The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

It was mid-afternoon and both men were hungry. They decided to have a meal before they retrieved their horses from the ostlers. Lavender led Woods into the busy town centre of Wandsworth. People made their way slowly down the street, staggering home beneath the weight of their purchases: heavy baskets, bolts of fabric and bulging sacks. There was a strong and attractive smell of hops and barley from the Thames-side brewery that masked the stench of the fetid river. A steady stream of brewer’s drays, hauled by the rippling muscles of huge, broad-shouldered shire horses, passed them in the street. They waited for a momentary break in the traffic and then crossed the road, drawn to a brightly lit tavern on the quayside.

The taproom heaved with brewery workers and grimy stevedores, amongst other labourers. Lavender and Woods pushed their way through the throng until they found a table and a couple of stools at the back of the smoky tavern. Beneath the hum of conversation could be heard the incessant clink-clink of dice being shaken in a glass as patrons played the age-old games of ‘Bones’.

Lavender sat down, took off his hat and loosened his greatcoat. The crackling log fire sent a welcome blast of hot air to warm his frozen face. When the barmaid arrived, they ordered food and a tankard of ale. Woods poured most of a full jug of thick gravy onto his meat and potato pie. He then proceeded to demolish the meal with relish.

Lavender smiled and asked: ‘Is Betsy keeping you short of food again?’

‘You what, sir?’ Woods asked. His ruddy cheeks protruded like a rodents as he chewed.

‘Never mind. Tell me what you discovered from the Willoughby servants.’

Woods belched with satisfaction and wiped the greasy gravy from his mouth with the sodden handkerchief he had retrieved from Mrs Willoughby. ‘There’s three of them: a cook and a couple of maids. They saw and suspected nothing. They were aware that Mrs Willoughby came home alone and early from her Lady Caroline’s party but she claimed to have a headache, so the servants thought nothing of it. According to the servants, Mrs Willoughby has sat quietly in the parlour for the last three days. No one has called at the house and no one has seen or heard anything suspicious in the neighbourhood. The servants weren’t aware of anyone watching the house on the night of the kidnapping or of anyone loitering outside.’

‘Well, April Clare’s movements were followed closely,’ Lavender snapped. ‘Someone must have seen something.’

‘I think the household has been distracted,’ said Woods. ‘The nursemaid told me that their nipper has been colicky and they’ve all been upset and disturbed by his cryin’.’

Lavender was startled. ‘There’s a child?’

‘Yes, Mrs Willoughby has a baby boy, called Charlie. He’s about the same age as my Tabitha. Eight months, I think.’ Woods paused with a fork of pie halfway to his mouth. His eyes widened. ‘You don’t think it were somethin’ to do with that mynah bird, do you?’

Lavender smiled. ‘No, Ned, I don’t. But it had crossed my mind that the sisters may have played one of their pranks on Lady Caroline last Friday.’

Large furrows appeared in Woods’ broad forehead. The meat pie continued to hover in midair. ‘What? You think that they may have swapped clothes and pretended to be each other?’

‘It had crossed my mind,’ Lavender said, ‘though God knows why. It might have been the way she gulped down that sugared tea – and I failed to see any sign that Mrs Willoughby was as “delicate” as Lady Caroline had described. Yes, she was upset but she seemed quite robust and healthy to me. I’ve no doubt that to swap identity would have been an easy trick for the sisters to play. Anyway, Mrs Willoughby is obviously whom she claims to be. Sir Richard told us that the dead twin had never borne a child and the Willoughbys have one in their nursery. The woman we have just interviewed was Mrs Harriet Willoughby, the mother of the child.’

Woods nodded and swallowed his food. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when we walked into that room. Those women are identical.’ He jabbed the fork in Lavender’s direction for emphasis.

‘
Were
identical, Ned,’ Lavender said softly. ‘One of them is dead now and we still don’t know why.’

‘Is it just a kidnappin’ gone wrong, do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ He sat back thoughtfully and applied his mind to the unsolved mysteries that still surrounded April Clare’s death. The gloom of the warm, cosy tavern was probably as good a place as any to think. Had it been a kidnapping for a cash ransom? If so, why had the villains ransacked April’s lodgings? Or had they? Was that just a coincidental burglary?

‘The Willoughbys are financially comfortable,’ Lavender said aloud. He always found it helpful to share his thoughts with Woods. ‘A naval captain makes a good salary. But I don’t think they’re particularly wealthy. Baron Clare left his family very little money. Miss Clare chose to support herself on the stage, and the baron’s widow, Lady Caroline, never has any cash to spare despite the income she makes from her art. She struggled to pay Bow Street for the services I rendered a few years ago when her former lover blackmailed her. She juggles her creditors. Kidnapping April Clare would never have made anyone rich; the ransom would not have been huge. And the kidnappers seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to organise this abduction.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps things will become clearer when we track down Sir Richard and find out how the girl died.’

‘Are you goin’ to see him now?’ Woods asked.

‘No, while we’re so far west of London, I thought I’d ride on to Bushy House and have a word with Mrs Jordan about her young protégé, April Divine. There is also something I need to retrieve from them.’

Woods stood up and brushed the pastry crumbs off his coat. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘See if you can find this cab driver and question him.’ Lavender rose to his feet and pulled on his gloves. ‘Oh, and Ned . . .’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘When you do find him, make sure you let his governor know what a coward he has been and that one of their customers is dead.’

Armed with the address of the coaching stables used by Mrs Willoughby for carriage hire, Woods soon tracked down the establishment. Situated at the rear of the Brewers’ Arms tavern, the low buildings with their arched entrances were arranged around three sides of a cobbled courtyard.

Woods took a cursory glance over the split stable doors. The piles of fresh bedding straw, refilled water troughs and the healthy-looking bays and chestnuts that stamped and snorted in their stalls, all reassured the experienced patrol officer that the place was well run and the owner knew his horseflesh. The emptiness of the stables also suggested that the business was a thriving concern: most of the cabs, coaches and horses were out on the streets. He picked his way carefully across the cobbles through piles of steaming horse dung, in search of Fred Tummins, the thin and elderly owner of the stable yard.

Completely bald beneath his hat, Tummins had a bulbous nose and several disfiguring warts across his face. Despite his physical frailties, there was nothing wrong with the old man’s mental capacities and he was quick enough to realise the gravity of the situation Woods described to him. Tummins was horrified when he heard about the attack at the Five Fields and the kidnapping of April Clare. He was also annoyed that his young and inexperienced coachman had behaved in such a cowardly fashion and not reported the incident to him on his return. Woods didn’t feel that it was necessary to mention Lavender’s threat, as the old man was distressed enough.

The young coach driver was currently out on another job and Woods realised that he was lucky to be absent. Despite his small stature, Tummins looked like he could be formidable when riled. Woods bit back his disappointment when he realised that he would have to return the next day at first light to interview the coach driver.

‘He’s not scarpered, has he?’ Woods asked. He had not ruled out the possibility that the lad was involved in the kidnapping or had taken a dawb from the villains to keep quiet.

‘No, no,’ Tummins reassured him. ‘’E’s just takin’ a customer to Westminster at the moment; there’s a late sittin’ in Parliament tonight. I’ll make sure ’e’s ’ere for you to speak to first thing in the mornin’.’

Woods raised his eyebrows with slight surprise. Obviously, Tummins had some exalted customers on his books. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t take the poor bugger through the Five Fields,’ he commented. ‘We don’t need a dead Member of Parliament on our hands, as well. I’ll need your coachman to take me out to the location of the kidnappin’. The kidnappers may have left some clue to their identity at the scene.’

‘Of course, of course – and I’ll come with you. I can’t tell you ’ow sorry I am that this ’as ’appened, Constable.’

Chapter Thirteen

The tall, elaborate wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Bushy House, the residence of the Duke of Clarence, were wide open. Lavender rode through them without challenge from a gatekeeper and was instantly aware of the spacious grandeur of the deer parkland attached to the house. The tree-lined drive was nearly two miles long and probably the widest road he had ever seen. Now skeletal and leafless against the backdrop of the darkening sky, the great avenue of chestnuts had been laid out to a design by Sir Christopher Wren. Lavender caught a glimpse of the glimmering silver of the well-stocked fishponds that littered the park. A herd of red deer who had grown confident with the failing light had come out to feed on the vast lawns. In the gloom he could just about make out the famous fountain at the end of the drive, which encircled a statue of the Goddess Diana. He turned off the drive in order to approach Bushy House, whose tall chimneys rose through the treetops.

A group of children raced around the grounds playing with hoops and poking at toy boats on the ponds. They were well wrapped up in coats and scarves. He knew that the older FitzClarence boys had already been sent away to the army and the navy, but there still seemed to be a lot of youngsters in the grounds of Bushy House. Lavender assumed that the younger FitzClarence children had invited their friends over to play. They happily ignored him.

He tied his horse to low branch of a tree and mounted the sweeping stone steps of the imposing four-storey house. Thanks to the coming and going of the children, the front door was also ajar. He pushed it open and entered. No footman stepped forward to challenge him. Grateful that he wasn’t personally responsible for the security and safety of the king’s third son and his large family, Lavender walked to the fire blazing in the immense stone fireplace and warmed himself. He was curious to see how far he could get into the premises before he was noticed. He had almost five minutes to stand and admire the soot-blackened collection of old family portraits, which wound up the plastered walls of the carved oak staircase, before a passing footman finally noticed his presence.

Lavender asked for an audience with Mrs Jordan and was led into an antechamber to wait. Yellow silk curtains tied back with tasselled cords framed the deep-set windows. He walked across and admired the narrow glass-fronted bookshelves that climbed up the inside of the alcoves. He decided that if he was kept waiting much longer, he would take out one of the leather-bound volumes and read.

When the door opened, he was surprised and displeased to see Sir Lawrence Forsyth stride into the room. The duke’s aide puffed out his chest and glared up coldly. ‘I suppose you have come for the
señora
’s reward, yes?’ The man clutched a cloth purse in his hand.

Lavender gritted his teeth and pushed his fists into the pockets of his greatcoat. ‘If it pleases Mrs Jordan to bestow it when I see her—’ he began.

‘Mrs Jordan is busy,’ Forsyth interrupted. ‘As is the duke. I have been charged with giving you this.’ He handed over the cloth purse. Lavender could tell by its weight that there wouldn’t be enough to cover the cost of one boot for Magdalena, never mind a pair. Obviously, the duke and his mistress were not quite so magnanimous in the cold light of day.
Never mind
, Lavender thought,
I’ll top up the coins in the purse myself.

‘You may go now.’

‘I need to see Mrs Jordan on a matter of police business.’

‘What police business?’ Forsyth blinked. Was that a hint of fear Lavender saw in the aide’s close-set eyes?

Lavender’s felt his lip curl. ‘It is a matter I need to discuss with Mrs Jordan – alone. Please escort me to her.’

‘What? Am I a footman now?’ snapped Forsyth.

‘I don’t know,’ Lavender said forcefully. ‘Are you? What exactly is your role here at Bushy Park, Sir Lawrence?’

Forsyth drew himself up to his full height, which was still less than five foot. ‘I am aide to Prince William,’ he announced. ‘His Grace is an admiral in the King’s Navy. It is an onerous position, fraught with responsibility for the security of the nation. I assist him with secretarial duties and do my best to ease him of some of the more mundane aspects of his role. I take exception to your attitude, Lavender.’

Lavender was well aware that the duke’s position in the navy was honorary and his rank was purely titular. Although he had seen active service in the navy as a young man and served in New York during the American War of Independence, where President George Washington had once approved a plot to kidnap him, the king’s son had been a landlubber for the last twenty years. Lavender vaguely remembered some scandal about the prince who’d ignored orders and sailed for home while in charge of HMS
Valiant
. The navy had taken great pains to cover up his act of mutiny. Whereas most naval officers would have been court-martialled, Prince William had been permanently brought ashore and given a dukedom instead. Although he wasn’t familiar with Forsyth’s naval career, Lavender had a sneaking suspicion that it was probably unremarkable: the man didn’t look or sound like he was capable of effective command. Telling tales like a schoolboy was more his style.

‘It is
Detective
Lavender,’ he replied, sharply. ‘I am a principal officer with the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court and I have a matter of extreme importance to discuss with Mrs Jordan. Now are you going to impede police business or arrange an interview with Mrs Jordan? There might be consequences if you insist on the former.’

The small man flushed angrily and opened his mouth to protest but Lavender had had enough. ‘If security is part of your remit, Forsyth,’ he said. ‘I suggest that you review the arrangements here at Bushy House. I entered the grounds of this estate, walked through the front door and stood in the hallway for a full five minutes before anyone noticed my presence. If I had been an assassin or a foreign operative working for Napoleon, I could have murdered the duke and his entire family and robbed the place blind before anyone even knew I was here. I suggest that you look to your business and let me look to mine.’

Forsyth gulped, turned pale and hurried to the bell pull by the fireplace to summon a footman.

Dorothy Jordan and the Duke of Clarence were relaxing in front of a fire in their drawing room when Lavender was ushered into their presence. The duke was reading a daily news-sheet and Mrs Jordan had a novella in one hand and a pair of pince-nez in the other. She hastily pushed her reading glasses down the side of her chair cushions when he entered. He smiled at her vanity.

Two young curly-haired children played with a toy horse at their parents’ feet on the thick Turkish carpet. The room was tastefully furnished with a collection of oval side tables and cream chintz chairs and sofas. The furniture blended well against the pale green silk wallpaper, which rose up to the decorative moulding of the white cornice. A huge gilt chandelier with dozens of flickering, creamy wax candles hung from the ornate plastered ceiling. Lavender’s eyes flicked to the marble bust of Sir Horatio Nelson, which took pride of place on a plinth in the centre of the window bay. He knew that Nelson had been a friend of the duke.

Mrs Jordan wore a flattering lavender muslin gown, which enhanced her complexion, and a pair of jade earrings that reflected the green of her eyes. She was draped gracefully across her cushioned chair. Lavender had to admit that the scene in the room presented a charming picture of domesticity, with the famous actress at the centre. The role of royal mistress clearly suited her; she had made it her own over the last twenty years.

‘Detective Lavender,’ she purred, in her soft Irish accent. ‘How delightful to see you again – and so soon. I trust that Sir Lawrence has dealt with the matter of the
señora
’s reward for felling that thief?’

‘Indeed he has, ma’am, thank you,’ Lavender said as he bowed to the duke. ‘Unfortunately, I now need to speak to you on another, more serious, police matter.’

‘Good grief!’ The actress raised both her voice and her eyebrows dramatically. ‘What on earth could that be? You haven’t been naughty again have you, William?’ she asked.

The duke burst out laughing and his double chin wobbled. ‘I say, Dora, you’re a wag! She’s a great comedienne, ain’t she, Lavender?’

Lavender smiled. ‘Mrs Jordan always lives up to her reputation for comedy.’

‘Have you seen her perform on the stage?’ the duke demanded.

‘Yes. I once saw Mrs Jordan as Viola in
Twelfth Night
and a great performance it was too.’ The actress smiled and bowed her head modestly.

‘Shakespeare? Pah!’ spat the duke. ‘It is her role as Little Pickle in
The Spoiled Child
where she excelled. Did you never see that? Captured my heart with that role, Dora did. No woman can wear a pair of breeches and strut across a stage like my Dora.’ The duke’s eyes misted over at the memory. For a moment there was a respectful hush.

‘But to business, Detective,’ said Mrs Jordan. ‘How can I help you?’

‘It may be best if the children weren’t here,’ Lavender said cautiously.

‘Of course.’ She indicated to the hovering footman, who immediately moved forward and ushered the children out of the room. They wailed and complained as they were taken away from their parents and the warm fire.

‘I trust this is serious enough to warrant upsetting my children,’ said the actress, coldly.

‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Jordan,’ Lavender said. ‘But there has been a disturbing development at the Sans Pareil Theatre and I don’t think the children need to hear about it.’

‘What has happened?’

‘One of the young actresses, whom I believed you personally sponsored, has been found dead in mysterious circumstances.’

‘Good grief,’ said Mrs Jordan, this time without the exaggeration. The woman was shocked. ‘Which one? Which actress?’

‘Miss April Divine, otherwise known as April Clare; the daughter of the late Baron Clare.’

‘How awful! Poor April! What on earth happened?’

Lavender hesitated for a moment but was relieved to see that Mrs Jordan remained dry-eyed. For that he was grateful. He quickly related the circumstances of April Clare’s death. The duke and his mistress winced but listened intently. Mrs Jordan did her best to answer Lavender’s questions.

‘I haven’t seen Miss Clare since last summer,’ she told him. ‘Yes, I helped her to find her position with the Drury Lane company but I understand that she took some time off from the theatre after the fire last year. She approached me again at the end of August for an introduction to Jane Scott at the Sans Pareil, and I was happy to oblige. April was a promising young actress with a great future.’

Lavender was struck by Mrs Jordan’s high opinion of April Clare’s ability, and compared it to the differing version he had received from Jane Scott the night before. He had no idea if it had any significance but every piece of information was valuable at this stage in the investigation. ‘Are you aware if April Clare had a lover, Mrs Jordan? Or a sweetheart?’

The actress smiled and waved her hand dismissively in the air. ‘Every actress has their admirers, Detective.’

‘I’ll say!’ interjected the duke. ‘There’s many a time I’ve nearly challenged some love-struck popinjay to a duel for being overly fond of my Dora.’

She smiled across at him fondly. ‘I can’t remember if April ever associated with one young man in particular,’ she continued. ‘But—No, wait! There was a young man to whom she was close at Drury Lane. I have no idea who he was or what became of that relationship.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Jordan,’ Lavender said. ‘And a final question: you said that Miss Clare took some time off from her acting career after the Drury Lane fire. Have you any idea why?’

‘Oh, yes. I can help you out there, Detective.’ Mrs Jordan beamed with confidence. ‘When she came to ask for an introduction to Jane Scott she told me about it. She had spent some time with a sick and elderly aunt in Gloucester. She was such a kind young woman, very worthy of my support. It is so sad to hear that she’s now dead.’