The Heiress of Linn Hagh (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

L
avender leant his head back against the wood panelling of the carriage and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the jolting of the coach and the conversation of his fellow passengers. A miserable lump of dread sat heavily in his stomach.

He had been unable to get a coach back to Bellingham that day and had had to settle for one back to Hexham instead. He would take a connection up to Bellingham first thing in the morning.

To return via Hexham was probably a good thing, he decided. The message from Armstrong had told him that Matthew Carnaby had been dragged off to the old gaol in Hexham. He would visit the wretch and attempt to interrogate him tonight.

Matthew Carnaby. The mute. The damaged, childlike family idiot. The man who had opened the door and enabled his sister to slip out of the pele tower unnoticed. The one member of the Carnaby family whom Lavender had consistently ignored during his investigation—at what terrible cost?

Only yesterday at Linn Hagh, he had referred to the younger Carnaby brother as the ‘missing piece of the jigsaw.’ Yet even then, he had still not recognised the man’s significance to the case. Why had he not seen it? How had he so completely overlooked this man in his investigation?

Bile rose in his throat again and he struggled to swallow. His indigestion had returned to plague him.

Ignoring Matthew Carnaby had been a terrible mistake—and now it looked like the missing heiress had paid for this mistake with her life.

After the excitement of the visit from the Armstrongs and Detective Lavender, Anna did her best to keep out of the way for the rest of the day. Both George and Isobel Carnaby were in foul moods.

About half past four, Anna stood at the window and watched the wintery sun begin to set behind Hareshaw Woods. It had been a cold but clear day, and the sky blended calmly into vermillion and scarlet layers above the distant orb as it sank. The top branches of the skeletal trees became black silhouettes on the horizon against the vast red canvas of the sky. It was pretty; she liked to watch the sunset.

There was movement on the meandering road that led up the rise to the pele tower. In the encroaching gloom, she could just make out Constable Beddows on his horse. He led a sombre procession towards Linn Hagh. One of the beadles drove a flat cart containing a large lump covered with sackcloth.

When he arrived at the door, she showed the constable up to the master and mistress in the Great Hall and, unconcerned, returned to the steamy kitchen to help Mistress Norris with the supper.

Isobel Carnaby’s scream rent the peace of the kitchen. Startled, Anna dropped her vegetable knife onto the flagstones.

The next second, George Carnaby thundered down the stairs in his shirtsleeves, trailing Constable Beddows in his wake.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ he yelled.

He paused, wild-eyed, at the entrance to the kitchen and gesticulated to Peter, their manservant.

‘Peter! Get a light! Move, man!’

Frightened, Anna stepped back out of the way as Peter leapt to his feet from his chair at the kitchen table, grabbed a lantern and hurried to join the master.

‘You, girl—see to your mistress!’

The three men left the hall. Anna regained her wits and hurried upstairs.

Miss Isobel was slumped on the chaise longue, crying into a handkerchief.

‘Fetch me the smelling salts, girl,’ she snapped between sobs. ‘I’m overcome—poor Helen! To think it has come to this!’

Fear crept into the pit of Anna’s stomach. She froze to the spot.

‘What is it . . . ? What’s happened?’

‘Just get me
sal volatile
!’

Anna dashed into her mistress’ bedroom. Her hands shook as she searched amongst the glass vials on the dresser. As her fingers closed around the small bottle of
sal volatile
, she found herself drawn to the window.

Twenty feet below her, George Carnaby stood in a pool of white light, holding up a corner of the sacking. He peered down at the shapeless mass that lay in the cart. Jagged shadows flitted across the icy ground like knives.

She could only see the top of his head and could hear nothing. At his elbow, Peter’s knees seemed to buckle. He staggered away from the group and retched into the weeds that grew against the wall of the building. The hairs rose on the back of Anna’s neck.

Her feet dragged like lead as she returned to the Great Hall and gave the
sal volatile
to Isobel Carnaby. She heard the men returning up the stairs of the tower and watched in a trance-like state as her mistress blew her nose on her dry handkerchief and sat up.

‘Is it Helen?’ Miss Isobel demanded, when George Carnaby and Constable Beddows entered the hall.

‘Hard to tell,’ Carnaby said. ‘She’s such a bloody mess.’

‘Oh, my poor sister!’ Miss Isobel’s head bowed over her hands, and her shoulders shook as a new wave of tears overcame her.

Constable Beddows stepped forward, embarrassed. He clutched a blackened piece of cloth in his filthy hands.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you at such a time as this, Miss Isobel, but we were able to get this small piece of her dress. It ain’t as badly burnt as the rest. Perhaps you could identify it?’

Isobel Carnaby glanced up and blinked her watery eyes. The ammonia had made her cry.

Her hands trembled as she took the limp rag of material from Beddows.

‘Why, yes! Oh no! Yes, yes—it’s part of one of Helen’s dresses.’ For a moment, she was wracked with another bout of sobbing. Then she turned abruptly to Anna and held out the scrap of material.

‘Here—Anna. You look at it. It’s my sister’s, isn’t it? You looked after her clothes.’

Startled, Anna jerked out of her trance and felt herself flush under the scrutiny of the adults in the hot room. She slowly took hold of the flimsy material and gently brushed the soot from the charred cloth that had originally been pale blue. The outline of small spiky flowers and the winding stems of the print appeared beneath her trembling finger. She staggered and gasped for breath.

‘It’s alright, lass,’ Beddows said. He took hold of her arm to steady her. ‘It’s a shock to you, I know.’

‘Is it Helen’s?’ her mistress demanded.

‘Yes.’ Her squeaky voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. ‘It’s from one of Miss Helen’s dresses.’

The Carnabys now had heard what they wanted to hear, and they turned their attention back to each other.

‘The maid’s word will not be enough. We still need a doctor to identify the body if we’re to claim the money,’ Miss Isobel snapped.

‘I’ve already sent Peter to fetch Robert Goddard.’

‘Hmmph, Goddard is a fool. You may need to call on Horrocks in Newcastle . . .’

Quietly, Anna slipped the burnt cloth into her apron pocket and backed silently away towards the door.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

H
exham Gaol loomed out of the gloom like a sleeping fortress as Lavender trudged up the hill. Silhouetted against the full moon, its squat bulk made it look formidable. The ground floor was solid wall. The gaol’s small windows were highly placed in its forbidding walls, and they reflected the moonlight like a set of black mirrors.

The ostler at the coaching inn who had given him directions had told him that Hexham was the first purpose-built gaol in England. Originally built to imprison the Border reivers four hundred years ago, the building was still as bleak and inhospitable as it had been in the fourteenth century. Lavender pulled his scarf around his nose, trying to protect himself from the overpowering stench of urine, faeces and unwashed bodies, as he leapt up the worn steps to rap at the heavy, studded door.

A nervous gaoler finally let him enter when he showed him his silver-topped tipstaff from Bow Street. ‘Ay, I’ve heard you were in the area,’ he said. ‘Theys sed you might turn up ’ere when they brought Carnaby in.’ The man had an appalling case of acne. He ran a filthy hand through his long, greasy hair and stared uncertainly at the detective.

Behind him, Lavender could see a long ladder leaning against the rough stones of the wall and a large rectangular hole in the flagged floor. He could hear the ugly murmur of male voices that drifted up from the freezing bowels of the gaol.

‘I need to see him. Is he down there?’

‘Oh no!’ exclaimed the gaoler in mock surprise. ‘
That’s
no place fer our gentlemen murderers. No. Master Carnaby is in a special private room on the next floor, which we reserve fer our debtors and gentlemen criminals.’

Surprised, Lavender followed the gaoler up the twisting flight of stairs to the next floor. A few lanterns glimmered forlornly against the bleak stone walls. Shadows lurked in every draughty corner. He could smell the damp that had seeped into the rotten beams of the ceilings and the doors, but thankfully the smell of human excrement was not as strong in this part of the building.

The gaoler turned a huge iron key and pushed open the heavy door into a small, warm cell. The room contained an iron bed with blankets, a writing desk and an armchair in front of the fire, which spat quietly in the grate.

‘This is where we usually keep the debtors,’ the gaoler explained with a nod towards the parchment, ink and quills scattered across the desk. ‘That’s so theys can write to their friends fer money.’

Silver moonlight poured down through the high, curtainless window, but it was dark in there. Lavender lit a candle on the desk and peered around.

The sudden light disturbed his quarry. Slumped in a corner, his back pushed against the rough-hewn walls, Matthew Carnaby held his head in his hands and groaned.

‘Oi! You there!’ the gaoler yelled. ‘Get up! This detective gadgie wants to speak wi’ you.’

Carnaby gave a miserable howl, scrambled to his feet and scurried across the room like a frightened animal. He flung himself on the bed with his back turned to Lavender and the gaoler.

‘Damn and blast him!’ the exasperated gaoler cursed. ‘He ain’t no more than a nick-ninny anyhows. I don’t know whatcha think you’re goin’ to get from him. He’s a saphead—the man canna speak.’

‘Leave him to me,’ Lavender said quietly. ‘First of all, you can tell me how they found him.’

‘Why, next to his sister’s dead body, of course. Rakin’ around in the ashes of her funeral pyre, the grisly bastard.’

Pitiful sobbing now wracked the body of the young man on the bed.

Lavender chose his next words carefully.

‘Did anyone actually see him murder his sister?’

Carnaby howled, and the gaoler beside him paused and scratched the pustules erupting from his cheeks.

‘Why, no—not as I’ve bin told—but them constables up in Bellingham sez he did it.’

Lavender’s lips tightened in a grim line. The say-so of Constable Beddows and his useless pack of law enforcement officers held little sway with him.

‘A softer, gentler young man you could not hope to meet,’
Katherine Armstrong had said.

‘He’s a sweetie,’
Laurel Faa Geddes had confirmed.

Constable Woods had been adamant that the murderer he had disturbed in the graveyard was not the disfigured younger brother of the missing heiress.

Was it possible that his instincts had been right all along?
Lavender wondered. Was Matthew Carnaby innocent of the charge now laid against him? He wouldn’t be the first young man to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and find himself in gaol.

‘Who pays for this room?’ he asked. He knew it would not be George Carnaby.

The gaoler shuffled uncomfortably and cast his eyes down onto the floor. His silence made Lavender swing around to face him. His eyes narrowed. The gaoler rubbed the boils on the back of his neck and tried to loosen his stained neckerchief.

‘I don’t care how much he pays you to keep silent. You give me the name of the man who is paying for this private cell, or I’ll have you tossed down into that hellhole below with the rest of the local cloyers.’

‘I canna tell you his name!’ The gaoler’s head jerked up, and he stared at the detective in alarm. ‘He never gived me his name. He were just some toff who turned up here this mornin’. Gave me the money and sed to make sure the saphead were well cared fer.’

‘Describe him.’

The man scratched nervously.

‘I couldn’t. He were swathed in scarves and had his hat pulled down.’

Lavender frowned. ‘Was he dark or fair—and how old?’

‘Dark. He were dark, youngish and a real gentleman, educated-like. I could tell by the cut of his coat, his voice—and his boots. He had good leather boots.’

Lavender paused, incredulous. He had half-expected to hear that Matthew Carnaby’s benefactor had been the kindly John Armstrong—or one of his sons. But the Armstrongs had no need for such cloak-and-dagger secrecy. There was only one person who answered the description the gaoler had just given him: Helen Carnaby’s mysterious lover.

For one horrible minute, he thought he had misjudged the man. Could this lover have been after her money as well? Had the cad enticed the girl to elope with him, married her and then persuaded her simpleton of a brother to kill her so that
he
could claim her inheritance? Were these comforts in gaol part of the deal, the payment to keep Carnaby quiet?

He fought back a rising sense of alarm. No. It was not possible. No one needed to bribe Matthew Carnaby to silence—the man was a mute for Christ’s sake. Besides, why kill Helen Carnaby? As her legal husband, the ten thousand pounds would be his to do with as he pleased. There was no need to kill her off.

He stared again at the poor wretch who cowered at the other side of the cell. Lavender found it harder and harder to believe that this Carnaby was a killer. He had no doubt that the simple fool had been framed by someone back in Bellingham. The real killer—the pipe-smoking beggar—was still at large.

If Helen Carnaby’s lover had been moved by the plight of her brother to come here and pay for a private prison cell for him, then he had been motivated by compassion. That was the only explanation.

He took the candle in one hand and picked up the hard-backed chair next to the desk with his other. Then he walked slowly over to the bed, put down the chair and sat next to the distraught young man.