The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) (24 page)

‘I have been fooling myself for too long,’ she said, ‘and dallying with your affections. I’m not a worthy wife for a man of your standing, Stephen. You would come to regret your love for me.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her long eyelashes were wet with tears.

Never
. His mind screamed but his throat contracted and his lips wouldn’t formulate the word. He reached out for her but she brushed his arms aside.

‘Can you find another cab, Stephen?’ she asked. ‘I think I would like to be alone with Teresa for a while.’

He swallowed hard and nodded; he also needed some time alone.

She opened the door but turned back to him before she left the room. ‘I have received an invitation to spend some time with the Menendez family,’ she said. ‘I can’t afford to turn down any offers of friendship. I think that I will take up their kind offer to stay for a few days.’

He remembered the arrogant, scowling Spaniard they had met at the theatre foyer and he frowned. Was Menendez a rival? Jealousy stabbed him in the gut and twisted the knife. Was there more to Magdalena’s rejection of his proposal than she had claimed?

‘Stephen . . .’ she was still there, unable to tear herself away. Part of him wanted to rush forward, scoop her up in his arms and never let her go. But his wounded pride rooted him to the spot. ‘It’s a beautiful house . . . I can’t . . . I can’t thank you enough for the kindness, consideration and generosity you have shown me. But I’m not worthy of your love.’ Then she was gone.

Numb, he staggered towards the window. He blinked as tears pricked the back of his eyes like needles. He hadn’t felt as miserable or as wretched as this since Vivienne died. He watched Magdalena and Teresa leave the house, cross the pavement below and board the carriage. His eyes followed the vehicle as it drove out of Westcastle Square.
Is she leaving my life for good
, he wondered. Would he ever see her again? His gut wrenched again at the thought. He couldn’t think properly. His mind went over and over the same few words:

Magdalena has turned down your proposal of marriage.

The words of a dead gypsy girl flooded back into his mind to haunt him: ‘
Who is the woman with the jet-black hair and the red-stoned ring? She’s crept under your skin like the Queen of Elphame, seeking comfort beneath a rock. She’s a shape-shifter and she’ll ensnare you . . .
’

Chapter Twenty-seven

It was late afternoon when Lavender entered the hallowed and secret corridors of the Admiralty on Whitehall. Brandon Sackville’s office was plusher than the dark, sparsely furnished police offices at Bow Street. A thick carpet covered the floor and the massive glass-fronted bookshelves which dominated two of the walls were ornately carved with Grecian pillars in the Corinthian style. Gilt-framed oil paintings of ships adorned the dark red walls.

Sackville rose from his chair behind the desk and stretched out a hand to Lavender. Lavender hastily removed his gloves and shook his hand. Papers were scattered across the desk and the captain’s hands were ink-stained. His face registered surprise at Lavender’s unexpected arrival but the welcome was warm and genuine. Sackville had taken off his jacket and a large tattoo of a green anchor peeped out from the bottom of his rolled up shirtsleeves.

Sackville followed Lavender’s gaze. ‘I have a mermaid on the other arm,’ he confessed. ‘The result of a foolish moment of madness in Bermuda.’

‘Please excuse the interruption, Captain Sackville.’ Lavender sat down. ‘But a pressing matter has cropped up in regard to the case and I needed to discuss it with you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Sackville said. ‘How can I be of assistance?’

Lavender cleared his throat. ‘How is your investigation going into the suspects on the list provided by Jane Scott?’

Sackville scowled at his paperwork. ‘Not very well,’ he said. ‘We’re only partway through the list of names but there is no obvious link between the navy and anyone we have investigated so far.’

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Lavender said. ‘My instincts tell me that we need to further investigate Sir Lawrence Forsyth. An interesting new fact has come to light,’ he said. ‘I would like to see Forsyth’s service record.’

A look of concern replaced the smile on Sackville’s face. ‘That would be irregular,’ he said, ‘and Magistrate Read was most insistent that you shouldn’t pursue that line of inquiry.’

‘Magistrate Read is frightened that I will disturb a hornet’s nest and damage the prince’s reputation in some way,’ Lavender replied, sharply. ‘He needs to have more confidence in my integrity and discretion. This informant needs to be exposed and stopped; British lives depend on it.’

Sackville regarded him curiously from beneath lowered eyelids. ‘Steady there, Lavender,’ he said. ‘I agree with you mostly but I have to admit you seem a bit heated about poor old Forsyth and obsessed with the man. Has he slighted you in some way?’

He ignored Sackville’s question. ‘It turns out that Forsyth can speak Spanish. Yet his behaviour suggests that the man harbours a nasty prejudice against the Spanish themselves.’

Sackville smiled. ‘Ah, so he has slighted someone you know? Perhaps your friend, the Spanish widow Read mentioned?’

Lavender’s throat constricted again at the mention of Magdalena. ‘Is it in his records that he can speak Spanish?’ He heard the irritation in his own voice.

‘Many British military officers speak several European – and Indian – languages. Their service for the crown takes them all over the world,’ Sackville said. He eyed Lavender with interest now. ‘And how do you know that Forsyth can speak Spanish?’

‘Let’s just say, he gave himself away,’ Lavender said. ‘I want to know if the Admiralty are aware of this linguistic ability, and if his fluency in Spanish is in his navy records. Please indulge me,’ Lavender said. The two men stared at each other for a moment.

Sackville’s eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘Are you all right, Lavender?’ he asked. ‘You seem strained and to be honest, you look absolutely wretched.’

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘I’ve just had a miserable day which started with a funeral.’

Sackville nodded and reached across the piles of maritime charts littering his desk. ‘To be honest, I had already retrieved these files to look at later,’ he said. He pulled out three files from the bottom of a pile and dragged them towards him.

‘Are those Forsyth’s records?’ Lavender asked as Sackville flicked through them.

‘One of them is, yes; the other two are ships’ records. Can’t let you have access, I’m afraid, Lavender – but I’ll check them out for you.’

Lavender hid a satisfied smile. There was only one explanation about why Forsyth’s naval record already lay on the desk of Captain Sackville. His comments yesterday must have ignited the naval officer’s curiosity; Sackville had quietly begun to do his own research. The captain never raised his eyes and no expression of emotion flickered across his face as he skimmed through the pages of Forsyth’s naval career.

To while away the time, Lavender walked over to the window bay to admire the beautiful globe of the Earth mounted on a carved wooden frame. The detail of the terrain drawn onto those delicate paper strips beneath the varnish was intricate. He turned the globe gently, enjoying the smooth, balanced motion. His eyes rested on northern Spain. Oviedo: Magdalena’s hometown. He suddenly felt hot and became conscious of the loud ticking of the clock on the fireplace. Abruptly, he turned and went back to Sackville.

‘Well, there is nothing which says Forsyth speaks Spanish,’ the captain said as Lavender retook his seat. ‘I don’t know whether to be surprised or not. You’re right; it should be written in here. It’s important that the Admiralty keeps an accurate record of the skills of its officer but sometimes the administration and recording is poor in this department.’

Lavender sat back down. ‘Tell me about him,’ he said.

‘Well, there’s not much to tell – and certainly nothing of note.’

‘Indulge me,’ he said again.

Sackville sighed and re-opened the file. ‘Well, he does seem to be a bit of a Jonah,’ the captain said at length.

‘A what?’

‘A Jonah – misfortune has definitely dogged the steps of this man.’

‘How so?’

‘He was orphaned in 1784 when his entire family was wiped out in a house fire in Bexleyheath. He was brought up by a distant uncle who didn’t seem to warm to the boy and got rid of him quickly. He deposited Forsyth with the navy at Portsmouth in 1788 at the age of fourteen. Forsyth spent a long time as a midshipman on board HMS
Royal George
under Admiral Bridport, now retired.’

‘How was his conduct?’

‘There’s a couple of indictments for drunkenness and brawling,’ Sackville said. ‘Nothing you wouldn’t expect from a young man in the British Navy – and in 1793 he was briefly imprisoned in gaol in Gibraltar after a particularly nasty fight at the harbour.’

Lavender frowned. It was hard to imagine Sir Lawrence Forsyth brawling with other naval officers or sailors. The man just didn’t seem to have it in him.

‘Anyway, by 1796 he was Lieutenant aboard the ill-fated HMS
Berwick
.’

‘What happened to the
Berwick
?’

‘Wait a moment,’ Sackville said. He pulled out one of the other files and turned quickly to the relevant pages. ‘HMS
Berwick
had joined the Mediterranean Fleet under Captain Smith. There was a lot of movement amongst the officers for some reason and Smith was the fifth captain in charge of the
Berwick
in one year. Anyway, while they were in San Fiorenzo Bay, Corsica, there was a disaster. The ships’ lower masts, stripped of rigging, were lost. Nobody could understand what happened and a court martial dismissed Smith, the first lieutenant, and the master for gross incompetence. Another captain, Adam Littlejohn, was brought in and under a jury-rig he set sail to join the British fleet at Leghorn.’

‘What’s a jury-rig?’

‘It’s a makeshift mast,’ Sackville explained. ‘Not very effective or desirable but the
Berwick
had orders to join the fleet. Anyway, the ship soon ran into trouble; it met the French fleet instead of the British. By noon, her rigging was cut to pieces and every sail was in ribbons. During the battle four sailors were wounded and a Captain Littlejohn was killed. This now left our friend Forsyth as the most senior officer on board the ship.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Forsyth decided that
Berwick
was unable to escape in her disabled state and that further resistance was useless; he then ordered that
Berwick
strike her colours.’

‘So he surrendered?’
Why didn’t that surprise me?

Sackville raised a hand in resignation. ‘I don’t think he had much choice. Anyway, the remaining crew and officers were taken prisoner and the
Berwick
was requisitioned into the French fleet. We recaptured her at the Battle of Trafalgar but she was badly damaged and sank the following day.’

‘And Forsyth and the rest of his crew?’

‘Forsyth was held prisoner by the French for seven years. He was finally freed in a prisoner exchange of officers in 1802.’

‘Seven years? Good God. That’s a long time to be a prisoner of war.’

Sackville grimaced. ‘Some of our sailors have experienced longer,’ he said. ‘And we’ve had some French prisoners in the hulks down at Portsmouth for fourteen years.’

Lavender was genuinely shocked. ‘What about the rest of Forsyth’s crew?’

‘They’re still in the hands of the French as far as I know, waiting out the war. We don’t usually exchange common sailors.’

‘And Forsyth’s wife?’ Lavender asked. ‘Did she welcome him back with open arms after an absence of over seven years?’

‘He wasn’t married at this point of his departure. I understand that his marriage to Lady Forsyth is a recent event. He has worked on shore for the Admiralty ever since his return and has been aide to the Duke of Clarence for the past five years. The prince thinks highly of him and arranged his knighthood two years ago.’

Lavender was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Seven years as a prisoner in a French gaol is a long time,’ he said. ‘It can harden a man, make him bitter.’

‘Yes,’ Sackville replied. ‘And it is also an ideal opportunity to learn half a dozen foreign languages in order to while away the time.’ Sackville closed Forsyth’s file with a gentle but resolute thud. ‘I can understand your concern, Lavender. We all want to know who is passing on information to the French. But at the moment you have to accept that we have nothing to incriminate Sir Lawrence Forsyth. I suggest that we wait and see what happens at the theatre when April Clare returns tomorrow.’

Lavender realised that Sackville had brought the meeting to an end. ‘I take your point, Captain Sackville,’ he said. ‘But I would beg one more favour from you if possible.’

Irritation now flashed across the captain’s face. ‘What do you want, Lavender?’

‘I have a few hours tomorrow before I need to join Constable Woods at the Sans Pareil and I would like the name and address of somebody – anybody – who sailed with Forsyth on either the
Royal George
or the ill-fated
Berwick
.’

Sackville frowned. ‘As I said, most of the crew of the
Berwick
are still in the hands of the French – and most of the officers he sailed with are either dead or were dismissed.’

‘There must be somebody in England who sailed with this man whom I can talk to,’ Lavender’s voice rose with frustration. It had been an exhausting day.

Sackville sighed, reached for his quill and scrawled out a name and address on a piece of paper. He didn’t bother to sand it. He merely picked it up, gave it a quick wave to dry off the ink. ‘I can see that you’re not going to let this matter rest, Detective,’ he said. ‘There, that’s the address of George Chandler in Sidcup. He was also a lieutenant aboard the
Berwick
but he had been left behind in the hospital in Corsica when the ship was captured by the French.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’d had an accident and the surgeons had amputated his lower left leg. He returned home to England later on a merchant vessel and has been living in Sidcup ever since.’

Lavender opened his mouth to ask more questions but Sackville held up his hand and pointed to the magnificent oil painting of a warship in full sail that took pride of place above his mantelpiece.

‘Chandler is a talented artist. The man has created a new career for himself since he was pensioned out of the navy. He paints pictures for the Admiralty and other clients. That’s one of his masterpieces over there above the fireplace. By all means, pay him a visit – but I have a strong suspicion, Lavender, that your investigation of Forsyth will reveal nothing. I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon on the off chance that you uncover something.’