The Heiress of Linn Hagh (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  ‘Worthy of Agatha Christie’

  ‘Forget the wham, bam, slash you ma’am of modern-day crime thrillers and return to a more sedate era in ‘The Heiress of Linn Hagh’, an engaging novel set in a time when ladies wore bonnets, highwaymen terrorised coach travellers and the Bow Street Runners were still, well, running.

  Detective Lavender has no time for superstitious nonsense and is soon demonstrating a Sherlock Holmes-like determination in his pursuit of the truth. He’s a well-conceived character, and in Constable Woods the author has created a perfect foil. Where Lavender broods and thinks, Woods is a man who would rather deal in practicalities. In short, they’re a double act made in crime fiction heaven.

  The plot has more than a touch of the old fashioned whodunit about it, and, in particular, the scene where Lavender reveals to an incredulous audience how the heiress got out of the locked room is worthy of Agatha Christie.

  There’s plenty of historical detail to give the story an authentic feel, and the wide-ranging cast of characters are well drawn and highly believable. Charlton is a skilled writer . . . It takes a lightness of touch to keep the reader intrigued without making them feel bombarded with historical context, and the author achieves this with aplomb.’

  —Sandra Mangan, www.crimefictionlover.com

  ‘Fabulous, rollicking tale of intrigue and family secrets’

  ‘Karen Charlton’s latest offering is a fabulous, rollicking tale of intrigue and family secrets. From the first page we are thrown headlong into Regency England with the introduction of Detective Lavender and his loyal sidekick Woods, amid the raucous and humorous arrest of a lady of dubious repute. The author’s unique ability to envelop the reader in the scene, to invoke the sights, sounds and smells of the Regency underbelly ensure an experience second to none. Wonderful language evokes the period and adds humour to characters that fairly leap from the page with their energy and eccentricities. Lavender’s wry, intelligent approach to adversity is a perfect foil for the scheming and skulduggery he subsequently unearths.

  Considerable, historical research blends seamlessly into this fascinating Northumbrian tale. The author plots the story expertly, with twists that will keep readers intrigued until the last page. Add to that a very mysterious and sensual senora, and you have a recipe for a fabulous historical mystery that you won’t want to end.

  I, for one, am looking forward with great relish, to the next Lavender and Woods case.’

  —B. A. Morton, author of Wildewood, Mrs. Jones, Molly Brown, Bedlam and Twisted.

  ALSO BY KAREN CHARLTON

  Seeking Our Eagle

  Catching the Eagle

  The Mystery of the Skelton Diamonds

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Karen Charlton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477830086

  ISBN-10: 1477830081

  Cover design by Lisa Horton

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014958626

  For my mother,

  Carol James,

  who introduced me to the delights of historical fiction.

  The bookcase in our family dining room overflowed with Georgette Heyer, Victoria Holt, Jean Plaidy, Catherine Cookson and some rather saucy novels featuring a lively wench called Marianna who had a thing for pirates.

  This is where the story really began.

  Thanks, Mum.

  XXX

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Bibliography

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  London, October 1809

  The two-wheeled hackney carriage sped down Mile End Road towards Whitechapel, weaving in and out of more sedate vehicles, farm carts and barrow boys. It churned up the stinking waste and sprayed the startled pedestrians.

  Beneath the hackney’s black hood, a dark-suited man gripped his walking cane and braced himself as the carriage lurched violently from side to side. His sharp eyes scanned the crowds, seeking out familiar faces.

  A never-ending tide of soot-blackened shops, brothels, dilapidated taverns and coffee houses flowed past the carriage as it raced through the crowded streets. The man caught glimpses of shadowy figures lurking in the gloom of dank alleys between the buildings. The cries of the street vendors mingled with those of the drunks, rearing horses and the constant rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves over the cobbles. For the man in the hackney carriage, it was noisy, drunken and out of control.

  It’s good to be back, Detective Lavender decided.

  When they slowed for the Whitechapel tollgate, he caught a familiar flash of scarlet. He rapped on the hood above him with his cane.

  ‘Driver, stop here.’

  In the centre of a ragged crowd of onlookers were two members of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. Instantly recognisable in their blue greatcoats and scarlet waistcoats, they had dismounted from their horses. One of them was Constable Woods. The officers circled a curvaceous and extremely drunk young woman, who appeared to be on the point of passing out. Lavender climbed down from the hackney and watched the developing scene from the edge of the crowd.

  Suddenly, the woman’s legs buckled beneath her, and she lurched towards the older, stockily built man. Constable Woods caught hold of her beneath her stained armpits and broke her fall. Now on her knees, she flopped forwards and vomited down his breeches.

  ‘Gawd’s teeth!’ he exclaimed. ‘The doxy’s gone and spewed down the leg of me damned boot.’

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  Woods frowned, lowered the limp woman onto the gro
und and whisked out his handkerchief to wipe his uniform. He glanced up sharply at his companion, who hovered nervously above the prostrate female.

  ‘Get on with it, Officer Brown—search her—you know what you’re looking for.’

  The younger man dropped down onto one knee and tugged at the drawstring of the faded reticule, which was half-trapped beneath her body. She let out a great snore before obligingly rolling away into the pool of her own vomit. Her skirts were halfway up her legs, revealing the gaping holes in her stockings and the flapping sole of her boot. Officer Brown retrieved the tatty cloth bag, yanked it open and held up six shillings, a few pennies and a half crown piece.

  ‘It’s not here, Constable Woods,’ he said. ‘I think the strumpet has already drunk it away.’

  ‘’Tis not very likely in a mere two days,’ Woods barked. ‘I said search her—not fool around with her purse, you saphead.’

  The crowd laughed again, and some wag made a wisecrack about how the red, beaded bag matched the young officer’s pimply complexion.

  It was at this point that the man from the hackney carriage stepped forward and joined his colleagues.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help, Constable Woods?’ he asked. The bemused spectators regarded him curiously. One or two of them started with alarm and scurried away, but few in the mob recognised him these days.

  Woods beamed in delight.

  ‘Detective Lavender!’ He shook his hand vigorously. ‘Well met, sir! It’s been too long.’

  ‘I agree. So, what do we have here?’

  ‘We have been searching for this thieving trollop since yesterday.’ Woods sighed. ‘It’s claimed she stole money from a rich merchant a few nights ago—while he slept in a bed in a bawdy house . . .’

  ‘I think I know where the money is, sir!’ the young officer interrupted, from his position on the ground. ‘I heard the paper rustle when she moved.’

  ‘Where, lad? Where?’

  Constable Brown pointed nervously to the woman’s ample breasts. ‘I believe it’s down there—between her habit shirt and the bosom of her gown.’

  ‘Well, get it!’

  The young man blushed. His hand trembled above the two wobbling mounds of female flesh and the gaping cleavage.

  ‘Go on, son!’ someone jeered in the crowd. ‘Give her a good fumble!’

  There were howls of laughter.

  ‘Oh, for Gawd’s sake!’ Woods snapped. He stepped forward, stooped low and thrust his hand down the bodice of the unconscious girl. He had a good rummage around.

  The crowd loved it.

  ‘Whayy!’

  ‘Try the other end!’

  ‘Don’t forget her placket!’

  ‘I’m glad to see that you’ve not lost your touch with the ladies.’ Lavender grinned.

  Undeterred by the irony of his colleague or the raucous leering of the mob, Woods’ ruddy face was a picture of studied concentration. When he finally pulled back his hand from the woman’s stained underclothes, he held up a crisp one hundred pound banknote. The crowd around Lavender emitted a sharp collective intake of breath, and the laughter subsided.

  ‘That lush will get more than a whippin’ fer being drunk and disorderly,’ Lavender heard someone whisper.

  ‘Is the rest not there?’ Disappointment flashed across Officer Brown’s face.

  ‘No. The trollop must have given it over to someone else fer safe keepin’ .’ Woods straightened up. ‘Never mind—if the numbers match those retrieved from the bank, then this should be enough to convict her. Let’s get her back to Bow Street.’

  The problem of how to transport the inebriated thief now made the constables pause. Lavender knew that normally they would have clapped her in irons and made her trot behind the horses.

  ‘If I sling her over the front of me horse, she’ll probably slide off and crack open her skull on the cobbles,’ Woods commented.

  ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance,’ Lavender volunteered. ‘I’ve a hackney carriage standing by, and I’m on my way to Bow Street myself. Place her in the foot well. Woods, tie up your horse at the back of the carriage, and travel with me—there’s a thing or two I want to discuss with you.’

  Woods nodded, lifted the woman and carried her towards the hackney.

  ‘Cor! She don’t half reek,’ he complained, his broad nose wrinkled in disgust.

  Woods had no difficulty with carrying the woman. He was as strong and as agile as a twenty-year-old. His large build and great strength were fed by a legendary appetite. Woods did have a bit of trouble manoeuvring the woman’s dead weight to fit her into the tight space on the floor of the carriage, but he succeeded in the end.

  The trollop didn’t get any more attractive on closer acquaintance, Lavender decided. Her hair was dishevelled and matted at the back like a bird’s nest.

  Woods clambered into the vehicle beside the detective, and the hackney swayed alarmingly with the extra weight. Lavender was squashed on the shallow seat, but despite this he was glad of Woods’ company. He enjoyed working with him and made a point of singling Woods out when a case needed an extra pair of hands. Woods was honest, humorous and had the common touch, a quality Lavender lacked. Besides which, Lavender was not thrown about so much in the swaying hackney now that he was wedged between Woods and the side of the hood.

  ‘She’s in for a shock when she wakes up in the cells at Bow Street,’ the constable commented.

  ‘What is the full story? Who is she?’

  Woods glanced down, and Lavender saw pity flash across his weathered features.

  ‘She’s Hannah Taylor, a known prostitute and petty thief. She’s been up to the beak before and went to a correctional institution. She must have thought she’d struck it lucky when she ran into this drunken merchant. He’d just returned to London and was flush with money and well in his cups. While he snored off the drink, Mistress Taylor, here, lightened his load to the tune of two hundred pounds. She took a one hundred pound note and two fifty pound notes from his pocket book and disappeared.’

  ‘It’s a shame that she doesn’t have the other two banknotes on her.’

  Woods nodded. ‘She’ll have to be questioned about their whereabouts. The merchant gave a good description of the woman who robbed him—I had an inkling the thief was her. He has also retrieved the numbers of the banknotes from Down, Thornton and Gill. Once we’re back at Bow Street, I should be able to match the number on the note with one of the numbers the merchant got from the bank. She’ll be headin’ fer Botany Bay this time—at the very least.’

  ‘That’s good work,’ Lavender said. ‘However, you might have to let the blushing Constable Brown drag her to the gaoler back at Bow Street. I need your assistance on another case or two.’

  Woods’ eyes lit up.

  ‘Heaven and hell! Where are we off to this time?’

  ‘Back to Newcastle for a start. Magistrate Clennell has been in touch with Bow Street. Apparently, there is some more evidence come to light regarding the Kirkley Hall burglary.’

  Woods’ face fell with disappointment, and Lavender understood why. That damned case had been the bane of their lives earlier in the year. Both of them had been convinced they had found the thief, but the suspect, James Charlton, had been as slippery as a jellied eel and had avoided being sent to trial at the August Assizes. It was one of the few unsolved cases in his career as a principal officer. Their only consolation was that they had retrieved most of the stolen money—from beneath a redcurrant bush in the grounds of the Hall.

  ‘And in addition to that,’ Lavender continued, ‘an heiress has mysteriously disappeared in neighbouring Bellingham.’

  ‘An heiress, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t it usually the case, when these pretty young gals disappear, they have eloped with some spongin’ rake?’

  ‘Y
es,’ Lavender confirmed. ‘However, I understand there are unusual circumstances surrounding this case—and I’ve been asked to travel to Northumberland to solve it.’

  ‘Requested by name?’

  Lavender nodded.

  ‘It would seem the girl’s concerned uncle is a close friend of Mr Clennell, the magistrate, and that the uncle is also familiar with the particulars of the Kirkley Hall robbery. Despite the fact that we failed to secure the conviction of James Charlton, we’re still famous in Northumberland for recovering most of the missing rent money.’

  Woods chuckled. ‘So this uncle thinks that because we found the rent money, we should be able to find his missin’ niece?’

  ‘Exactly. Are you willing to accompany me, Constable Woods?’

  Woods glanced out of the carriage and seemed to be pondering for a moment. Lavender knew that Betsy, his constable’s wife, would play merry hell at another lengthy absence. Their oldest two sons were a handful and difficult for Betsy to cope with on her own. Lavender knew the family well, and if the truth were to be told, he was a little scared himself of the quick temper and sharp tongue of the tiny Mistress Woods. Yet he suspected that she wouldn’t complain about the extra money her husband would earn in expenses.

  ‘What’re these mysterious circumstances surroundin’ the gal’s disappearance?’

  Lavender smiled and his face lit up like a mischievous schoolboy’s.

  ‘Oh, nothing I’m sure we can’t handle, Ned. Apparently, the girl vanished from a locked bedchamber.’

  Woods’ greying eyebrows rose sharply, and a wide grin broke across his broad face.

  ‘Is that all? Shouldn’t take us long to fathom this one out, should it? We’ll be back in Bow Street within a fortnight . . .’

  Chapter Two

  Four weeks earlier . . .

  Do try harder to keep up, girl.’

  Seventeen-year-old Anna Jones scowled and shivered beneath her thin cloak. It was her half-day off and she had not expected to be accompanied by her nagging mistress on her return to Linn Hagh. Miss Isobel had also insisted they leave the road and take the shortcut back to the house, through the woods. Anna hated this route, and Miss Isobel’s presence made an unpleasant journey even worse.