The Heiress of Linn Hagh (22 page)

‘Run, gal!’

But Helen Carnaby was rooted to the spot, still unaware of the danger behind her. She stared at him in alarm—as did her attacker—both of them shocked at Woods’ sudden appearance from the bush. For a brief second, the three of them were held there, motionless in a triangle of fear: the woman, the killer and the grimacing constable with the agonizing cramp. Then Woods aimed his pistol at her attacker.

Helen Carnaby gasped, turned and finally saw her would-be assailant and his blade. She screamed. The villain turned on his heels and sped back up towards the road.

‘Stop, you bastard, or I’ll shoot!’

Woods tried to give chase, but his legs folded under him. He crashed down onto the icy ground with a resounding thud. His pistol fired as he fell. The shot ricocheted off the deep-set church windowsill with a puff of dirty sand and shattered the stained-glass window. Its retort echoed around the still valley as ancient glass slithered noisily to the ground.

Woods scrambled to his feet and staggered awkwardly over to the deserted road. The murdering rogue had vanished.

He returned to the rear of the church. Helen Carnaby had also disappeared. Swearing, he moved down the overgrown path that meandered off into the distance beside the black river. It was empty and edged with the towering willow weed that swayed lightly in the breeze. If she was there, he would never find her.

‘Damn and blast it!’ he cursed.

An angry exclamation behind him made him turn sharply. Still brandishing his smoking pistol, he found himself face-to-face with a furious, indignant and breathless man in a billowing nightshirt.

It was the vicar.

Chapter Twenty-Two

C
an you describe him?’

Woods sat huddled in a dry blanket before the blazing fire in the empty taproom of The Rose and Crown and shook his throbbing head. His frozen hands still trembled as he sipped at a steaming bowl of hot chocolate.

‘His hat was pulled down low—and to be honest, sir—I’d not paid him any attention. I just thought he was a befuddled rat, sleeping off the liquor. But his eyes! Full of hatred and viciousness—they were light-coloured.’

He sipped some more of his beverage. Lavender and Constable Beddows observed him quietly and took in his words.

‘What about his coat? Did you get a good look at his coat?’

A flash of recognition now jolted through Woods’ exhausted brain. The hot chocolate slopped dangerously towards the edge of the bowl.

‘Yes!’

An image of the man silhouetted against the moon and only three feet away, urinating against the tree, now came vividly to mind.

‘It were dark, but I’m sure it were an army greatcoat—with capes. I couldn’t make out the colour, mind.’

Lavender fell back satisfied, his expression grave.

‘What’s the significance of that?’ Beddows demanded.

‘We’ve found evidence that a beggar who camps out in one of the caves in the gorge wears a military greatcoat,’ Lavender informed him.

‘A beggar, eh?’ Beddows spat on the floor of the taproom. ‘Damned town is crawling with them.’

‘Ah, but this one is tall, light-eyed, with a hat, and carries a clay pipe and a kitchen knife in his pocket,’ Lavender told him. ‘So perhaps he might not be too hard for you and your men to track down? Woods will be able to recognise him when you arrest him.’

‘He don’t sound like one of our regulars. Never seen a gadgie of that description afore.’

‘You need to find him—and quickly,’ Lavender said.

‘I don’t rightly know . . .’ Beddows began to bluster.

‘Well, I do,’ Lavender snapped. ‘You need to gather up your men and find this madman before he succeeds in harming someone. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of Constable Woods, you would have had the murder of a young woman in your church yard to contend with.’

‘He could have just been out to rob her—a silk snatcher.’

Lavender frowned. ‘Either way, I think it’s time for you to take some action, man.’

Beddows scowled and scratched the stubble on his chin. His fat jowls wobbled as he started to protest.

‘I only have a couple of beadles—and we’re needed in Bellingham today at the market.’

Lavender turned around now and faced the local man squarely. His eyes narrowed and in a voice heavy with irony, he asked, ‘Why? Are you expecting the sheep to organise a riot?’

The local man blinked at Lavender’s tone but continued to doggedly argue his case. ‘The stallholders expect us to be on hand—like, in case there’s trouble. There’s a lot of drinkin’ goes on market day in a town like this, and petty theft.’

‘And no doubt these stallholders palm you a dawb or two to keep you here and watch over them,’ Woods observed cynically. ‘We have the same thing with the constables all the time down at the Smithfield meat market.’

‘What are you accusin’ me of ?’ Beddows’ small eyes flashed angrily beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘I’ve never tekken no dawb!’ His colour rose in his cheeks.

Lavender cut him short. ‘Your parish seethes with crime and violence, man. I’m visiting Magistrate Clennell tomorrow and will make sure that I report to him the level of lawlessness I’ve uncovered in Bellingham, and your inability and reluctance to deal with it.’

Beddows shuffled and looked away. ‘There ain’t that many of us,’ he whined.

‘There’s enough to restrain one villain. I want you to take your men to the gorge and see if the rogue has returned to the cave. Afterwards, I want you to stop, question and search every man at the market today who answers the description I’ve just given you.’

‘This were a quiet town afore you two arrived and began to stir things up,’ Beddows complained.

‘Nonsense,’ Lavender retorted. ‘Things were already stirred up before we got here. You’ve got a missing girl, remember? The one
you
couldn’t find. I’ve been shocked to discover the extent of sin and depravity in Bellingham: Couples copulate on consecrated ground; farmers take the law into their own hands. Now this—attempted murder in broad daylight. And in all this, there is no sign that you, the beadles or the night watchmen do your jobs. I’m sure that Magistrate Clennell will be as disappointed as I am with this report.’

Beddows pulled out his gloves and slunk away towards the door.

‘Alright, alright,’ he growled. ‘I’ll get the beadles, and we’ll search the gorge.’

‘I don’t want a word of this to George Carnaby, do you understand me? This is nothing to do with him.’

Beddows stopped on his way to the door and stared back at Lavender in surprise. Then he turned to Woods.

‘So who were the lass that were nearly stabbed?’ he asked. ‘If it weren’t Carnaby’s sister?’

‘I don’t know,’ Woods lied. ‘Just some village girl—she fled terrified after I scared off the cove.’ He had given this story to the incandescent vicar but had managed to whisper the truth to Lavender when they returned to the tavern. Baxter Carnaby’s grave had never been mentioned.

After Beddows left, Lavender sighed and sat down beside Woods on the fireside settle. He lowered his voice and ran his hand through his hair.

‘Are you sure it was she—Helen Carnaby?’

Woods nodded and described the girl and the hellebores she carried.

‘What are we going to do?’ Woods asked. ‘The foxgloves were one thing—but this murdering bravo is another. That girl is in great danger. Who do you suppose he is?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lavender sighed. ‘But I’ve no doubt that George and Isobel Carnaby are behind this latest attempt on their sister’s life.’

‘How did they know she would be there?’

Lavender grimaced.

‘I fear I may have given them the idea of someone staking out the graveyard. Isobel Carnaby is sharp-witted. When I asked her if she had visited the graves of her parents, I could see an idea forming in her mind.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Woods.

‘Yes, I think it may have been my fault. I made a mistake. The trouble is, I’ve no evidence yet to prove the older Carnabys are connected to this. We need to find this cove and question him. I also doubt that Clennell will give me a warrant on Friday to arrest the Carnabys. Despite the stain of madness, they’re an old family, and respected landowners hereabouts.’

‘They’re cunning buggers, that’s fer sure. What shall we do?’

‘For a start,’ Lavender said decisively, ‘you’ll get some sleep. In the meantime, I shall try to track down Abel Knowles, the sheep drover, and I shall pay a visit to The Redesdale Arms in Otterburn.’

‘I can come with you.’

‘No, you get some sleep, Ned. Tomorrow we shall go to Linn Hagh and demonstrate to the impatient Mr Armstrong how his great-niece got out of a locked bedchamber.’

‘I still think it’s shocking,’ Woods commented. ‘We expect the scum and tagrag of the Seven Dials and the rookery of St Giles down in London to murder their grandmothers for their last shillin’—but out here? Amongst the gentry?’

‘Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money to a lazy man with no other income,’ Lavender observed cynically. ‘The Carnabys are desperate. All that stands between them and the money is a sister they barely know—a girl they’ve disliked since she was born.’

‘I still think it’s harsh—and difficult to believe.’ Woods fought back a yawn.

‘I agree. But God knows what depravity George and Isobel Carnaby witnessed when they were children, growing up as they did with an insane mother. Who knows what example they were set—or what is “normal” for them?’

Lavender rose to his feet and picked up his gloves and cane.

‘Ideally, I would like George and Isobel Carnaby and their hired assassin behind bars at Hexham Gaol by the Sabbath. Only then will I feel it’s safe for Miss Helen to come out of hiding.’

Something about the way Lavender looked made the exhausted Woods start with surprise. He raised his eyebrows, and a large smile spread across his broad face.

‘That gypsy gal were right—you know where Helen Carnaby is, don’t you?’

Lavender smiled.

‘I’ve a fair idea. She’s safe—well, from murder anyway.’

Woods gasped, pushed off the blanket and started to rise.

‘I’ll come with you.’

Lavender held up his hand and shook his head.

‘I don’t think so, my friend. You need to get some sleep.’

Reluctantly, Woods fell back into his seat.

As Lavender reached the door, he turned back and grinned.

‘By the way, Ned, make sure you stay out of sight of the vicar for a while; otherwise, you could find yourself denounced from the pulpit.’

‘Eh?’

‘It turns out the man was rather partial to his stained glass windows.’

‘Hmmph!’

‘Don’t dismiss him lightly.’ Lavender winked as he turned to go. ‘You’ve fallen from grace. One letter to the bishop—and you could be in great danger of excommunication.’

Bellingham Market Square heaved with people. The racket made by the lowing cattle, barking dogs and shouting drovers and auctioneers was a shock to Lavender’s ears. The rank smell of animal excrement filled his nose when he left The Rose and Crown. As the crowds surged around him, he surveyed the chaos with dismay. It would be impossible to find Abel Knowles, the mysterious sheep drover, in that writhing pack. Carefully, he wove a path between the steaming piles of manure that littered the cobbles, past patient flocks of tethered sheep, and enquired of every farmer he met the whereabouts of ‘Knowles, the sheep drover.’ Most of the farmers just shrugged or else pretended not to understand his accent.

Beddows had been right. There was a good deal of excessive drinking associated with market day in Bellingham. Drunken beggars sat mournfully at the edge of the crowds, empty bottles by their side, hands outstretched, and their voices whining. Gaudily dressed whores hovered in groups outside the public houses. Here and there, he caught the flash of dirty scarlet as discharged soldiers hobbled on their crutches through the crowd.

What he didn’t see—and he was grateful for this—was any sign of Constable Beddows and his men. Good. That meant Beddows had gone to search Hareshaw Woods for the man who had tried to murder Helen Carnaby. Lavender examined every face, but there was no sign in the market of any man who answered the description of the murdering cove. No doubt he was lying low somewhere today. Could he possibly be at Linn Hagh, being sheltered by the Carnabys? Lavender dismissed the idea. George Carnaby would not associate himself directly with this would-be assassin.

‘Have you lost sommat, Detective?’ A familiar voice cut through the babble of the crowds and halted him in his tracks.

‘Aye, he’s lost his constable.’

A ripple of laughter.

‘And his pistol.’

‘Aye.’

Jethro Hamilton, Isaac Daly and a third older, rugged and scowling farmer leant over the wooden gate at the entrance to one of the sheep pens, eyeing him coldly. He noted again how powerfully built and hard-featured these men were. Despite their prejudice against the faws, they were the kind of allies he needed, not idiots like Beddows. Lavender’s brain raced as he tried to calculate how much damage his stance against them yesterday had done. Beneath the growling, they were decent men. There was still a chance that this situation could be turned to his advantage.

‘I need your help.’

‘What’s this, then?’ Hamilton snorted ironically. ‘Have ye come to tell us that you can’t manage to deal with them faws without us?’

The other men sniggered.

Lavender moved closer. He could smell the body odour and the stench of farm animals that emanated from their thick, dirty jackets.

‘I seek two men. One of them is innocent and has information that could help me. The other is dangerous and could be a threat to your wives and daughters.’

‘Oh aye?’ Hamilton pushed his thick blond hair back out of his eyes.

‘Firstly, I need to find Abel Knowles, the sheep drover. He is not in any trouble, but I think he has information about the missing woman, Helen Carnaby.’

‘And the other?’

The farmers’ faces were hard and expressionless, but he had their attention.

Lavender described the mysterious beggar who had tried to murder the ‘young woman’ in the churchyard. He gave them just enough detail to understand that the man he sought was a dangerous threat.