The Heiress of Linn Hagh (7 page)

He turned and thundered up the stone steps, two at a time. Terrified, Anna sank back against the stone wall. Her legs had gone weak.

Master George hammered on the door to Miss Helen’s chamber.

‘Get yourself out here, now!’ he roared. His voice echoed down the stairwell. There was silence. He renewed his banging on the door. ‘Don’t you defy me, you bloody minx!’

‘What’s amiss?’

Roused from their lethargy by the shouting, the two guests now joined Miss Isobel at the entrance to the Great Hall. Silently, Anna slid down a few steps to make room for them on the landing. She was dismayed to see the brandy glasses clutched in their hairy hands; the day’s drinking had already started.

Miss Isobel began to explain, but they were interrupted by Master George clattering back down the staircase.

‘You!’ he yelled at Anna. ‘Fetch Peter up here with the axe. ‘Isobel, get me the whip. I’ll thrash the insolent bitch to within an inch of her life!’

Horrified, Anna fled back downstairs to the kitchen. Peter, the manservant, was already on his feet in the kitchen. Master George’s shouting had raised the whole house.

Her voice breaking with sobs of fear, Anna relayed the message. Peter turned pale as he went to fetch the axe; his expression was grim.

Upstairs, Miss Isobel was explaining to the guests what had happened. Anna could hear her excited voice as she dramatised the whole event.

‘Good fer you, George,’ one of the guests slurred. His voice was heavy with cruelty. ‘No damned doxy should be able to defy a man in his own house.’

‘It’s a while since I’ve seen a good whipping,’ the other commented. ‘Mind you, don’t mark her pretty flesh too much, George—steer clear of the face.’

Anna put her hands over her ears to try to block out the sound of the lascivious laughter that followed. Mistress Norris came over and put her arms around the terrified girl.

‘Come away,’ she said, her own voice breaking with emotion. ‘There’s nothin’ you can do to stop it—ye’ll only get a good thrashing yerself if you try to interfere.’

But Anna couldn’t tear herself away. Peter returned with the axe and trudged heavily up the stairs. Anna pulled herself away from the arms of the cook and followed. The Carnabys and their guests crowded onto the top landing. They shouted angrily for Miss Helen to come out and hammered on the door.

As the terrified maid neared the top of the building, she heard the sound of the axe being swung into the heavy oak door again and again. Her legs nearly gave way beneath her when it stopped. She heard Master George reach inside, lift up the iron bar and hurl it clanging onto the stone flags of the bedchamber. The door was forced open. She waited for the sound of Miss Helen’s screams.

None came.

Dimly, she heard Master George swear in surprise. Then silence. The wardrobe doors were forced open, then slammed shut.

One of the guests burst into laughter.

‘The damned bitch has done a runner!’

The next second, Master George and Peter raced down the stairs. Anna flattened herself against the wall as they tore past.

‘Search outside!’ Carnaby yelled. ‘Search all the outbuildings—the chit can’t have gone far in this weather.’

Miss Isobel appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘George!’ she called out.

He stopped abruptly and stared back.

‘The room was barred—barred from the
inside
.’

Her brother paused but failed to understand. Fuddled with drink and anger, he leapt down the stairs two at a time and disappeared into the kitchen below. Miss Isobel and the guests followed him downstairs. Her starched skirts swished past Anna, cutting the air like glass.

Left alone at the top of the hall, Anna moved nervously towards Miss Helen’s room. She sidestepped the shattered wood and splinters in the open doorway and entered the bedchamber.

The coal embers still glowed in the hearth, and the tray of food lay on the dressing table, untouched. The room was empty. Miss Helen had gone.

Chapter Six

Friday, 19th November 1809

T
he coach finally arrived in Bellingham just after nine o’clock. The town tavern, The Rose and Crown, was an ancient Elizabethan coaching inn with exposed stone walls and a rabbit warren of smoky taprooms on the ground floor. A flight of narrow wooden stairs led up to Lavender and Woods’ room, and both men had to stoop beneath the low-beamed ceiling of their bedchamber. The room stank of damp, but close inspection of the sagging mattresses revealed that they were dry and free from fleas and bugs. As the porter dumped their trunks on the uneven wooden floor, Lavender breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the limitations of their new accommodations, at least they wouldn’t have to climb onto a bone-rattling stagecoach again for a few weeks, and he would be able to give his aching limbs a chance to recover.

They went down to dine in the main room of the tavern, where a motley collection of local farmers eyed the two Londoners suspiciously. Lavender and Woods ignored them and concentrated on the food, which they were relieved to discover was both plentiful and passable. Woods was soon ordering a second helping. Lavender read a copy of
The Newcastle Courant
while he waited for his own food to digest.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he had sent a message with a potboy over to the residence of Mr Armstrong, their new client, announcing their arrival.

‘I don’t suppose he will want to see us tonight,’ he told Woods. ‘I get the impression he is quite elderly.’

He was right. A message came back from a Miss Katherine Armstrong that her father had already retired for the night, but Mr Armstrong would be pleased to receive them at his home on the High Street at nine o’clock sharp the next day.

‘That’s settled then.’ Woods said, clearly relieved. He beckoned a serving girl over to their table and helped himself to a third helping of the mutton stew. ‘At least we’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the mornin’ .’

‘Yes,’ Lavender replied, more sharply than he had intended. ‘And in the meantime poor Helen Carnaby faces another night of God knows what while we sleep comfortably in our beds.’

Woods paused guiltily with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

‘D’ya reckon there’s somethin’ we can do tonight?’

Lavender smiled grimly and shook his head. The dreary travelling, the incident with the highwaymen and his unresolved encounter with Magdalena had affected his mood. None of this was the fault of his cheerful constable.

‘Other than setting off into the freezing, pitch-black night, and searching this unfamiliar and treacherous countryside for a body? No, my friend. There is nothing we can do at the moment. See here.’

He laid
The Newcastle Courant
on the table in front of Woods.

‘This is last Saturday’s paper.’

Woods examined it closely. The first entry in the Hue & Cry section was an offer of a reward for the safe return of Helen Carnaby.

One Hundred Pounds Reward

Whereas Miss Helen Carnaby, the sister of Mr George Carnaby of Linn Hagh, Bellingham, in the County of Northumberland, was, during the night of Thursday, the 21st day of October, removed from her home at Linn Hagh, Bellingham, by persons unknown. Whoever therefore will, after this notice, provide information to safely reunite Miss Carnaby with her grieving family, and apprehend the offender or offenders, so as he, she, or they may be brought to conviction, shall be paid a Reward of ONE HUNDRED POUNDS upon his, her or their conviction, by applying to Mr George Carnaby, Linn Hagh, Bellingham.’

‘Good grief,’ Woods said. ‘The poor gal has been missin’ for nearly a month.’

‘Yes,’ Lavender said. ‘We should have been summoned to this crime weeks ago—before the trail went cold.’

‘D’ya think she was kidnapped and taken for ransom? You said she’s wealthy.’

‘If the girl has been kidnapped and there is no ransom note, then her chances of survival are indeed very slim. The perpetrators of the crime will have disposed of her by now.’

Woods grimaced.

‘However, if no corpse has been found,’ Lavender continued, ‘then there is still hope that we are not looking at a murder. One thing is for sure, though: if a young woman who has not reached her majority disappears with a man—whether voluntarily or involuntarily—then he could face a series of charges brought by her family. At the conclusion of this case, it’s highly likely that someone will be transported.’

He sat back and realised that the smoky warmth of the inn, the good food and the prospect of a challenging new case had started to lift his spirits. This was what he needed to get Magdalena out of his mind: hard work.

When they entered Mr Armstrong’s substantial house on Bellingham High Street the next day, they were shown into a front parlour cluttered with brightly upholstered and mismatched furniture, ornaments and children’s toys. Despite the clutter, the house was comfortable and the furnishings in excellent condition.
A good indication of the financial stability of this family
, Lavender thought.

‘Hello, young fellah,’ Woods said as a small boy suddenly popped up from behind the sewing boxes, books and cushions piled on a sofa.

The child, probably no more than three, stuck out his tongue, dashed out from his hiding place, veered past the clothing and blankets that littered the wooden floor, and clattered past them into the hallway. Another crowd of noisy young lads raced down the stairs, whooping at the tops of their voices. They quickly disappeared into the back of the house. Two young girls leant over the banister above the stairs and giggled at them as the maid took them across the hallway into Armstrong’s study.

‘Do shut the door firmly on your way out, Parker.’ Armstrong’s tone was plaintive as he instructed the maid. The old, white-haired man seated in front of the fire sighed deeply when the door finally clicked shut. Lavender could understand why. The young lads had returned to the hallway with reinforcements and wooden swords. They appeared to be enacting one of General Wellesley’s victories.

‘Damn those French dogs!’

‘To Vimeiro!’ they screamed in unison.

Peace eventually descended on the room, and Lavender could hear the steady tick of the French clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Thank goodness for that.’ The elderly man was wrapped in plaid blankets. He held out a gnarled, arthritic hand towards Lavender. ‘Their father is with Colonel Taylor in the Twentieth Regiment of Light Dragoons. A re-enactment of the Battle of Vimeiro is a daily occurrence in this house.’

‘It was a splendid victory,’ Lavender said, smiling. ‘No wonder your grandsons are proud of their father.’ He shook Armstrong’s hand and introduced him to Woods. Next, he handed over a sheaf of papers from Magistrate Read in Bow Street.

Armstrong’s hands shook slightly as he held up his monocle to read the invoice in his lap. Lavender knew that their client had run a successful legal practice for many years. Despite his obvious frailty, the old man’s eyes were sharp as they scanned the invoice. ‘Everything seems to be in order.’ Armstrong’s voice had lost its whine and become steady and authoritative. ‘I’m glad you’re finally here.’

‘I’m sorry for the delay, sir,’ Lavender said. ‘I was detained on important Home Department business in Nottinghamshire.’

‘Never mind—at least you’ve made it here. Let’s just hope you can bring this case to a speedy resolution—and a happy one. Please take a seat.’

Lavender sat down in the armchair opposite Mr Armstrong. Woods pulled up another chair and sat behind him.

‘Perhaps you would like to tell us how far the local constables have progressed with investigating Miss Carnaby’s disappearance?’

‘They haven’t.’ Armstrong’s tone was sharp. ‘The local constables have not discovered anything. No one knows what happened to my niece, or where she is.’

‘Surely someone must have seen or heard something unusual on the night of her disappearance—or in the following days?’

‘Not that we’ve discovered. My family and I are all very distressed and bewildered by these events, as are the constables who have already investigated the case.’

‘Can we start from the beginning, sir? What exactly happened at Linn Hagh on the night of the twenty-first of October?’

The elderly man sighed as if he was weary of retelling the story.

‘I’m sure George and Isobel Carnaby will be able to tell you the details better than I, when you visit Linn Hagh. However, I understand there was a dinner party; a couple of guests stayed for the evening. Helen had excused herself and retired to her room. The servants heard her bar the door just after nine. The next morning, when Helen didn’t appear, her brother, fearing his sister may have taken ill, broke down the chamber door. The room was completely empty.’

‘Was the window closed?’

‘Her bedchamber is at the top of the tower. When you see Linn Hagh, you’ll understand why no one would consider escaping from the window. Her bed was still made as if she had not slept in it, and a tray of food from the night before lay untouched on the table.’

‘Uh-oh.’ The noise that escaped from Woods’ gaping mouth was involuntary, but audible enough to be heard by the sharp ears of the old man.

‘Yes, exactly, a very strange state of affairs. I trust you’re not a superstitious man, Constable? I’ll be very disappointed if you report to me in a few days’ time that my great-niece has been spirited away by the fairies.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Woods reassured him. ‘There’s bound to be a simple explanation.’

‘We shall make it one of our first priorities to establish how Miss Carnaby managed to leave her room with the door barred,’ Lavender said quickly. ‘It will be a significant step in establishing whether she left the room voluntarily—or was forced.’

‘Good. None of the addled-brained constables around here have managed to explain this mystery. Unfortunately, because of the unusual nature of Helen’s disappearance, there has been a resurgence of old superstitions and folktales in the town. It’s a small, tight-knit community, Detective, with a high rate of illiteracy and a lax approach to church attendance. The situation is not helped by the unpopular presence of a band of faws in the neighbourhood.’