The Heiress of Linn Hagh (29 page)

He fought back a wave of nausea and tried to focus on examining the remains for clues.

There was clear evidence that someone had repeatedly hacked at her throat. The terrified Matthew Carnaby had been lucid enough when he had mimed slicing his own throat. He now knew how this girl had died. He was relieved that the poor woman had been dead before her body hit the flames.

He steadied himself again, then carried out an examination of the rest of the remains. He noted the missing piece of cloth, chopped out with shears, from the hem of what remained of her dress.

When he finally emerged from the vault, he leant back against the rough stone of the tower and took great gulps of breath to remove the stench of horror from his nostrils and to calm his nerves. He walked over to the pump and washed his face and hands. The icy water refreshed him.

Now he had seen the corpse for himself, he could understand the disagreement between Goddard and Carnaby. Nothing was left to distinguish the body inside Linn Hagh from any other young woman in Bellingham. Carnaby would need an affidavit from a medical professional in order to bury the remains as Helen Carnaby and claim her fortune. It sounded like Goddard had refused to identify the remains.

For a moment, he felt relieved; Helen Carnaby could still be alive. It might not be her. But his reprieve was short-lived. If those remains were not those of the missing heiress, then whose were they? What had started out as an easy case to solve—a girl who had eloped with her lover—had now descended into a brutal murder.

Anger flashed through him. Whoever that poor girl was—whether it was Helen Carnaby or someone else—he would bring her killer to justice. If John Armstrong refused to pay any further expenses for this investigation, then he would carry on regardless.

An awful thought now entered his mind. ‘Where’s the housemaid, Anna?’

Carnaby’s manservant still loitered over by his horse. He looked up.

‘What, her?’ Peter rubbed his stubble with his grimy hand. ‘Oh, she legged it back to her ma’s on Thursday night. They say she’s not comin’ back. Too much fer her, I reckon—all this.’ He waved the arm of his tattered coat in the vague direction of the body. ‘Too much fer alla us,’ he added sadly.

Lavender nodded and sighed with relief. He walked over to his horse and ran his hand gently down its flank. He knew Woods would share his relief; his constable was fond of the little maid. He decided to try a few more questions while the man was in the mood to answer them.

‘How long have you worked here at Linn Hagh?’

‘Aboot twenty year.’

‘Has there ever been another man with the name Baxter Carnaby besides your old master—an uncle or a cousin, perhaps?’

The servant shook his head, scowled and stared at Lavender in confusion.

‘You knew Master Matthew Carnaby well?’

‘Aye.’

‘Do you think he was capable of doing
that
to a woman?’ Lavender jerked his thumb in the direction of the corpse.

The old man shook his head again and fought back a tear. ‘Poor sod. He were as gentle as a lamb—wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, many’s the time I’ve seen him tek flies outta spiders’ webs.’

Lavender nodded and put his foot in the stirrup. ‘You’ve been very helpful—thank you,’ he said.

‘Are you gannin’ back to Bellingham?’

‘No.’ Lavender swung himself up into the saddle. ‘I’m going to see the faws.’

Peter laughed. ‘You’re too late,’ he said gleefully. ‘They’ve gan.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’ Lavender was shocked.

The manservant shrugged. ‘Who knows? I reckon they knew they’d end up being blamed fer this lot.’ He jerked his thumb again towards the ancient door at the base of the pele tower. ‘I reckon they’ve legged it afore Jethro Hamilton and his boys come back to burn them out. They’ve fled to the hills, I’m thinkin’ .’

‘Did George Carnaby throw them off his land?’

‘No. Theys just upped and left.’

Lavender didn’t wait to hear any more. He whipped his horse into a gallop and tore across the field towards the faw camp.

Peter was right.

All that remained of the gypsy camp were the cold, blackened rings of dead fires, the empty wooden outbuildings, brown patches of grass where the tents used to stand and a broken old cart balanced precariously on three wheels and a cairn of stones.

The Linn Hagh faws had gone.

Chapter Thirty-One

L
avender rode back to the lane, turned his horse up towards the old quarry and Thrush Farm but then heard the sound of hooves thundering up the muddy road behind him. He turned back and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Constable Woods. His broad, ruddy face shone with sweat as he reined in his horse beside the detective.

‘Well met, Ned,’ Lavender said quietly.

‘Mornin,’ sir. They told me at The Rose and Crown that you had ridden out to Linn Hagh. Captain Wentworth and the militia are scouring every privy and outhouse in the town as we speak—and I weren’t needed, so I thought to come up and join you. If that murderer still hides in Bellingham, they’ll soon flush the bugger out. Wentworth plans to move outwards into the countryside once he has finished in town.’

‘Excellent,’ said Lavender. ‘I worked with him last year on the Kirkley Hall robbery case. Wentworth is a good man; he’ll leave no stone unturned.’

‘So what have you uncovered?’

‘Ride with me up to where they found the body, and I’ll tell you what I know.’

They left the dense woodland behind them, and the twisting road rose and dipped sharply as it traversed bleak and desolate fells. Mile after mile of ice-sharp moorland stretched beside them, broken only by haphazard stone walls flecked with lichen and moss. Occasionally, they saw a derelict, roofless stone farmhouse or a mournful flock of bleating sheep dotting the barren hilltops. Stunted alder and oak trees stretched out their bare limbs, silhouetted against the frozen sun like sentinels of the last outpost.

Finally, they found the quarry, an ugly grey gash in the hillside. Fallen rocks balanced precariously on top of each other like the haphazardly stacked building blocks of giant children. At the base of the quarry, their feet sank into a thick carpet of man-made stone chippings, all hewn from the rugged cliff face over centuries of excavation. Stagnant, ice-rimmed pools dotted the site.

A large black pile of ash stood out like a cancerous sore in the flat gravel bottom of the quarry.

Lavender dropped to his haunches; then, using a stick, he poked carefully through the debris of the fire and the ground beside it. Woods mooched around the edges, his eyes scanning the weeds and the brush that were trying to reclaim the thin soil.

‘There’s nothing here,’ Lavender called out, disappointed. ‘The murderer did a good job of cremating the body, and he’s left no sign of himself. Besides which, that bumbling idiot Beddows and his men have trampled this entire area like a herd of cows.’ He straightened up and walked over to Woods.

‘There’s nothin’ I can see that’ll help us over here either,’ his constable informed him.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ Lavender moved forward and stooped down to pick up a scattered handful of dark evergreen leaves that littered the gravel. He took off his glove, stroked the leathery surface and serrated edges of the foliage, then passed a few of the leaves to Woods.

‘Where did these come from, do you think?’

His constable glanced around at the rocky quarry and the barren fields that fell away down to the road.

‘Now, I’m no expert on the local flora,’ Woods said, ‘but I reckon that these don’t belong here in this quarry.’

‘They don’t. This plant doesn’t grow within miles of this place. These leaves were brought—or dragged—to this place by someone.’

‘Why? What are they?’

Lavender crushed a leaf between his fingers; the aromatic scent—like crushed almonds—was unmistakable.

‘
Prunus laurocerasus
,’ he murmured.

‘Eh?’

‘Laurel leaves.’

‘You said Matthew Carnaby had a sprig of these in his bedchamber,’ Woods said.

‘Yes—and Laurel Faa Geddes wore a wreath of them on her head.’

The two men stared at each other grimly.

Thrush Farm was round the next bend in the road. It was an ancient low-lying collection of farm buildings that nestled in the shelter of a small valley, screened from the road by fir trees. Only the smoke from the ornate Jacobean chimney stacks that rose from the slate roof gave the two men an indication of its presence. Shutters protected the narrow mullioned windows, which were deeply set in the weathered walls.

Lavender hammered on the heavy oak door with his tipstaff.

‘This is the home of the farmer who found the dead girl,’ he explained to Woods.

They heard furious barking from the nearby barn.

‘I hope them buggers are tied up properly,’ Woods said.

The door swung open, and the two police officers were startled to find themselves face-to-face with the burly figure of Jethro Hamilton. Of the three men, he seemed the least surprised to find them all standing there together.

‘Get yersens inside to the kitchen,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve bin expectin’ you.’ His mouth was set in a grim line, and his brow furrowed with concern.

He stepped aside, and Woods and Lavender entered a cold, flagged hallway. Hamilton closed the door and led them through to the back of the house.

The farm kitchen was warm and welcoming, and the delicious smell of broth and baking bread assaulted their nostrils. A huge fireplace arched across the side wall, where Hamilton’s wife stirred a pot over the range and glanced uneasily at the strangers accompanying her husband.

‘Alice, ’tis Detective Lavender and Constable Woods.’ Hamilton said simply.

His wife recovered from her surprise quickly and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Would you like a cuppa tea, Detectives?’ she asked. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’

Lavender nodded and peeled his gloves from his frozen hands.

‘That would be most welcome, Mistress Hamilton. Thank you.’

A battered old table with wooden benches and a couple of rickety, rush-seated chairs dominated the room. Three young boys, aged roughly between five and twelve, were seated here with slates in front of them. They gawped at Lavender and Woods, mouths wide open and chalk held up in midair.

‘Away, lads,’ their father said. The boys didn’t need a second bidding. Chairs scraped back across the flagstones and in a flurry of movement and a clatter of boots, the boys dashed out of the kitchen. Hamilton indicated for the officers to take their seats at the table.

‘They can’t allus get down to the school in Bellingham,’ the farmer explained awkwardly as he cleared away the chalks and slates. ‘I do what I can to give them a bit of schoolin’ up here.’

‘That’s good,’ Woods said simply. ‘I’ve got two lads about the same age. Schoolin’ is important.’

Hamilton nodded and looked relieved. His wife placed three steaming mugs of sweet tea on the table, then hovered by the range. The farmer glanced over his shoulder.

‘You, too, hinny. It’s bad enough that one of us is gonna be plagued with nightmares fer months—get yerself out while I tell the detective the details.’

Reluctantly, the woman took off her apron and glided out of the room. Her reluctance to leave stemmed from genuine concern for her husband. She glared sternly at both Lavender and Woods before she left, as if daring the policemen to upset her husband further. Lavender envied them their bond.

‘I first saw the smoke from the quarry at dawn on Thursday,’ Hamilton said abruptly. He slumped down into a chair, placed his elbows on the table and ran his hand through his thatch of thick hair. ‘But I were out milkin’ and couldn’t get over there to check it out. It weren’t until midday—by which time the smoke had thinned to a faint wisp—that I thought I’d better gan and see. That quarry ain’t bin used fer years, and we rarely see other folks up here. I were uneasy all morning; I knew sommat were amiss. I just wish I’d gan sooner—I might hev bin able to—’

‘The girl died before she was cremated,’ Lavender interjected sharply. ‘Her throat was cut. There would have been nothing that you or anyone else could have done to save her.’

Hamilton sat up straighter. The relief in his face was obvious.

‘I . . . I didn’t know aboot that. It were clear that it had been a big fire,’ he continued. ‘The width of it, the length of time it burned.’

‘Yes, the murderer had been planning it for a while,’ Lavender said. ‘It would have taken some time to shift all that firewood to the place. These moors are not heavily wooded. It was a cold, premeditated act of murder.’

‘The embers were still burnin’ when I got there,’ Hamilton said. ‘I could see the body’—he swallowed hard—‘what was left of her—clear as day.’

‘I’ve already seen the remains,’ Lavender said kindly. ‘You don’t need to describe her.’

They waited for a moment; the farmer needed to compose himself before he carried on. ‘There weren’t nowt I could do fer her,’ he finally said. ‘I threw some watter from a pool on the last of the flames and went to fetch help.’ He stared down at the scratched wood of the table, his mind haunted by the memory.

‘When did you see Matthew Carnaby?’

Hamilton shook his head. ‘He weren’t there then. I never saw him until I came back with Beddows and the beadles. We found him sobbin’ at the side of the pyre.’

Lavender breathed out heavily. He had not realised he had been holding his breath. ‘What happened?’

‘Why, Beddows went mad and ordered the beadles to arrest him. The lad put up a helluva fight, but it were useless. The beadles had him trussed up like a chicken afore long.’

‘In all of this, did Matthew Carnaby ever give you any suspicion that he murdered the dead girl?’

‘No, Detective,’ Hamilton said. ‘In fact, I’m surprised by all of this. Many a time, me missus seen that lad out walkin’ with his sister last summer. They seemed to get along well. In fact, if truth be told, Matthew Carnaby has bin comin’ here to play with me lads since they were bairns. The missus and I hev never had a minute’s worry about the man; the lads like him. Yes, he is a nick-ninny—but he’s harmless with it . . .’ His voice trailed away and he glanced at the two policemen.