The Heiress of Linn Hagh (13 page)

She took the flowers from him and examined them closely.

‘No, no.’

‘Would somebody else in the family have remembered Esther Carnaby’s birthday and perhaps taken these flowers?’

She shook her head sadly. ‘I doubt it, Detective. We’ve all been so busy—and I was the closest to Esther. Poor Esther.’

‘What about Miss Isobel at Linn Hagh? Do you think she may have taken them to her stepmother’s grave?’

Katherine Armstrong snorted in an unladylike manner. ‘Highly unlikely, Detective—Izzie Carnaby was not kind to poor Esther.’

For a moment, silence descended upon the room. Lavender was conscious of the buzz of indistinct conversation and laughter emanating from the hallway outside.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Miss Armstrong said slowly, ‘it could have been
Helen
who laid the flowers at her mother’s grave?’

Lavender could sense hope rising like sweet-smelling bread dough. Even Armstrong suddenly roused from his torpor, lifted his head and looked keenly at Lavender.

‘Good God!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘That would mean Helen is still somewhere in Bellingham—and walking around.’

‘These flowers could have been laid on that grave by anyone,’ Lavender warned. ‘I would be very grateful if you could discreetly ask your other relatives if any of them have visited Esther Carnaby’s grave in the last few days. We’ve got to eliminate all other possible explanations. Please send me a note at The Rose and Crown with your findings.’

Katherine Armstrong nodded.

‘I think we need to keep this a secret among ourselves. If anyone else finds out about this latest development and goes to St Cuthbert’s looking for Miss Carnaby, they may frighten her away. Whatever it was that scared her into hiding in the first place is clearly still worrying her. In the meantime, Woods and I will stake out the graveyard—particularly at night—and keep our eyes open for young ladies.’

‘Whatever you think for the best,’ Katherine Armstrong murmured.

‘You’ve done well, Lavender,’ Armstrong commented. ‘That is the first lead we’ve had in our search for Helen.’

‘It may still come to nothing,’ Lavender warned.

‘I hope not.’ Armstrong sighed. His voice cracked with emotion, and his eyes moistened. ‘I want Helen found so badly.’

There was an embarrassing pause while the old man struggled with the anguish that wracked him. ‘I blame myself for her disappearance,’ he said.

‘It’s not your fault, Papa,’ Miss Armstrong soothed. She reached out and stroked his bony hand.

‘I cannot accept that, Katherine. You see, Lavender, on the last occasion I saw Helen—at Cecily’s wedding—she asked us if she could come and stay here for a while . . .’ His voice trailed away with grief.

Miss Armstrong squeezed his hand tighter, then turned to Lavender.

‘Helen never said why,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, two of my sisters are staying with us at the moment with their children—their husbands are fighting in Spain. We just didn’t have the room.’ She looked as miserable as her father.

‘I still blame myself,’ Armstrong said. ‘I should have recognised that Helen was in trouble of some kind and welcomed her into our home. I’ve failed her in her hour of need.’

‘Neither of you should blame yourselves,’ Lavender informed them. ‘George Carnaby was responsible for his sister after his father’s death. He is the one who has clearly failed her.’

Mr Armstrong went for a rest in his bedchamber, and Lavender and Woods had a private interview with Cecily Derwent, the young woman who Miss Armstrong had told them was close to Helen Carnaby. Unfortunately, the distressed Mistress Derwent could tell them very little else to their advantage; she was as baffled as everyone else. No, Helen had not confided in her that she was unhappy at Linn Hagh or given her any indication that she was planning to run away. Nor had Helen ever mentioned a secret lover—or any young man at all—to her closest friend in Bellingham.

Lavender was disappointed. If Helen Carnaby’s confidante and cousin—a young woman who claimed to be like ‘a sister’ to the missing heiress—had been excluded from her plans, then Lavender doubted if anyone would have been privy to her thoughts in the days leading up to her disappearance. Anyone else, that is, except the person who harboured her.

Lavender and Woods began to make their way back through the heaving crowds towards the front door, but they were suddenly called back into the study by a flushed and excited Katherine Armstrong.

‘I’ve just remembered something,’ she told them. ‘This Wednesday—the twenty-fourth—is the anniversary of Baxter Carnaby’s death. If Helen is still in Bellingham and placed the flowers on her mother’s grave on her birthday . . .’

Lavender finished the sentence for her.

‘Then it’s likely that she might return on the twenty-fourth to visit her father’s grave.’

‘Yes, Detective! Exactly!’

The evening service at St Cuthbert’s was every bit as grim as the service Woods and Lavender had sat through in the morning. However, Lavender had been right; the Linn Hagh cook attended the service. Woods watched her for a while, then set his face in his most pious expression, rubbed his hands for warmth and tried to block out the rants of the vicar by admiring the pointed Gothic arches and windows of the old church.

It was pitch-black when they finally left the building. He watched Mistress Norris pull her shawl tightly round her shoulders, then scurry down the road in the direction of Linn Hagh. He began to follow her at a discreet distance, but suddenly the vicar seized his arm.

‘Your piety has been noted, my son,’ the reverend declared loudly.

Woods thanked him and shook the elderly cleric’s hand. Unfortunately, the vicar wanted a few more words; the man was curious about how long they intended to remain in Bellingham. It was several minutes before he could break away. By this time, Mistress Norris had disappeared from view, but there was only one road to Linn Hagh—and he doubted the cook would try to return home through the woods.

When they had left the lights and coal smoke–laden air of Bellingham behind, he caught up with the woman and hailed her. She stopped and stared suspiciously in his direction.

‘What do you want?’ she asked when he moved to join her.

It was a clear moonlit night, freezing cold but brighter than the previous night when he had thundered back from Linn Hagh in near blackness.

‘Good evening, Mistress Norris. I saw you in the church and thought to myself, “Why, this poor lady has a long and arduous trip back to Linn Hagh in the dark!” I presumed to come and offer you me protection fer your journey.’

‘Where’s yer horse?’ she demanded. ‘Am I not to get a ride on that?’

Ah, obviously Anna has been talking.

‘I’m afraid that windbag of a horse is back in the stables—or possibly on its way to the knackers yard where it belongs. However, I’m happy to walk with you, ma’am, and should we be attacked by gypsies or vagabonds—fortunately, I’m armed.’

‘Ye’ve a pretty way of speaking,’ she said, ‘despite yer funny accent, but if you try to tell me that ye’ve got a daughter named Gladys like me, I won’t believe you.’

‘Er, no. Sadly, I don’t have a daughter named Gladys. Charmin’ name,’ he lied.

She snorted, turned away and set off back towards Linn Hagh. For a woman so badly affected by arthritis, she was very quick on her pins. He fell into step beside her.

‘I have three daughters: Rachel, Tabitha—and
Anna
,’ he told her, with his fingers crossed behind his back. ‘And two sons: Eddie and Dan.’

‘And your wife—what does she think about you gallivantin’ all over the country and leavin’ her alone with the bairns?’

‘To be honest, Mistress, my Betsy hates it. She appreciates the money my job brings home, but she struggles without me help with the lads.’

‘Handful, are they?’

‘Yes.’

An owl hooted deep inside the woods. He waited for her next comment.

‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘Despite the trouble you’re havin’ wi’ your lads.’ Her voice had softened, become wistful. ‘We never had any bairns. When my husband died, I had no one to turn to. I were real grateful when Mistress Carnaby took me on at Linn Hagh. I’d have been in the poorhouse, else.’

‘Was this Martha Carnaby or Esther Carnaby?’

‘Esther, of course. Martha Carnaby were too mad to run her own home properly. I’ve bin at Linn Hagh fer twenty years.’

‘Ah, you must have seen the younger Carnabys grow up.’

‘Miss Helen, maybe—but Master George were nigh on fifteen when I first went to Linn Hagh, and Miss Isobel weren’t that far behind him. They were already far too wise fer their years at that age—they’d seen too much, I reckon,’ she added. ‘Master Matthew were a nick-ninny even back then.’

Woods paused at the unfamiliar phrase but decided to push on with his questions while she was in the mood for talking.

‘Do you like working at Linn Hagh?’

The cook laughed bitterly and quickened her step. When she slipped on the ice, Woods reached out to steady her, but she shook off his hand, stopped and turned to face him in the darkness. By the silver light of the moon, he could just make out the sour expression on her face.

‘Of course I don’t like werkin’ there, Constable. What woman of my age wants to traipse around to a remote place like that and werk fer fourteen miserable hours a day? But I’m a widow, see? I hev no choice—and I’ll never get another position if the Carnabys let me go. I’ll end up maundin’ my way around Bellingham market with the other beggars.’

She spun round and set off back towards Linn Hagh. Woods hurried to catch up with her.

‘Are you sayin’ you’re scared to talk to me because you think Carnaby will dismiss you if he finds out?’

She didn’t reply. She set her face and stared straight ahead.

‘I don’t understand,’ Woods moaned. ‘Surely Carnaby wants his sister found safe and well? Why is he so reluctant for us to talk with his servants?’

She snorted in disbelief, stopped again and stared at him. ‘You never know what goes on behind a closed door of a family home, Constable—and you and that detective gadgie hev not even scratched the surface yet of life at Linn Hagh.’

‘Why? What goes on at Linn Hagh?’

‘Let’s just say that Miss Helen is a lot safer and better off where she is now.’

‘Where is she? What do you know about her whereabouts, and what are you talking about?’

The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t know where she is now.’

‘So what did you mean?’

She sighed and leant towards him.

‘I’ll tell you this—and this only. There were a drover at the market in Bellin’ham a few weeks back. He comes here with his sheep every month or so. He claimed he’d seen Miss Helen talkin’ with a man on horseback in the week just before she disappeared. He said they seemed close.’

‘Did he know the man?’

‘No.’

‘Did he describe the rider?’

‘No.’

‘Did this drover report this valuable piece of information to Beddows, Mr Armstrong or George Carnaby?’

‘I telled him not to.’

‘What?’

‘I telled him not to. You see, Constable, I don’t know how Miss Helen got out of that bedchamber, but I do know that even if she were snatched out of that room by a ruddy bogle, the lass will be a lot better off with the little folk than livin’ with the Carnabys.’

With that, the woman clammed up and refused to say another word for the rest of the journey back to Linn Hagh.

Chapter Thirteen

Monday, 22nd November 1809

A
bogle is a mischievous little person, in northern folklore, who frequently causes trouble for humans,’ Lavender told Woods at breakfast the next day. ‘Obviously, Mistress Norris has been listening to those who say that Miss Carnaby has been spirited away by the fairies. I would like to hear more about the man on horseback seen by the drover.’

‘She were very reluctant to say more,’ Woods said.

‘Well, she is going to have to identify this sheep drover if nothing else,’ Lavender said firmly. The superstitious nonsense that the locals attributed to this case was beginning to irk him, and he had slept badly. ‘This is the first lead we’ve had—anyone has had—that there is a lover lurking somewhere in the background. You can ask Mistress Norris for more details when we go up to Linn Hagh after breakfast.’

Woods glanced up from his porridge in surprise. His spoon hung loosely in the air.

‘I thought you told George Carnaby you would join him, Emmerson and Ingram at Greycoates Hall at eleven o’ clock?’

‘I lied,’ Lavender snapped. ‘It seemed the best way to get Carnaby out of the way for the morning. He is trying to control us every step of the way in this investigation. We need to interview the servants away from his intimidating presence. If the cook still won’t divulge the name of that drover, I’ll take her into custody until she tells us the whole story. There’s a girl missing, possibly in danger. It’s about time the inhabitants of this town started to take this investigation seriously.’

Woods said nothing but continued to eye him curiously across the breakfast table.

‘As for the woman’s accusation that we’ve barely scratched the surface when it comes to understanding this family,’ Lavender continued, ‘I think she may well have a point. However, last night I wrote to the lawyer, Mr Agar, for a copy of Baxter Carnaby’s will—so that problem may soon be rectified. If there is anything amiss in the Carnaby family, we will soon know of it. Pass the salt, please, Ned.’

Today Lavender decided they would walk to Linn Hagh through Hareshaw Woods. It was damp, eerie and silent. The foliage was a swirling mixture of evergreen and muddy brown. The ancient woodland became darker and denser as they followed the overgrown path that snaked beside the stream. Gnarled fingers of skeletal trees creaked overhead, and their moss-covered trunks fought against the steep incline of the gorge. For many, this fight with gravity had been too much, and their bark had split like Chinese paper lanterns.

Lavender could tell that his constable hated it. Woods started at every noise; his eyes flicked sharply from one side to another every time a branch creaked and strained in the wind, and his hand hovered instinctively over the pistol in his pocket.