The dripping blood became a steady stream and nausea gripped his stomach again. Finally, he tore himself away from the scene of the assault and staggered over to the stream. Each footstep sent a new jolt of pain to his head. He dropped to his knees on the muddy bank, splashed the ice-cold water over his face and scooped up several large mouthfuls to drink.
Somewhere in the woods a nightingale warbled its cheerful song. Woods felt calmer now and more alert. The cold water revived him and it took the sting out of his pain. The sod wouldn’t catch him napping again.
His thoughts returned to his strange dream. He heard Alby Kilby’s oh-so-familiar voice again and he saw his outstretched hand: ‘I’ll save you, Neddy.’
Woods swore as those buried memories jerked back into the forefront of his mind. Raw memories that slashed at his old heart like a knife blade. Memories he had suppressed for years.
Heaven and hell! Why hadn’t he recognised Kilby before? It was as if the blow to his head had opened the floodgates and swept away a blockage. The vicious, swirling waters of the past were unleashed like a torrent into his mind. He saw it all again. The dangerous, grimy docks. His mother . . . and Alby Kilby. Alby Kilby stood before him in the docks. Alby Kilby leaning over a dead man. A dead man with his pate caved in . . .
Fuelled with renewed anger, Woods strode across to his horse and hauled himself up into the saddle. He knew he should head for The Woolpack and rest up awhile but he had had enough of this damned village and its murderous inhabitants. Besides which, he had a more pressing matter to deal with now. Wheeling the animal around, he pointed her in the direction of Market Harborough and dug his heels into her flanks. As the animal accelerated to a thundering gallop beneath him and the bitter wind lashed at his injured head, a new and grim realisation dawned on Woods.
He and Lavender had come to Northamptonshire to find a murderer – and now he had found one.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday 5th March, 1810
The Sardinian Embassy Chapel, London
Father Colin, the bishop’s assistant, invited Lavender and Lady Caroline back into the office.
‘Bishop Douglass is very shaken,’ he informed them. ‘He hasn’t been well for some time and must conserve his strength. Please state the rest of your business quickly so he can rest – he has asked me to remain for the rest of your appointment.’
Lavender nodded.
Bishop Douglass was still taking small sips of water from the glass when they re-entered the office. He clutched a lawn handkerchief in his hand but his coughing spasm had abated and some colour had returned to his sunken cheeks. Lady Caroline expressed her sympathy and Bishop Douglass thanked her. Father Colin pulled up a chair at the back of the office and sat down.
‘I’m sorry you’re unwell, Your Grace,’ Lavender said. ‘I will now be as brief as I can. I understand you knew William Sculthorpe – and from your reaction, I gather you were shocked to hear his name again.’
Bishop Douglass took another sip of water. When he spoke, his voice was a whispery rasp as if his throat had been ravaged by thistles. ‘Yes, William Sculthorpe was a Catholic priest – here in London. But no, I haven’t seen nor heard of him for over twenty years. I thought he had retired to Brighton a long time ago.’
‘He did spend some years there,’ Lavender said, ‘but he recently moved to Northamptonshire. Can you tell me what you remember about the man?’
The bishop sighed. There was a short pause while he struggled to find the right words. ‘Unfortunately, every organisation has its bad apple, Detective – and Father William Sculthorpe was ours. No one it seems, not even a priest, is immune to the weakness and frailty of mankind.’
‘I understand,’ Lavender said.
‘Can I rely on your discretion?’
Lavender nodded. ‘I do not want to cause any embarrassment for your Church, Your Grace. What you tell me will be for my ears alone.’
Lady Caroline leant forward. ‘You have my assurance, Your Grace,’ she said in serious hushed tones. ‘Detective Lavender is an honourable man. He’s privy to certain aspects of my life I wouldn’t want a soul to know – and he has always been discreet.’
Bishop Douglass eyed her curiously. ‘I trust you have also shared these aspects of your life with your confessor, my daughter?’
Lady Caroline hastily sat back in her chair.
‘Whatever happened here twenty-five years ago,’ Lavender said, ‘probably has no bearing on William Sculthorpe’s murder but it’s important to me to try and understand this man better. I believed his character to have been bad and I think this may be why he was slain so viciously.’
Bishop Douglass nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Father William wasn’t devout and prayerful in his habits. He was a man of two Gods. He also worshipped the God of Mammon, one of the seven Princes of Hell.’
‘How so?’ Lavender asked.
‘He was a thief, a swindler – and a blackmailer.’
Lavender felt a surge of satisfaction in his chest. He had been right.
‘Money disappeared from the church coffers,’ Bishop Douglass continued. ‘Gold plate and artefacts also vanished. After an investigation we discovered the thief was Father William but we couldn’t get them back; he’d sold them.’
‘What sort of artefacts?’ Lavender asked.
‘Valuable artefacts that had been in the possession of the Catholic Church for centuries. These were ancient relics and gold and silver plate we had saved from the chaos of the Reformation and numerous other purges against our Church. It was only small things at first, then our thief grew bolder.’
Lavender thought of the thousands of pounds amassed by Sculthorpe during his lifetime and wondered how much of it, if any, had been acquired honestly. ‘Who did he blackmail and why?’
Bishop Douglass shrugged. ‘I can’t remember their names. All I know was that several members of our congregation went to Bishop James Talbot, my predecessor, and complained about Father William. They said Father William used things they told him in the confessional to try and extort money from them.’
Lady Caroline gasped and threw her hand over her mouth. ‘Heaven save us from such a fiend!’ The three men in the room glanced at her curiously.
‘He was questioned but denied everything,’ the bishop continued. ‘The man had a compulsion for money – an obsession for gold.’
Lavender nodded. He remembered the bags of gold sovereigns they had unearthed in Sculthorpe’s house. ‘When was this? When did these incidents occur?’
‘I think it was in either 1783 or 1784.’
‘Did you bring in the law?’ Lavender asked.
The bishop shook his head and let out a small laugh. ‘You have to take into consideration the religious hysteria of the times, Detective. Catholic worship – especially taking Mass – was banned. Prejudice against us was rife and attacks on our property and our persons were common. We priests scurried around the countryside like guilty fugitives, seeking refuge where we could. To many of our flock we were a frightening liability and Catholicism in England was dying out. The future of the faith here hung on a knife edge.’
He took a deep breath and a drink of water before continuing. ‘To have revealed Father William’s crimes would have been the final straw for many of our congregation, who might have abandoned us in disgust. Outside of our circle, such a scandal would have only fuelled the anger and hatred in the country already prevalent against Catholicism. No, Bishop Talbot decided to quietly remove Father William from office and ban him from ever participating in the rites of our religion as a priest again. He was thrown out of the Church and excommunicated by the Pope.’
‘And that’s when he disappeared to Brighton,’ Lavender said thoughtfully. ‘Do you know if Lady Anne Fitzwilliam was aware of Sculthorpe’s – Father William’s – disgrace?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that question,’ the bishop confessed, ‘but I suspect not. Lady Anne is a very kind and generous woman. At one time, Fathe
r William was her confessor. I’m not surprised to hear she’s paying for this inquiry but I doubt she would have done so if she had been aware of Father William’s disgrace.’
‘Mmm,’ Lavender murmured, unconvinced. You don’t know about the mysterious service Sculthorpe once rendered unto the Lady Anne. Despite Sculthorpe’s disgrace, the dowager countess was still fond of the former priest and beholden to him in some way.
‘Do you think Father William was murdered because of his religion, Detective?’ the bishop asked.
‘No, not at all. You may rest at ease on that score. I don’t think anyone in Northamptonshire, apart from Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, knew William Sculthorpe was a Catholic.’
‘That is a relief.’
‘I think William Sculthorpe was murdered because he had started up his old tricks again,’ Lavender said. ‘I believe he blackmailed several of the other villagers in Middleton.’
‘“Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?”’ asked the bishop. A short pause ensued while everyone pondered this quote from Jeremiah and the bishop coughed again into his handkerchief. Lavender became conscious of the crackling fire once more.
‘If there is nothing else, Detective, perhaps I can retire now?’
Lavender roused himself from his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry to detain you further, Your Grace, but I have three more questions.’
‘Which are?’ Father Colin sat down again.
‘Have you ever known a family who worshipped here called Debussy? I think they may have been distant relatives of the Fitzwilliams.’
The bishop shook his head and glanced across the room at Father Colin, who also responded with a negative gesture. ‘I’m afraid not. We can’t help you there.’
‘And when William Sculthorpe was banished from the Church, would this have freed him from his oath of celibacy and enabled him to marry?’
A steely glint shone from the bishop’s eyes. ‘It would not. He made that promise to God; he swore him an oath. Any such act, even after we expelled him from the Church, would have damned him for eternity.’
Lavender’s heart sank. Billy Sculthorpe must be Bridget Ahearn’s son. He couldn’t save Billy now. The strange little man would spend the rest of his days in the county lunatic asylum.
‘There is nothing so powerful in drawing the spirit of a man downwards as the caresses of a woman,’ Father Colin said. Lady Caroline turned her head and gave the priest her most withering glare. He fell silent and hastily dropped his eyes to examine the pattern in the carpet.
‘And your final question?’ asked Bishop Douglass, wearily.
‘May I be allowed to peruse your church registers for 1783 to 1785? It may help me if I can see the names of the people for whom Father William conducted religious services. Perhaps I can see the baptisms and marriages?’
Bishop Douglass sat back in his chair, shocked. ‘That won’t be possible,’ he said. ‘Those records are private and entrusted into our care.’
Lady Caroline smiled and leant forward. ‘I can assure you, Your Grace, that Detective Lavender . . .’
‘I’m sure the detective is very discreet, Lady Caroline,’ the bishop interrupted, ‘but the congregation of our church have entrusted me with these records of their lives. Many of them would be disappointed if I let a policeman peruse those records.’
An idea formed in Lavender’s mind. There was something he had intended to mention before he left. Now seemed like the ideal moment. ‘I may have an artefact in Leicestershire that might interest you, Your Grace,’ he said slowly.
‘Oh?’
‘While searching the premises of William Sculthorpe for clues about his murder, we came across a beautiful reliquary, which I suspect is of immense value.’
Bishop Douglass’ eyes became riveted on Lavender’s face. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The reliquary is in the safe keeping of one of the Leicestershire county magistrates.’
‘What does it look like?’ asked Father Colin. He too was staring intently at Lavender.
‘It’s about ten inches high and made of silver and translucent blue enamel. On the carved lid of the box sit a Madonna and child surrounded by two angels. Behind them rise three pointed arches that culminate in elaborate silver finials.’
‘It sounds gorgeous,’ said Lady Caroline.
‘There’s more blue enamel on the decorative side panels, which also depict scenes from the life of the Virgin and the Infancy of Christ.’
‘And the artefact inside the reliquary?’ Bishop Douglass asked sharply. The sick and weary old man had suddenly become quite ferocious.
‘Hair,’ Lavender told him.
The bishop and his assistant stared at each other in amazement across the room. Lady Caroline arched an eyebrow and smiled in mild amusement at the palpable rise in tension in the room.
‘Can it be possible after all this time?’ Bishop Douglass whispered. ‘Is this the hair of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux?’
‘Was this the fourteenth-century reliquary deposited into the safe keeping of the Order of Saint Jerome?’ Father Colin asked in equally hushed tones.
‘Yes – and it was lost by us,’ Bishop Douglass said bitterly.
‘Did it disappear around the time William Sculthorpe was stealing from the church?’ Lavender asked.
‘Yes,’ Father Colin replied. ‘We thought we would never see it again.’
‘Then I will reunite you with your precious reliquary,’ Lavender promised.
For a moment, the silence hung heavily in the warm room. Lavender sat still and waited. Lady Caroline glanced from one man to the other, leant across the desk and patted Bishop Douglass on the hand. ‘Surely one favour deserves another, Your Grace?’ she said.
Bishop Douglass nodded and gestured Father Colin to his feet. ‘Fetch Detective Lavender the church records for the years 1783 to 1785. He has proven himself; he can be trusted.’
Father Colin opened another door of one of the great baroque cabinets and pulled out two leather-bound volumes. He carried them over to Lavender and placed them on the desk in front of him. Lavender flicked quickly through the vellum pages of the first register, scanning the entries. ‘This shouldn’t take long, Your Grace,’ he said, ‘then we shall leave.’
‘I hope you will tell our congregation that the reliquary was returned to you with the help of the Bow Street Police,’ Lady Caroline said to the bishop. ‘It might help to build a better trust between the Church and the police.’
‘I shall do that,’ promised the bishop.
Lavender quickly realised he had a chronological list of church activities in front of him and this made his search easier. All the births, deaths and marriages of the London Catholic community were recorded in the same book. Father William Sculthorpe’s name appeared frequently in the two registers he perused. Sculthorpe had officiated at many marriages, baptisms and funerals but his name mysteriously disappeared from the records in April 1785. This must have been when Bishop Talbot and the Church had banished him.
Lavender slid his finger back up the page looking for anything he might have missed during his first hasty scan of the records. It stopped suddenly at a short word in faded ink: Debussy. In December 1783, William Sculthorpe married a young woman called Judith Anne Debussy to Baron Lionel Ralph Danvers. Lady Anne Fitzwilliam had been a witness at the ceremony. What did it mean? Judith Debussy – was she Judith Wallace? The woman in the record was about the same age as the doctor’s wife. Had she been widowed and then married Doctor Wallace? And was she the ‘J.D.’ in Sculthorpe’s book?
‘Did you ever know Baron Danvers?’ Lavender asked. ‘Baron Lionel Ralph Danvers?’
‘Of course!’ Bishop Douglass smiled. ‘I know him well. Baron Danvers is a most devout Christian and a firm supporter of the Catholic Church. A good man. He donates a large proportion of his considerable wealth to the Church and other worthy causes.’
Lavender’s stomach jolted. He had not expected to hear that Baron Danvers still l
ived.
He nearly cried out in shock a second later when Lady Caroline’s hand slid onto his leg and lightly pressed his thigh. Fortunately, her intimate gesture was hidden from the view of the other two men. He glanced at her but her features were impassive and she stared straight ahead at the bishop. It was only when she removed her hand that he realised she had something to tell him – in private – about the ‘devout’ Baron Danvers. Ye gods! He sincerely hoped the baron hadn’t been another one of her lovers.
He returned to the fading record in the register. ‘This is the record of Baron Danvers’ marriage to Judith Anne Debussy here in 1783.’
Bishop Douglass frowned for a moment, then nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I remember now. That was his first wife. She died young. Baron Danvers is now married to the Lady Eliza.’
Lavender pressed his lips together and tried to concentrate on the register. The revelations were unfolding so quickly his brain could barely take in each new development and he still had one more record to check: Billy Sculthorpe’s baptism. Billy had been born in London. Sculthorpe – or Bridget Ahearn – may have had him baptised here.
Lavender scanned down to July 1785 and narrowed his eyes to search through the baptisms. There wasn’t one for Billy. Think, he told himself. Think. Children are frequently not baptised until several weeks after their birth. He slid his finger down each entry for July . . . then August, September, October, November . . . Nothing. Nothing at all.
Disappointed, he pulled back his hand upwards and read the ledger entries in reverse order.
Now he saw it. Not the baptism of a young William Sculthorpe, or that of a young William Ahearn, but the burial record of the infant William Wentworth-Fitzwilliam on 25th July 1785.
For a second he was confused – why had his brain jolted and his finger stopped at this particular place? Then the pieces of the jigsaw finally fell into place.
William, Viscount Milton, born and died 22nd July, 1785 at Parkside House, Wandsworth. First son of William, Earl Fitzwilliam, and Lady Charlotte Fitzwilliam.
The Sculthorpe Murder Page 19
