The Heiress of Linn Hagh (24 page)

Fighting back his disappointment, he resolved to pay another visit to the faw camp. He reckoned the gypsies owed him a favour.

Paul Faa Geddes listened quietly when Lavender described the man they sought. His weathered, rubbery face contorted as he chewed his tobacco.

‘I knows the gadgie you mean,’ he said at last. ‘He’s camped out in them woods, on and off, like, fer a few months.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’ Lavender asked.

Geddes barked out a question in Romany over his shoulder. The other gypsies, lurking beside the tents, shook their heads.

‘No. None of us have seen him fer several days.’

‘Have any of you ever talked to him? Can you tell me anything about him at all?’

Geddes shook his head and watched Lavender dispassionately from the depths of his penetrating dark eyes.

Lavender could feel frustration and disappointment descend on him like a cold winter fog.

‘Keep your women close and your eyes open,’ Lavender advised him. ‘This man is a murderer. There’s a twenty guinea reward out from the Armstrongs for his capture.’

When he turned to go, Paul Geddes grabbed his arm and stopped him.

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you one thing fer nowt,’ Geddes said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘This gadgie knows Hareshaw Woods like the back of his hand. He slips through the trees like a spirit. Every time one of us gets close to the fellah, he disappears.’

Lavender’s brow lifted in surprise.

‘Surely no one knows Hareshaw Woods better than you and your people?’

‘We know them well,’ Geddes conceded. He spat his tobacco down onto the ground. ‘But this gadgie roams the woods like he were
born
here . . .’

Chapter Twenty-Four

Thursday, 25th November 1809

L
inn Hagh was in turmoil. Miss Isobel was in a right mood.

Mr Armstrong had sent word that he, Miss Katherine and the London detective would arrive at eleven to demonstrate how Helen Carnaby left her locked bedchamber. This had thrown Miss Isobel into a panic; she raced around the Great Hall, scooping up discarded riding boots and dragging Anna in her wake.

‘Put that dirty crockery onto a tray and take it downstairs,’ she instructed. ‘Then sweep up that mud and remove the cobweb by the window.’

‘I don’t know why you’re fussing so,’ said Master George from behind his newspaper. As usual, he was sprawled across his favourite chair in front of the fire. ‘The Armstrongs and their pet detective want access to Helen’s bedchamber, not this room.’

‘This place is a pigsty,’ snapped Miss Isobel. ‘Half the furniture is broken or faded. I can’t have Katherine Armstrong thinking that this is how we live. The woman’s tongue is as sharp as her nose.’

But it is how you live,
thought Anna as she gathered up the last of the brandy glasses.
Why try to hide it?
She tried to work out how long it had been since the Carnabys had entertained a lady at Linn Hagh but quickly gave up. Miss Isobel did not have any friends, and she couldn’t remember any guests in the last year apart from Ingram and Emmerson.

‘You should have told them no,’ Miss Isobel complained. ‘Told John Armstrong to bugger off .’

‘Now, now, that’s not very ladylike,’ admonished her brother. ‘Talk sense, Izzie. We can’t afford to offend the likes of Armstrong; that starched old fox still has a finger in every pie in Bellingham. He’s got influence.’

‘And why do they want two of my beeswax candles taken up to Helen’s room?’ she demanded. ‘And two scuttles of coal? I’ve barely got any candles left after Sister Helen’s acts of thievery. It’s broad daylight. What do they want candles for?’

‘How should I know?’ the master snapped. ‘I just hope Armstrong is not foolish enough to bring along that insolent dog of a constable. If that sod tries to set foot on my property, I’ll flay the bastard alive.’

I’d like to see you try,
thought Anna triumphantly. She had no idea what her favourite policeman had done to upset George Carnaby, but her master had returned from town in a right mood yesterday, ranting and cursing his head off about the constable. She had been delighted to see him so put out.

From a window in the Great Hall, Anna watched the Armstrongs’ coach wind slowly up the weed-strewn drive of Linn Hagh. It was just before eleven. Master George sat up, brushed fragments of snuff off his stained shirt and hastily buttoned up his waistcoat.

‘Izzie!’ he roared.

To Anna’s annoyance, Miss Isobel emerged from her bedroom in Helen Carnaby’s favourite high-waisted dress of soft turquoise satin. She arranged herself across the chaise longue like she was about to pose for a portrait. With her sallow skin and wiry black hair, she looked like an old crow decked out in peacock feathers.

Anna stomped down the stairs to the great oak door of the pele tower. Its weight strained against the creaking iron hinges when she opened it.

The elderly Mr Armstrong struggled up the steps to the entrance to Linn Hagh, aided by his coachman and the detective. Lavender glanced up at her.

‘Hello, Anna.’ He smiled. She ignored him and scanned the coach hopefully for a glimpse of Constable Woods. There was no sign of him. She sighed.

The guests paused in the vestibule opposite the entrance to the kitchen and stared up the gloomy, well-worn stone staircase of the ancient pele tower.

‘It’s on the top floor, I’m afraid,’ Lavender said.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have come,’ Miss Armstrong suggested. She wafted past Anna in a cloud of perfume and a swishing plum velvet pelisse, her faced etched with concern for her father. She had an odd-shaped hat balanced on her grey curls and an oversized fur hand muff.

‘Nonsense,’ the old man said. ‘I’m determined to see this through to the end. I’ll understand what happened to poor Helen, even if the effort kills me.’ His gnarled hand shook as it gripped the top of his walking stick.

‘Would you like a cuppa tea, ma’am?’ Anna asked as the party began their laborious ascent of the main staircase.

Miss Armstrong paused and fixed her intelligent eyes on the housemaid.

‘Has your mistress been anywhere near the kitchen this morning?’

‘Er, no, ma’am,’ Anna replied, confused. ‘It’s just been me and Cook in there since yesterday.’

‘Very well. In that case, Father and I will take a cup of tea.’

Anna bobbed a curtsey, suppressed her curiosity about Miss Armstrong’s strange comment and dashed into the steamy kitchen to ask Mistress Norris to make tea.

Next, she hurried past the Armstrongs up the stairs and announced their arrival to Master George and Miss Isobel in the Great Hall.

It was all very embarrassing. The Armstrongs remained on the landing in the doorway to the hall, an action that forced the Carnabys to leave the warmth of the fireplace and walk over to join them.

‘Katherine! It’s been too long! How delightful to see you,’ Miss Isobel gushed.

‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ Miss Armstrong replied coldly. ‘This isn’t a social call, Izzie. Detective Lavender has something to show us in Helen’s bedchamber. He will demonstrate how she escaped from a locked room. Perhaps we could go straight up?’

George Carnaby moved towards Mr Armstrong, his hand held out in greeting. The old man ignored him, turned his back and hobbled towards the next flight of stairs. His walking stick tapped angrily across the flagstones.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ he said over his shoulder.

Miss Isobel gasped at his rudeness and exchanged an angry glance with her brother.

Silently, they all followed the guests up the remaining stairs. Anna hovered on the landing outside the Great Hall, unsure whether to go up. She desperately wanted to see how Miss Helen had got out of a locked room but didn’t want to risk a public rebuke from her mistress.

‘We’ll need your help, too, Anna,’ the detective shouted down. She didn’t need a second invitation. She picked up her skirts and raced up behind them, her boots clattering noisily against the stone.

In the cold, narrow corridor between the two second-floor bedchambers, the detective had stopped before Miss Helen’s room, its battered door still missing the top half chopped away under the fury of George Carnaby’s axe. The bottom half remained a forest of jagged shards and splinters.

‘No, this won’t do.’ Lavender shook his head. ‘I’d forgotten how badly damaged the door was. We shall have to use the servant’s bedchamber for the demonstration.’

Without asking permission, and much to Anna’s dismay, he turned around, lifted the latch and opened the only intact wooden door on the landing. It was the room she shared with the cook.

Lavender stood back politely, to allow the Armstrongs to enter.

Well, at least he’s got some
manners,
Anna thought tartly.

By the time she entered, Mr Armstrong had collapsed, exhausted, onto the thin, fraying quilt that covered her own little bed. Miss Armstrong lowered herself gracefully onto the other bed in the room. The springs squeaked alarmingly beneath her weight. At this point, Anna noticed the artificial berries on Miss Armstrong’s domed velvet bonnet.

Toss some brandy on her, set fire to it and she’d flare up like a Christmas puddin
, she thought. Neither Katherine Armstrong nor Isobel Carnaby could hold a candle to Miss Helen’s style, grace and elegance, she decided. Her heart ached for the missing woman.

Miss Isobel lurked at the edge of the room with her brother. In Miss Helen’s peacock gown, she looked out of place and gaudy against the plain, whitewashed walls of a humble servant’s room. Anna saw that she was shivering and fought back her natural impulse to offer to fetch her shawl. Her mistress’ sharp eyes took in every detail of the small pile of personal possessions on the dresser: Anna’s hairbrush and comb, her Bible and the heap of stockings waiting to be darned.

‘Don’t worry, Anna, we won’t be in here any longer than necessary,’ the detective said suddenly. She flushed slightly and wondered how he had been able to read her mind so well. His severe expression broke, and a slight smile lifted the edges of his lips. He looked quite nice when he smiled, she thought, even though it was hard to see the expression in his dark eyes beneath those hooded eyelids. He had what her mother called ‘good cheekbones.’

‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch in the two scuttles of coal outside on the landing and start a fire for us?’ he asked.

Anna needed no second bidding. She dropped to her knees, arranged the kindling and struck the tinderbox she carried in her apron pocket. The fire blazed. Delighted, she fetched the scuttles and heaped a shovel full of coal into the flames. As the fuel settled into place, a cloud of black coal dust rose lightly into the air. A fire in their bedchamber! With any luck, the embers would still be glowing tonight. For once, she and Mistress Norris would not shiver, but sleep comfortably in their narrow beds.

She stepped back and nearly clapped her hands with joy when Detective Lavender picked up the second scuttle and hurled most of its contents noisily into the grate.

‘I must protest, Detective!’ Miss Isobel exclaimed over the clatter of the coals. ‘Is it really necessary to waste two scuttles of fuel on the servants?’

‘It’s completely necessary, Miss Carnaby.’ He spoke with confidence, and to emphasise his authority over the proceedings, he picked up the poker and gave the smoky heap a good prod. The temperature in the cold garret began to rise as the flames took hold and the coals glowed red. Anna could barely contain her delight.

‘I’m trying to recreate in this room the conditions that existed in Miss Helen’s room on the night she disappeared,’ he explained. ‘Now, if I remember rightly, Anna was the last person to see or speak to Miss Helen before she vanished, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ Anna confirmed. ‘I brought up her meal on a tray, and she asked me fer a second scuttle of coal.’

‘When did you take this to her?’

Anna paused and tried to remember. She remained by the fire and relished the steadily increasing heat.

‘It were before everyone sat down fer the first course. I know this because as soon as I had washed the coal dust off my hands, I had to take up the oysters.’

‘We sat down to eat at seven o’clock, Detective,’ Miss Isobel informed him.

‘So we know that Miss Helen was inside her room at seven o’clock. That is the last time she was seen.’

‘She were still here just after nine o’clock, sir,’ Anna pointed out. ‘Cook and I heard her put down the bar on the door when we came to bed just after nine.’

‘Be quiet, Anna,’ Miss Isobel snapped. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to.’

Anna dropped her head and sulked.

‘Ah yes, the door and the bar.’ Detective Lavender ignored Isobel Carnaby and moved over to the entrance of the room. Every pair of eyes followed him. Even Anna peeked up from beneath her fringe.

‘Actually, Miss Carnaby wasn’t in her room just after nine, when you heard the door bar come down. She’d been gone a long time before that.’

‘How?’ George Carnaby snapped.

‘Let me demonstrate.’ Lavender started to shut the heavy wooden door.

‘Oi!’

He hastily opened it again to reveal Mistress Norris holding the tea tray on the other side. He had narrowly avoided hitting her with the door. She gave him a withering look.

‘I thought I’d better bring this up, seein’ as someone’—she glared at Anna—‘forgot to come back doon fer it.’ The elderly woman hobbled over to the Armstrongs and held out the tray.

‘Thank you,’ Miss Armstrong said. She lifted a cup and saucer and sniffed the tea suspiciously before she handed it over to her father. She then did the same with her own cup.

‘What the deuce . . . ?’ George Carnaby’s bloodshot eyes flashed in anger.

‘I think you should stay here with us for the moment, Mistress Norris,’ Lavender intervened. ‘You were here on the night of Miss Helen’s disappearance and may be able to help.’

‘Why not?’ Miss Isobel said tartly. ‘Peter, the manservant, is downstairs—why don’t we invite him up as well?’ Her voice cut through the room like glass.

‘Just get on with it, Lavender,’ Carnaby growled. He pulled out his silver snuffbox, leant against the flaking wall and took a pinch.