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

  Master George had invited some of his cronies round to dine and stay for the evening—an event that always flustered the cook. Anna knew from experience that the port would flow like a river, the house would become a choking fog of tobacco smoke, and their drunken carousing and gambling would continue into the early hours of the morning.

  Miss Helen had already announced her intention to keep to her room that night—she claimed she felt unwell—and asked Mistress Norris to send up her evening meal on a tray. Miss Isobel, on the other hand, was thrown into a frenzy of excitement and had spent a long time in the kitchen fussing about crockery, table linen and the seasoning of the food. She had worked the agitated cook up into a foul temper with her interference.

  ‘She’s like a bitch in heat whenever Master George invites his friends to stay,’ the older woman complained after Miss Isobel had finally left the kitchen, to dress for dinner. ‘Not that it will do her any good—she’s got no money and nowt goin’ fer her in the way o’ looks or character. Who’d want to marry that sourpuss?’

  Another copper saucepan crashed down onto the kitchen table. Anna climbed off the window seat, which was hewn into the three-feet-thick walls of the tower, and hurried over to whip up the cream, anchovies and mace for the sauce. The master had ordered three courses for tonight, and they looked delicious. A large silver platter of oysters sat in the centre of the table, flanked by broiled chicken and guinea fowl. Syllabubs and a towering strawberry blancmange were already prepared for pudding.

  ‘I just wonder where they get the money fer all this,’ Anna observed. ‘One minute they’re tellin’ us they don’t have a farthin’ and to cut back on the housekeepin’; the next minute we’re eatin’ like lords.’

  Mistress Norris shrugged. ‘I reckon Master George has probably come lucky at the card tables at last.’

  She nodded her grey head in the direction of Miss Helen’s tray of food. Her dinner was already spooned out onto the china plates and set out along with a napkin, silver cutlery and a cruet set.

  ‘I coulda done without her fussin’ like this tonight, but I don’t blame the lass fer keepin’ out the way. Tek it up to her, Anna—while the food’s still hot.’

  Anna smoothed her apron and carefully picked up the silver tray. She had to climb up two flights of narrow stone steps to Miss Helen’s room. The staircase ran up the side of the pele tower between two thick stone walls, one of them the outer wall of the building. A few lanterns hung from metal hooks, and their candles flickered petulantly in the draught. Halfway up was a small landing and the entrance to the Great Hall. Anna paused quietly to readjust the balance of the tray.

  The wooden door to the Great Hall hung partially open. Here the passageway was cold, but she could feel the heat emanating from the log fires in the hall. The sound of slurred male voices and the chink of brandy glasses also drifted out onto the landing. She shivered and slid past the doorway unobserved.

  Miss Helen’s room was on the top floor of the tower, opposite the bedchamber where Anna slept with Mistress Norris. It was colder, smaller and more spartan than the three family bedrooms that led off the Great Hall on the floor below, but Miss Helen had made it pretty with knick-knacks, lacy mats and paintings. She never complained about sleeping upstairs with the servants.

  Miss Helen smiled when she took in the food, but Anna thought she looked paler than usual in the glimmering candlelight.

  ‘Put the tray down there and leave it,’ Miss Helen said. ‘I’ll eat it in a while.’

  ‘You’ll have t’ keep yer strength up, Miss. It looks like we’re in fer a harsh winter this year.’

  ‘Yes, the snow has taken us all by surprise. I can’t remember it coming this early before.’

  Anna smiled. ‘You’ve lived down south too long, Miss, if you don’t mind me sayin’. We’ve often had snow up here at the back end of October.’

  ‘Whitby is hardly “down south”, Anna.’

  ‘Well it’s a lot farther south than I’m ever likely to go.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Miss Helen smiled. ‘When I’m a rich lady next year and you’re my lady’s maid—who knows how far we shall travel?’

  Anna beamed. This was the dream that kept her going and helped her get up at six every morning in this miserable house, with a smile on her face. This was the dream she shared with Miss Helen. How many times had they sat here in this very room and planned their departure from Linn Hagh? For the last few months, Miss Helen had been secretly instructing her in the finer arts of hair curling, cosmetic powders and taking care of the beautiful clothes that hung unused in her wardrobe.

  She glanced longingly at the closed doors of the cupboard and imagined the soft peacock-blue velvet and shimmering coral silks that lay inside. Miss Helen had not touched these dresses since her mother had died and she’d gone into mourning, but Anna had been allowed to take them out, smooth out the creases and brush off the dust. Miss Helen had also been happy to let Anna continue to practise styling her soft, silky blonde hair.

  ‘Will you bring me another scuttle of coal before you start to serve dinner to my brother and his guests?’

  Anna broke away from her reverie and glanced down at the blazing fire in the hearth. It was already quite warm in the room.

  ‘I feel very cold tonight,’ Miss Helen informed her. ‘It must be the snow.’

  Suddenly, Anna felt uneasy. Her dreams of escape vanished like the flame of a snuffed candle, and she snapped back to the reality of her unpleasant role, caught in the middle between the two feuding sisters.

  ‘Miss Isobel is quite determined that you’re only to be allowed one scuttle of coal a day.’

  ‘Just for once, Anna—I’m not feeling too well. Don’t tell her, please?’

  ‘Alright—but eat your food. It’ll mek you feel warmer.’ Miss Helen skipped far too many meals, in Anna’s opinion. Yes, she knew that ladies of fashion liked to look after their figures, but the growing number of untouched meals she had retrieved from Miss Helen’s room recently had begun to alarm her. No wonder her favourite mistress looked thin, strained and pale.

  ‘I can always rely on you, can’t I, Anna?’ the other woman said. Her voice sounded odd, almost pleading, and she looked strange, desperate. For a minute, Anna paused, then dismissed this fancy of her imagination. Miss Helen was just thanking her for the extra coal. That was all.

  Anna just had time to deliver the fuel to the top floor and wash her hands before she started to serve the dinner. She lost count of how many times she ran up and down those stairs with platters of steaming food and jugs of rich, buttery sauces. It didn’t help that twice she had to pull Master Matthew away from the main door as she ran back down the stairs. He opened the door and stood staring blankly out at the falling snow.

  ‘Sort him out, Anna!’ screamed the cook from the kitchen. ‘The daft bugger’s lettin’ all the heat out!’

  The master seemed very content and sprawled back in his chair, laughing crudely. Miss Isobel simpered coyly at the other end of the table and made sheep’s eyes at some large bloated man with bushy whiskers. She wore one of the dresses that had belonged to Miss Helen’s dead mother. Anna sighed. There would be hell to pay when Miss Helen found out about this tomorrow.

  Their conversation made Anna blush.

  ‘Damn shame your Elen could not join us for dinner,’ one of the guests slurred to Master George.

  ‘Oh, never mind her,’ said the bloated man with bushy whiskers. ‘Young Izzie here is enough of a woman for both of us.’

  Miss Isobel dissolved into girlish giggles. Her sharp-featured face was flushed with the rich food and wine.

  Finally, the pudding dishes were cleared away and the port decanter set upon the table. Exhausted and starving, Anna joined the cook, Master Matthew and the male servant, Peter, at the kitchen table for their own supper. Now the dinner was over, the cook had regained her good humou
r. She had saved them all a small portion of the chicken and guinea fowl that the guests had consumed upstairs.

  ‘We’ll hev a bit of that blancmange as well,’ she said as she winked at Anna. ‘No doubt we’ll be back onto rabbit stew and scrags o’ mutton by tomorrow.’

  Just after nine o’clock they dampened down the kitchen range and blew out all but one of the candles. For the last time that night, Anna’s weary legs trudged up the staircase as she followed the cook to their room at the top of the tower. The laughter in the Great Hall became raucous and unnerving; she heard the constant clatter of dice being hurled across a board. The solitary candle they were allowed cast demonic shadows onto the soot-blackened stone walls around her. With a great sense of relief, she and Mistress Norris finally reached the safety of their room.

  As they went through the door, there was a clang of metal from the other side of the corridor. The iron bar on the back of Miss Helen’s door had been dropped into its staples.

  ‘She’s got the right idea, tonight,’ the cook said. ‘Tek the candle, lass, and I’ll slam down the bar. We don’t want any of them loose fish from downstairs thinkin’ they can come up here and fiddle in our drawers while we’re asleep.’

  ‘Will Miss Isobel be alright, do you think?’

  The older woman snorted. ‘I think that old tabby will be revelling in it. I doubt she’ll bar her door. Mark my words—one of them cork brains will end up makin’ a cake o’ himself tonight.’

  Anna was too exhausted to ask for an explanation. She collapsed into her bed and fell asleep in seconds.

  There was ice on the inside of their window when they woke in the morning, and the snow outside stood several inches deep against the walls of the tower.

  ‘Don’t worry, lass,’ Mistress Norris consoled as they warmed themselves at the great range in the kitchen. ‘It won’t last. It’ll thaw in a couple of days—it’s only October. Ye’ll still be able to see yer ma on Saturday.’

  Anna busied herself. She lit the fires and cleared up the mess left over from the previous night’s drinking bout. The cook prepared kedgeree and bacon for the master and mistress and the guests. They didn’t emerge from their chambers until nearly ten o’clock. They were all hung over. Master George was as bad-tempered as a bull with sunstroke. Only then did Anna and Mistress Norris notice that Miss Helen had not appeared for breakfast. This was unusual because she was an early riser.

  ‘Maybe she’s sufferin’ from one of her heads,’ the cook suggested. Sometimes Miss Helen would spend whole days lying in a darkened room. ‘Here—tek a bowl of porridge up to her room.’

  There was no reply when Anna knocked on the bedchamber door. She turned the handle, but the door was still barred from the inside.

  ‘I’ll leave yer breakfast out here, Miss, in case you want a bite to eat later,’ she called out.

  As she descended the stairs, Miss Isobel caught her on the landing outside the Great Hall.

  ‘Don’t tell me that lazy chit of a sister of mine has asked for more meals to be delivered to her room. Who does she think she is? The Duchess of Devonshire?’

  ‘She didn’t ask for food, Miss,’ Anna explained quickly. ‘I haven’t seen her all day. I think she may have one o’ her headaches again. She didn’t reply when I knocked on her door.’

  ‘Typical! We’ve a house full of guests, and she behaves in this way. It’s the height of rudeness. It was bad enough she refused to join us last night. Heaven knows what Emmerson and Ingram think of this churlishness. Wait till my brother hears about this—she needs some manners whipped into her.’

  ‘Wait till my brother hears about what?’

  Anna’s heart sank as Master George emerged from the Great Hall and joined them on the landing. His eyes were bloodshot in his ruddy face, his breath stank and his forehead was creased into a frown.

  ‘It’s our Helen,’ his sister replied. ‘She’s refusing to come out of her room.’

  ‘Is she, by God? Damn the disobedient wench! She needs reminding who’s master here.’

  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

  The 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’ .’