe?
There could only be one explanation: she wasn’t his wife. She was Bridget Ahearn and she wanted the service that blessed her life and sent her soul to her God to use her proper name. In order to honour her wishes, Sculthorpe had to bury her corpse away from prying eyes in Northamptonshire.
Both Lady Caroline and Bishop Douglass were watching him curiously. ‘Do you know if the man called himself Mr Ahearn?’ he asked.
Bishop Douglass shrugged. ‘I presume so. He certainly told Father James he was her husband. I take it this is the elderly man who has now been murdered back in Northamptonshire? God rest his poor soul.’
Lavender took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘but his name wasn’t William Ahearn. It was William Sculthorpe – and I believe he used to be one of your priests.’
For a moment, Bishop Douglass froze with shock. Time stood still in his opulent office. Lavender heard the fire crackle and the distant rumble of traffic outside in the street.
Bishop Douglass turned red in the face and coughed violently. He leant forward over his desk and gasped for breath. His shoulders heaved as each fresh spasm racked his body. Lady Caroline leapt to her feet and hurried to his side but the hideous seizure afflicting the bishop showed no sign of abating. The dreadful hacking of the old man made Lavender cringe. He went to the crystal decanter on a side table and poured out a generous measure of brandy. By the time he turned round, Lady Caroline was thumping the bishop on his back. With tears streaming down his pale face and his hands flailing in the air, Bishop Douglass
signalled for her to stop.
‘Are you choking, Your Grace?’ she asked frantically. ‘Is something caught in your throat?’
He also waved away the glass of brandy offered to him by Lavender. They stepped back and hovered helplessly, unsure what to do next.
The bishop’s assistant suddenly appeared with the coffee. The man took in the situation at once, placed the coffee on a small table and hurriedly left the room. He returned immediately with a glass of water. ‘It might be best if you wait outside, Your Ladyship,’ he said, as he held it up to the lips of the choking bishop. Lavender and Lady Caroline hastily left and returned to the cool interior of the chapel.
‘Have we killed him, do you think?’ Lady Caroline whispered when they were alone. Her eyes were wide.
‘I hope not, for your sake at least,’ Lavender replied. ‘How many Hail Marys would you have to say in penance before you received absolution for killing a bishop?’
She slapped him on his arm lightly with her gloved hand. ‘Naughty boy.’ The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Monday 5th March, 1810
Middleton, Northamptonshire
Woods found it hard to disguise his glee as he strode back down the cobbled hill towards Middleton. He beamed from ear to ear across his broad face and he had to shove his clenched fists in his coat pockets to stop himself punching the air in jubilation. The sunshine warmed his face and birds sang joyously in the nearby trees. Part of him wanted to throw back his head and burst into song himself.
This was a significant breakthrough in their investigation and he knew it. Lavender was right. This case was far more complicated than it had initially appeared to be. There were other motives behind the murder of William Sculthorpe besides simple greed for money. Whoever delivered that vicious death blow to Sculthorpe had done it with vengeance in his heart.
William Sculthorpe had been a blackmailer and now Woods had the proof. The sneaky old rogue had extorted money from his neighbours and his crime had come back to bite him. Those he had listed by their initials in his account book were his victims: Isaac Bunning, Caleb Liquorish, Morgan Thatcher, the mysterious J.W. and whichever Dicken it was who owned the initials J.D. Each one of these men had a motive to murder and silence the old swindler. The question was: which one of them was it? Or had they joined together? Woods shook his head and stopped worrying about it. Lavender would work it out when he returned from London.
Woods retrieved his horse from the stable in Middleton, swung up into the saddle and set out towards Rockingham, determined to continue his inquiries with the homeowners along the road. In his heart, he knew this was now a fool’s errand. The murderers had not disappeared into the stormy night along the Rockingham Road. They were shadowy inhabitants of Middleton and Cottingham and after the murder they had scurried back to their homes like rats. But he relished the exercise of the ride and he knew Lavender would still expect him to carry out these inquiries. The detective didn’t like to leave any stone unturned.
As he expected, his questions to the farmers and homeowners along the meandering Rockingham Road met with nothing but blank stares, shaking heads and denials. Finally, he reached the base of the rocky outcrop at the end of the ridge where Rockingham Castle loomed over the gently rolling valley and he decided to finish for the day.
Attracted by the ancient creamy walls of the drum towers guarding the entrance to the castle, Woods turned his horse up the hill to get a closer view. He wondered idly about the mysterious Lady Anne Fitzwilliam who lived within its walls. Did she know she championed a blackmailing scoundrel? Did she care? Was her regular payment to William Sculthorpe also extorted by blackmail? And if so, what did the old rogue know about her that she didn’t want to share with the world?
The afternoon sun disappeared behind a cloud and a chilly breeze sprang up out of nowhere. At the top of the hill Woods reined in his horse and asked directions from a man with a cart. The fellow pointed out the Uppingham Road and told Woods it would take him back to Cottingham. Woods thanked him, leant forward and set off at a gallop. The horse’s mane lashed across his face and the cold wind bit into his cheeks. His route took him across the top of the escarpment and now and then the trees cleared sufficiently for Woods to enjoy the view of the glistening River Welland meandering through the valley below. It was an exhilarating ride.
By the time he reached the isolated windmill at the top of Cottingham, he was breathless with the exertion and so was his horse. He reined in the animal beneath the creaking sails, dismounted and led the horse to drink at the stream emerging from the nearby woodland. Woods dropped to his haunches, filled his flask and enjoyed a good drink of the fresh, crystal-clear water.
Weariness swept over him and he rubbed his eyes. These disturbed nights were sapping his energy. Damn those bloody nightmares. He tied up the horse to a low-slung branch of one of the nearby trees and picked a flat, grassy spot on the soft earth of the glade for a rest. His tired body ached to lie down. It can’t hurt to take a nap, he thought, as he stretched out and closed his eyes. There was something soothing about the rhythmical creak of the windmill sails and gentle trickle of spring water, he decided. Even the ground here was more comfortable than that ruddy mattress at The Woolpack. Just a little nap, he thought – and then I’ll head back to Market Harborough for a more comfortable night’s sleep . . .
Soon he was swimming in slow motion in the rich gravy of one of Mrs Tilley’s pigeon pies. Or rather he was struggling to swim in one of Mrs Tilley’s pigeon pies. But he didn’t panic. One minute he sank below the surface of the gravy, the next he leisurely kicked his way back up. His arms and legs flailed against the thick gloopiness of the gravy, while his shoulders bumped against gigantic, bobbing chunks of pigeon breast and peas the size of cannonballs. He could taste the salt in the back of his throat. He reached out towards the soft walls of pastry surrounding him but it flaked off in lumps in his hand.
Come on, you daft saphead, he reminded himself, there must be a way out of here. But he couldn’t see it. Above him the pie crust loomed up into the sky, a sheer, unassailable wall of deliciousness rising up to the bright, white light of heaven. He sighed and swam around the circular wall of his edible prison. Although he kept floundering and the gravy plastered his hair to his head and got into his ears, he wasn’t scared. He knew he had to die sometime and there was something satisfying about the thought that he was destined to drown in a lake of warm, salty gravy. Perhaps they would bury him in the pie? It would make a change from the usual wooden surcoat. If they did bury him in this pie, then he would have plenty to eat in the afterlife – just like those old ’Gyptians and pagans who were buried with food and drink. Now that was a good thought.
Suddenly, a huge hand punched its way through the pastry. A shower of flakes floated down onto his gravy-soaked head and the fingers tried to grasp his arm. Alby Kilby’s great hand reached out for him, offering him a lifeline.
‘Grab my hand, Neddy!’ Kilby yelled from the other side of the pie wall. ‘I’ll save you, Neddy!’
Woods’ blood turned to ice. He knew that bloody voice. Agonising memories of the past surged and stabbed at his fevered mind. The warm gravy turned into an icy sludge and the walls of the monster pie crumbled with a roar. The thick liquid surged towards the breach, sweeping Woods along with it. He heard it thunder over the precipitous edge and he braced himself for the fall . . .
Woods jerked awake with a yell and sat up abruptly. He was frozen and darkness had fallen around him. Confused, he blinked and peered into the dusk, trying to make sense of where he was.
His ears heard the movement behind him.
Instinctively, Woods threw himself sideways into a roll – but it was too late. A heavy object landed a stinging blow to the left side of his head. He roared in agony as the crack exploded in his ear and searing pain rebounded around his skull. Lights flashed in front of his eyes and he fought down a wave of nausea. He scrambled to his feet
with one fist clenched and the other fumbling for the pistol in his coat pocket. It wasn’t loaded but his assailant wouldn’t know this.
He glimpsed the back of a large figure in a dark coat and hat disappearing into the shadows of the trees fifty yards away. Ferns swished behind the figure as it vanished into the gloomy undergrowth.
‘Come back and fight like a man – you cowardly bastard!’ Woods bellowed.
A branch cracked beneath the foot of a heavy animal in the dense undergrowth. He listened. Nothing. Nothing but the mournful creak of the windmill sails as they strained against the cold breeze.
‘I said come back here, you bloody coward!’ But his curses echoed off the tree trunks and back to mock him. Silence had returned to the glade. The foliage had swallowed up his assailant and Woods knew he was in no condition to go crashing through the trees after him.
Blood dripped down his face and he reached up to inspect the jagged edges of the cut to his head. More warm blood oozed over his fingers as he tenderly examined the wound. The sensitive tissue of his ragged ear stung like hell and bled profusely. It had already begun to swell. His head ached but his ear seemed to have taken the worst of the glancing blow to his old noddle. He needed to wash off the blood before it ran over his eye and obscured his vision but every instinct screamed against turning his back on his attacker and walking to the stream. His feet were rooted to the spot.
A bloodied cudgel, fashioned from a large branch, lay on the trampled grass where he had slept only a few moments before. Anger surged through him and he cursed himself for his foolishness. He had let down his guard and nearly paid a heavy price for it. There were at least three murderers living in this area. These sneaking curs had heartlessly slain a frail old man. Now one of them had tried to kill – or maim – him so he couldn’t do his job. If it hadn’t been for that damned dream, the bastard would have succeeded too. If he hadn’t jolted awake when he did and sat up, the assailant might have killed him.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 18
