The Heiress of Linn Hagh (3 page)

Anna’s young ears heard it again: the unmistakable sound of a large creature moving through the undergrowth in the woods beside their path—but this one moved with stealth. She spun around, hoping to see that Master Matthew had left Miss Helen’s side. No. He still lurched like a drunk beside his sister.

Whatever, or whoever, followed them now was not Master Matthew.

Anna froze in fear, and her mistress stopped with her.

‘What is it, girl? What’s the matter?’

The forest filled with a sound far more disturbing than anything Master Matthew could make.

A cruel laugh echoed throughout the woods. It rebounded off the blackened trunks and rent the icy air around them.

Master Matthew let out a chilling primeval wail of terror and fled past Anna towards the hall.

‘Run!’ Miss Helen yelled, her voice full of fear. ‘Run for your lives!’

Anna needed no second bidding. As more of the terrifying laughter rang in their ears, the three women screamed and ran for the safety of Linn Hagh. They clattered across the cobbles, scrambled up the flight of stone steps and eventually fell through the studded oaken door. Miss Helen slammed it shut behind them and shot home the great iron bolts.

Still trembling, Anna crossed the small vestibule to seek the warmth of the range and the comforting presence of Mistress Norris, the cook. Master Matthew was there before her, cowering in his favourite corner.

‘Gawd’s teeth! What in hell’s name is going on?’

Master George Carnaby was also in the kitchen. He had risen hastily and knocked over his chair, alarmed at the dramatic reappearance of his family.

‘What devil’s business is this?’ he demanded of Anna.

His two sisters followed Anna into the kitchen. Miss Isobel collapsed onto a chair at the table. She was shaking and dishevelled, and her eyes watered like an old woman’s. Miss Helen leant back against the kitchen wall and closed her own eyes. Her long lashes rested on cheeks now deathly pale. Both women breathed heavily.

‘I say again—what in God’s name is going on?’

Miss Isobel found her voice and pointed an accusing finger towards Master Matthew.

‘That bacon-brained idiot scared us in the woods. He behaved like a fiend from hell.’

Master George laughed, but the smile never reached his eyes.

‘I thought you had more sense than that, Izzie.’ He moved menacingly over towards his brother, his face contorted with cruelty. ‘Fancy letting yourself be scared by this idiot.’

His boot lashed out. Master Matthew squealed, twisted and curled up into a ball on the floor. The vicious kick, which had aimed for his head, was deflected to his ribcage. Anna winced as she heard it thud into his flesh.

Master Matthew screamed.

Anna began to cry. The cook placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and held her steady. Miss Helen and the two helpless servants winced as Master George delivered one vicious kick after another into the defenceless body of his sobbing younger brother. Miss Isobel laughed in delight and threw a withering, triumphant glance back at her sister.

Eventually, the two oldest Carnabys tired of their sport and left the kitchen to climb the stone staircase to the Great Hall above.

‘We’ll dine in half an hour,’ Master George informed the cook as he went.

Miss Helen went immediately to comfort her wretched brother.

‘I’m so sorry, Matty,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot stand up to them both.’ Her cheeks were stained with the tracks of her own tears.

Mistress Norris sighed and moved over to the range, where she unhooked the great iron kettle from the metal contraption above the fireplace.

‘Let’s have a drink of tea. They’s can wait fer their bloody supper.’

Miss Helen persuaded her brother to move onto a chair by the table. The cook warmed the pot and counted out spoons full of tea from the caddy. The familiarity of the routine began to calm Anna. The scalding drink revitalised her.

Eventually, Master Matthew’s sobs subsided. He took the saucer of tea in his large, filthy hands and gulped it down like an animal. Every now and then he would groan and wince.

Anna looked away; she didn’t want to shame the young master further by staring at him.

‘I’ll call at Doctor Goddard’s in the morning and ask him to come and examine him,’ Miss Helen said.

‘Huh! They’ll not thank you fer runnin’ up a doctor’s bill,’ Mistress Norris commented. Her eyes rolled up to the high-beamed ceiling to indicate to whom she referred.

‘I’ll pay for it out of my own money.’

‘I’ll make him a poultice fer tonight, to tek away some of the pain. The Lord knows, I’ve had plenty of practice with that particular recipe,’ the cook added bitterly.

At last, Anna found the confidence to speak.

‘Miss Helen, why did your sister not tell Master George about the other gadgie in the woods? The one that laughed at us.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Master George could have taken his man and his gun and searched fer him.’

‘Yes, I suppose he could have done.’

‘The intruder will be long gone by now. Was it one of the faws, do you think? That laughter were creepy, weren’t it?’

‘I’ve heard that man before,’ Helen Carnaby said as she rose to leave. ‘He is stalking me like a poacher.’

Chapter Three

D
usk was falling as the stagecoach rumbled up the Great North Road towards Barnby Moor. Inside the cramped vehicle, which stank of damp body odour and burning oil wicks, the seven passengers drooped with weariness. The road was in good condition on this stretch. The drivers kept up a steady pace and veered less to avoid ruts. The regular motion and the constant rumble of the wheels lulled the tired passengers towards sleep. Even the constant drumming of the rain on the roof of the coach had a rhythmic quality to it. One by one, they closed their eyes and began to nod.

Only Stephen Lavender and the shabby man who had joined the coach back in Newark remained awake. Another passenger, Mr Nathanial Finch, a retired bookseller from Sheffield, sagged in Lavender’s direction. His weight pressed into the detective’s shoulder. Lavender shuffled uncomfortably beneath the pressure. At the far end of their row of seats, the elderly Mistress Finch let out an unladylike snore.

Lavender’s back ached with the long journey and the constant jolting of the carriage. He stretched his legs and tried to avoid kicking his dozing constable, who sat opposite him. He envied Woods’ ability to drop off to sleep in such an uncomfortable upright position; it was not a skill he had ever mastered. Beside Woods, the Newark man pulled out a battered pocket watch and checked the time again.

It would be at least another hour, Lavender realised, before they arrived at the relative comfort of The Bell Inn. He glanced out of the mud-splattered window into the foul weather outside but could see little beyond the condensation and the rivulets of rain that streamed down the pane. He tried to picture the vast expanse of barren fields and the snatches of woodland that he knew lined the road between here and Barnby Moor. It was an isolated area.

Still, sleep eluded him.

He let his eyes feast for a while on the raven-haired Spanish beauty who sat next to the fidgeting man from Newark. Magdalena Morales was also trying to rest and leant against her maid, who was fast asleep in the far corner by the window. Shortly after leaving London yesterday, the young girl had asked her mistress if she could sit next to the window. Doña Magdalena had smiled and changed places. At supper last night, in the tavern in Peterborough, the señora had resumed the haughtiness of her class and her race; she had been distant and evasive when questioned by the other curious travellers. But in this one small gesture of kindness towards her servant, Lavender felt that he had a glimpse of the real woman behind those beautiful violet-black eyes.

Despite her evasiveness, Lavender could tell from her frayed cloak, faded silk gown and elegant manner that she was probably another impoverished Spanish aristocrat who had fled her country after Napoleon’s brutal invasion. Although her charming, deep voice was heavily accented, she spoke English well and clearly understood several of the idioms used by the other passengers. This indicated that she had been in England some time. The only question that remained unanswered in his mind was the whereabouts of her husband. Here, or back in Spain?

He would not normally have cared, but an interesting magnetism had sprung up between them. Whenever he helped her down from the coach, her dark eyes smiled and her neck flushed slightly. She paused in her speech when their hands touched, as if savouring the strong grasp of a man. Last night at dinner, she had sought out his opinion on several occasions and had been noticeably less haughty with him than anyone else. Idly, he wondered how long it had been since the señora had lain with her man.

Her sensuous mouth dropped open slightly, revealing a glimpse of her moist pink tongue. Her bosom began to rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of sleep. He leant back against the cushions of the coach, half-closed his own eyes and allowed himself a few pleasurable thoughts about what he would do to Magdalena Morales if he ever had her naked in his bed.

He had nearly dozed off when the man from Newark reached out and gently eased the reticule from between the señora’s limp, gloved hands. Slowly and carefully, his expert fingers began to feel the shape of the coins in her bag before replacing it onto her lap. His actions took only a few seconds, but it was enough to tell Lavender exactly who and what he was; the man’s greed had given him away.

Lavender forced himself to remain rigid and still in his corner of the coach. He continued to watch the man through half-veiled eyes and tried to slow his own quickening breath. He scanned the contours of the man’s shabby greatcoat, looking for the outline of a pistol. There was an ominous bulge by his right hip. It all made sense now: the uneasy fidgeting, the constant checking of the time. Lavender’s brain raced. He desperately tried to remember if there was any place between here and Barnby Moor that was more heavily wooded, more secluded and more notorious for highway robbery than any others. He realised grimly that there were several.

The coach hit a rut and lurched violently. All the passengers jerked awake, groaned or sighed. The señora cursed quietly in Spanish.

Constable Woods woke up, startled and blinking. When Mr Finch engaged the Newark man in conversation, Lavender leant over and indicated to Woods that he wanted a private word with him. Beneath the murmurings of the other passengers, the rumble of the wheels and the persistent beating of the rain on the roof, he managed to discreetly whisper into Woods’ ear.

‘There’s a toby man on board—him on your left.’

Woods’ sleep-rimmed eyes blinked and stared back at him in confusion. A second later, his eyes glimmered with understanding, and he sank back into his seat and nodded.

Lavender rose to his feet, braced himself against the rolling vehicle and banged loudly on the wood panelling above Woods’ head that separated the passengers from the driver. The other occupants of the coach glanced up in alarm.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced loudly as he sat down again. ‘When Mr Woods and I introduced ourselves yesterday, we omitted to mention the fact that we’re officers with the Bow Street Magistrates Court. I’m Detective Stephen Lavender, and this is Constable Edward Woods.’

‘Good gracious!’ Mr Finch gasped. His elderly wife leant forward for a better look. Even with the dim and flickering light from the carriage’s oil lamps, Lavender saw the man from Newark turn pale. His right hand began to slide beneath his greatcoat.

‘I don’t think so, my friend,’ Woods said. He slammed the man back against the seat with one vicious punch and caught hold of the man’s arms, pinning him against the cushions. The would-be thief swore and began to struggle violently.

Doña Magdalena cursed as she was knocked across her maid. Mistress Finch shrieked.

Lavender pulled out his own pistol, aimed it at the man’s head and cocked it.

The passengers gasped at the sight of the weapon. Then a stunned silence descended over the coach.

‘Don’t make me use it.’

The struggling man froze and glared at Lavender.

‘What’ve I done? I’ve done nuffin!’

‘Oh yes you have, my friend. You’re a thief, a cove. While the señora was asleep, you had a good feel of her reticule trying to work out how much money she was carrying.’

‘
Cerdo asqueroso!
’ Doña Magdalena twisted around and slapped the man sharply across the face.

The would-be thief flinched but continued to glare silently at Lavender. His cheek glowed where she had struck him.

‘But I don’t understand, Detective,’ Mr Finch said. ‘If he was going to steal her money, why did he not just take it, there and then?’

‘I believe he is waiting for the arrival of his mounted friends, who are lying in wait for us farther along the road. It makes it quicker and easier for them if they’ve planted one of their own on a coach they’re about to rob.’

‘Highwaymen!’

‘
Dios mío!
’

Mistress Finch shrieked. ‘May the Lord have pity on our souls!’

‘That’s just bloody guesswork—nonsense,’ their captive sneered.

‘I’m not prepared to take the risk,’ Lavender replied coldly. ‘Woods, reach inside his greatcoat and remove his pistol—right-hand side.’

There was a collective sharp intake of breath as another weapon was revealed. Lavender took it, cocked it and aimed the second gun at the thief. Woods hammered again on the back wall of the coach, but the drivers failed to hear it—or heard it and failed to respond.

‘How many of you are there?’ Lavender demanded.

The thief stared sullenly ahead.

‘Where are they planning to hold up the coach?’

Still no answer.

‘We’ll get nothing from him,’ Woods said. ‘He still thinks his cronies will come to his rescue.’

‘We need to tie him up. Has anybody got anything we can use to bind him?’

The vehicle erupted with movement as the Finches and the señora scrambled around, reached up for their luggage and searched for bindings. Only Lavender, Woods and the man from Newark remained stationary. Woods resumed his vice-like grip on the body of the felon beside him. Lavender’s eyes never left his face.