The Piccadilly Pickpocket

A Detective Lavender Short Story

by

Karen Charlton

The Piccadilly Pickpocket

© Karen Charlton 2014

The right of Karen Charlton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Karen Charlton at Famelton Publishing. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to:

Famelton Writing Services

Alternatively, the author can be contacted through her website:

www.karencharlton.com

Visit Karen Charlton’s website to learn more about her historical novels,

Catching the Eagle (Famelton Publishing 2014) and

The Detective Lavender Series, published by Thomas & Mercer. 

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Also by Karen Charlton

February 1809

Catching the Eagle

The Heiress of Linn Hagh

The Sans Pareil Mystery (October 2015)

The Mystery of the Skelton Diamonds

Seeking Our Eagle

For the

Hysterical Fictionaires

Jean Gill, Jane G. Harlond, Kristin Gleeson, Babs Morton, Claire Stibbe,

Karen Maitland, Steve Robinson, Bill McCormick and Frances Kay

Without whose help and friendship I would never be able to publish a word.

Love you guys.

xxx

The Piccadilly Pickpocket

A small figure dashed out of a side alley, veered around the startled shoppers and sped across Piccadilly.  The dwarf’s short arms pumped furiously in rhythm with his dumpy legs as he ran. Silver hoops dangled from his ears and flashed in the weak spring sunlight. He darted between the rear end of a hansom cab and an oncoming brewer’s dray and narrowly missed a trampling. The driver cursed. The tiny man reached the opposite pavement and swerved to avoid a man with a handcart, oblivious to the stir he had caused among the pedestrians and the two horse-patrol officers who watched him.

‘Now, where would Little Beau be racing off to in such a hurry, I wonder?’ Constable Woods asked from astride his restless mount. 

His fellow officer, Constable Brown, was on the ground bent over the raised hoof of his lame horse. The nearside fore horseshoe was half-off, fixed only to the mare’s hoof by a twisted nail. He straightened up at Woods’ comment and followed his gaze. 

A veteran performer with the tumbling troupe in the Vauxhall Gardens, Little Beau was a nimble acrobat and as cocky as a wharf bilge rat. Within his stunted frame, he had the lungs of an ogre, the vocabulary of a stevedore and a booming voice-box.  But he wasn’t yelling out crude comments to the women now, Woods observed as the tiny man plunged down another side-street.  Little Beau needed all his breath to keep moving.

‘Shall we follow him?’ asked Constable Brown,

‘I’ll go.’ Woods gathered up the reins. ‘You pull off that danglin’ horseshoe and walk your mare back to the stables at Bow Street – I’ll follow the little rascal.’

Suddenly, another red-faced and breathless man burst out of the alleyway on the opposite side of the road. It was John Townsend, one of the Principal Officers at Bow Street police office. Townsend hesitated and scanned the busy street in visible dismay. His small eyes landed with noticeable relief on the distinctive scarlet and blue uniforms of the two curious patrol men. Dodging the traffic, he crossed the street and came towards them.

Woods lowered the reins and braced himself. Instantly recognisable by his swaggering gait, colourful attire and the moth-eaten flaxen wig perched on top of his bald head, John Townsend was one of London’s best-known and most admired police officers, especially among the nobility from whom he derived many rewards and a large income by way of their Christmas boxes.  Townsend possessed a good memory for names, a useful knack for remembering faces and was frequently employed by his wealthy clients to detect, or keep away, improper characters from their parties or routs. But the garrulous detective wasn’t popular with his fellow officers at Bow Street police office.  Woods didn’t like him; he far preferred the quiet modesty and courtesy of his friend, Detective Stephen Lavender.

‘You there – officers!’ Townsend was purple-faced and gasping for breath. ‘I’m after that rogue: Little Beau. Which way did he go?’ He clutched his precious broad-brimmed hat in agitated and sweating hands. The acrobatic dwarf was obviously much fitter than him.

‘What’s he done?’ Woods’ tone was gruff. He knew his place in the hierarchy of officers as well as the next man, but he had worked as a Bow Street officer for twenty years. Townsend knew his name and there was no reason for him not to use it.

‘He’s filched a silver pocket watch – from the Prince Regent, no less!’ 

Woods took a sharp intake of breath. Townsend spent most of his time in the royal entourage these days, either in London, Bath or Brighton. The detective often bragged that should John Townsend ever warn of ruffians in a crowded gathering, the Prince – and half of the nobility of England – would happily entrust their purses and pocket wallets into his care. Woods lowered his head to hide a satisfied smirk.  No wonder the man looked so worried. This theft would do to a lot of damage to Townsend’s reputation once it became public knowledge that the Prince Regent was robbed while Townsend was in attendance.  His clients wouldn’t be so keen to hand over their valuables now.

‘Slid straight under the royal armpits, he did,’ Townsend continued. ‘Then he helped himself to the royal pocket watch and took off.  Where the devil is the little mutt?’

Woods glanced over his shoulder to find a gap in the traffic. ‘I’ll get him,’ he said.

‘You there!’ Townsend said sharply to Constable Brown. ‘Go with him!’

Woods reined in his horse sharply. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘The horse has shed a shoe. Constable Brown is going to walk her back to Bow Street now. If you try to mount her, lad – I’ll have your hide.’

‘Well, really!’ Townsend’s ruddy face darkened with anger.

Constable Brown glanced nervously between his fellow patrol man and the more senior detective.  Then he nodded in Woods’ direction. Satisfied that Brown would follow his instructions, Woods dug his heels into the flank of his horse and set off.

‘Be sure to hold him!’ Townsend called after him. ‘I’ll make the arrest.’

No, you ruddy well won’t, thought Woods. He’s mine.  The prospect of getting one over on the pompous Townsend was very satisfying.

Thankfully, the narrow side-street down which Little Beau had disappeared was less crowded than the main thoroughfare and Woods urged his horse into a canter.  The throng thickened at the end of the street where it veered to the right in a dog-leg bend. He focused on the sea of bobbing heads and hats ahead and noted that the crowd seemed to be parting and stepping back from something. Woods hoped that this was their reaction to the dwarf as he darted past their legs. Had Little Beau realised that a patrol officer now followed him? Woods’ uniform was distinctive, even at a distance.

Woods rounded the bend, cursed and reined in his horse. He had lost sight of his quarry and several dank alleyways now led off from the narrow lane. These narrow passageways crisscrossed the teeming thoroughfares of London like a maze. If Little Beau had slid into their shadows, he would never find him.  Woods glanced around desperately. 

About twenty feet away stood a rusty, iron-handled pump that dripped water into a high-sided over-flowing trough.  A thin dog drank from the stagnant puddles at the base. Curled over the far-lip of the ancient stone trough were a set of stubby fingers and the fraying cuff of a dirty brown coat. A child perhaps? No. Little nippers didn’t have tattoos and coarse ginger hair on the back of their hands. Woods stood up in his stirrups to get a better view.  He saw a pair of heaving shoulder blades and a close-cropped greying head. Little Beau had a stitch and had hidden behind the trough while he caught his breath.

Grinning to himself, Woods slid quietly out of the saddle, threw the reins and a penny to a startled child, and crept up behind the dwarf. Despite his large frame, Woods moved with considerable stealth when he needed to.

‘Come here, you little whiddler!’ He pounced on Little Beau, grasped him in a tight bear-hug and lifted him bodily from the ground.

Someone the crowd yelled out in consternation; another cheered. Alarmed, the stray dog yelped and darted away from the puddles. The flailing dwarf wriggled like a river eel caught on a fishing line. He swore loudly and fought back hard, kicking a pannier out of a passing woman’s hands. She screamed. Next, Little Beau slammed his boot-heels into Woods’ calves. Woods grunted in pain but held on tighter. Everyone in the vicinity turned their way to stare at the burly officer grappling with the cursing manikin.

Suddenly, Woods lost his footing on the greasy slime that encircled the trough. He threw out his arms to regain his balance and dropped the dwarf.

Little Beau didn’t run. He spun around, his ruddy face contorted with fury, and he jerked his short arm towards Woods’ head. There was a flash of silver and a heavy pocket watch on the end of a metal chain appeared out of nowhere, arching upwards towards Woods’ face.  It crashed into Woods’ eye socket.

His world exploded in a shock of red and white light and he bellowed in agony. He clutched at his throbbing eye socket and felt warm blood oozing over his fingers. He sensed, rather than saw, the dwarf turn on his heels to make his escape.

‘’Ere, do ’e be needin’ some help, officer?’

Through a veil of red mist, Woods saw a smart, middle-aged man step out in front of the fleeing pickpocket. The man pulled a handful of snuff out of his coat pocket and with a quick flick of his wrist he tossed it into Little Beau’s face. The startled dwarf screamed, staggered and crumpled into a helpless heap on the ground; his small body heaved and exploded into a sneezing fit. The stranger leaned down and wrenched the silver pocket watch out of Little Beau’s hands.

Relief flooded through Woods. Ignoring the searing pain in his eye socket, he stumbled forward and opened his mouth to thank the stranger. But his relief was short-lived.  The man turned towards Woods, smiled and launched a second handful of snuff in his direction. 

It flew into Woods’ partially open mouth, stinging the back of his throat and his nostrils like a swarm of miniature wasps. His throat, eyes and mouth clamped shut as his nasal passages tried to expel the painful irritant.  He collapsed onto his knees, desperately clawing at his face to brush off the snuff, with tears streaming down his face.

When Woods finally managed to find a gap between the violent sneezing and use his one remaining good eye to peer through the sea of legs that surrounded him, the thieving cove had disappeared. Little Beau had also crawled away, unnoticed, like a wounded rat.

It was late that evening when Detective Stephen Lavender wearily returned to his rooms in Southwark.  The lamp-lighters had long-since finished their rounds and a few wall lanterns flickered but the street   was still dark and unwelcoming.  His empty stomach rumbled as the smell of meat roasting over hundreds of London coal fires drifted down from the chimneys on the breeze.

He had spent the day giving evidence at the Old Bailey against the forger whom he had sought for weeks and finally arrested last month.  A hardened criminal, the man had been sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation.  Unfortunately, so had the forger’s orphaned grand-daughter whom the old man had made his accomplice. Vulnerable and trusting, the young girl had carried the forged coins made by her grandfather to their accomplice in the bottom of her wicker flower basket. 

It gave him no satisfaction to see the distressed and traumatised child in the dock.  Nor did he want to dwell on her suffering. She had been separated from her grandfather, her only relative, and held in the dreadful women’s section of Newgate prior to the trial. Lavender knew that her fellow cellmates were some of the worst whores, slatterns and female drunkards in the Capital. Fumbling in his coat pocket for his door key, he sighed and tried to force the child’s pale, tear-stained and terrified face out his mind. 

Suddenly, he heard the sound of hard boots racing over the cobbled street behind him; two pairs. He spun round, his hand instinctively reached inside his coat for his pistol.

‘Uncle Stephen!’

Dan and Eddie Woods flew across the cobbles out of the shadows. He exhaled with relief, bit back the urge to remonstrate with the lads for startling him and braced himself for some practical joke or other. But not tonight. Young Dan threw his arms around his waist and buried his face in Lavender’s coat. ‘You’ll ’ave to come with us!’ the child sobbed into the cloth.

Eddie, older by a year, came to an abrupt stop by his side and waited in dignified silence. His eyes were large and scared in his pale freckled face. ‘Ma’s sent us,’ he said solemnly. ‘Our Da’s in trouble.’

Lavender gently untangled Dan’s arms from around his waist. ‘’E’s to be dismissed!’ The boy’s wail of horror made it sound like Woods was due to swing from the gallows.

‘There were a lot of blood,’ Eddie said. ‘’Twere all over ’is shirt.’

Frowning, Lavender took a firm hold of Dan’s arm and steered him along the pavement in the direction of their home. This didn’t make sense but a summons from Betsy Woods wasn’t to be ignored.  The boys’ distressed and pale faces told him something serious had happened to his oldest friend and colleague.  He was clearly destined to be haunted by frightened children today, but at least with this situation he might be able to help.

‘You’ll find the cove that did it won’t you, Uncle Stephen?’ asked Dan, as the boys fell into step beside him, their short legs taking two rapid steps to each stride of his.

‘Uncle Stephen will arrest both thieves,’ Eddie said confidently. ‘The first and the second. And he’ll get Pa his job back.’

Lavender grimaced when he saw the state of Woods’ face. His constable’s right eye had disappeared behind a swollen, puffy mass of blackened and purpling flesh and there was a deep cut across his brow bone where blood congealed in his shaggy, grey eyebrows.  The pile of bloodied rags on the old kitchen table gave testament to the difficulty Betsy had had trying to stop the bleeding. Six year-old Rachel stood, wide-eyed and tearful, beside her beloved father. 

‘In God’s name! What the hell happened to you?’ he asked.

Woods raised a large hand to dismiss the fuss and shook his head sadly. But Betsy was far more forthcoming. ‘He were injured in the line of duty,’ she snapped, ‘and that saphead, Townsend, wants Magistrate Read to dismiss him.’

Lavender heard the panic in her voice. Woods’ dismissal from Bow Street would be a disaster for the family.  He pulled out a chair and sat at the table.  ‘Tell me what happened, Ned,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get much sense from the boys. Something about how you were attacked by a dwarf?’

Woods grabbed one of the bloodied rags and sneezed into it.  His face contorted with pain at the spontaneous spasm of his facial muscles.

‘He were snuffed, that’s what happened,’ Betsy said, angrily. ‘By a ruddy snuffer! This were after the dwarf bashed him with the pocket watch.’

Somewhere in the house, Baby Tabitha began to cry. Betsy’s head moved instinctively at the sound.

‘See to your children, Betsy,’ Lavender said calmly. ‘I’ll sort this out.’

The diminutive woman gasped and her lower lip quivered. She took a step towards him, concern, misery and frustration etched across her lined face.  Her greying hair seemed more frizzy and wild than usual. ‘Thank you, Stephen.’ Her voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘I knew we could rely on you.’  She spun on her heel, and shooed the three older children out of the kitchen.

‘She fusses too much,’ Woods said quietly. ‘I told her not to bother you, sir.’

‘She did the right thing,’ Lavender replied. ‘Now tell me what happened.’

Slowly, Woods told him the events of the morning. ‘Townsend were furious when he found me,’ Woods said. ‘He told me to get home and stay home. He said Magistrate Read would send me notice of my dismissal soon.’

‘Well, you’re not in any condition to patrol on horseback, that’s for sure,’ Lavender said, as Woods sneezed and grimaced again. ‘Can you see out of that eye?’

Woods shrugged. ‘I get a glimmer of light now and then. Everythin’ is a bit fuzzy but it’s better than it were. Betsy has given me a draught to ease the pain. I just wish I could stop this damned sneezin’.’

‘That’ll stop eventually,’ Lavender said. ‘Snuff is a terrible irritant if you’re not used to it. What is this nonsense about you being dismissed?’

Woods sighed. ‘Townsend said that he would see me dismissed for this. He said that it were my fault; that we would have recovered the Prince’s watch if I had let Constable Brown accompany me. At least I think that’s what he said. I were too busy sneezin’ to listen properly.’

Lavender frowned. He knew the patrol officers always travelled in pairs. ‘Why did you leave Constable Brown behind?’

‘Because of a ruddy horse!’ Betsy had reappeared at the kitchen doorway.

‘His mare had lost a shoe and was lame,’ Woods said simply. ‘I don’t care what Townsend wanted us to do; she couldn’t be ridden.’

‘I swear, Ned Woods, that you think more for them beasts than you do for your own family,’ Betsy declared. Lavender heard the strangled sob in her voice.  Woods’ face crumped in distress.

‘Betsy, come here and sit down,’ Lavender said and patted the seat beside him.  Betsy sank wearily into the chair.

‘I’ve sent the children to the Temperance Hotel on Larch Street,’ she stammered. ‘They are kindly folks and they might have some ice to spare for Ned’s eye.’

Lavender took Betsy’s hand into his own. She started with surprise at the sudden contact but she didn’t pull away. She was trembling. ‘Betsy, listen to me,’ he said quietly. ‘Tomorrow, I will go straight to Magistrate Read and get this sorted out. He’s a fair man and Ned is a valued member of the Horse Patrol.’

‘But Townsend said – ‘

‘I don’t give a damn about what Townsend said.’

‘But it were the Prince Regent’s watch!’

‘Well, he should have been more careful,’ Lavender said dryly. ‘Did Townsend say why the Prince was on foot and in Piccadilly?’

Betsy and Ned glanced at each other. ‘No, he didn’t,’ Woods said. ‘But I did think it were unusual.’

‘It looks like there is more to this robbery than John Townsend has revealed,’ Lavender said. ‘He’s trying to divert attention away from his own mistakes in this affair by blaming Ned.’ He gave Betsy’s hand a final reassuring squeeze, reached for his gloves and stood up.

‘I’m damned if you are going to lose your job over this, Ned. Get some sleep, regain your health and leave the rest to me.’

Bow Street Police Office never slept. As usual, the hallway entrance heaved with the dregs of London society.  A sorry collection of petty criminals waited morosely in handcuffs and chains by the desk for the clerks to record the details of the charges against them. Once the administration was complete, they would be taken by the constables to the cramped and over-crowded cells at the back of the building.

Lavender pushed his way through the dismal crowd to the desk.  A clerk told him that Magistrate Read was already upstairs in his office.  Lavender headed for the stairs. In his hand he held copies of The Times and The Morning Chronicle. Both news-sheets bore the news of the significant reward on offer for the safe return of the silver pocket watch that was stolen from a ‘gentleman’ near Piccadilly the previous day.

‘Detective Townsend is with the magistrate,’ the clerk called after him.

Good, he thought. I’ll kill two birds with one stone. He took the stairs two at a time and rapped on the door to the magistrate’s office.  He didn’t wait for James Read to invite him to enter before he opened the door and walked in. John Townsend was sprawled inelegantly in a chair opposite to Read, holding his battered hat in his hands.  His light-coloured, kerseymere breeches were creased and stained; his hands and nails grubby.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ Lavender strode across the floorboards and sat down unbidden on the faded wing-backed chair next to Townsend. He took off his gloves and brushed a speck of dust off the leg of his breeches. Read’s eyes flicked between his two detectives and Lavender knew that the magistrate was comparing his own neatly combed hair, somber dark coat and spotless white cravat with the eccentric and colourful attire of the older man.

‘Morning, Stephen,’ Read said. If he was surprised at Lavender’s forceful approach he didn’t show it. As usual, the magistrate’s wig of office lay discarded among the quills and piles of paper manuscripts on his desk.  Behind him a vast window overlooked the markets, theatres and gin shops of bustling Covent Garden. The early morning sunshine pushed its way through the grimy window-panes, revealing dust motes floating in the air.

Townsend scowled and growled out a terse greeting.  His gravelly voice and strong accent were as distinctive as his appearance.  His own flaxen wig was moth-eaten. How on earth does Prinny stand it?  Lavender wondered. The friendship between the fastidious Prince of Wales and portly Bow Street Detective was well-known and had even been lampooned in some of the news-sheets.  Up until yesterday, he had always thought that Townsend was a buffoon but relatively harmless. However, the events of yesterday – especially his treatment of Woods – had revealed that the man was dangerous when cornered. He was anything but harmless.

‘I’ll come straight to the point, gentlemen,’ Lavender said. ‘The forgery trial at the Old Bailey came to its natural conclusion yesterday and I’m now free to help you in the search for the Prince Regent’s pocket watch. I trust that this is what you were discussing?’

‘There’s no need to worry yourself,’ Townsend said quickly. ‘You may depend upon it that some old acquaintance of mine has caused this outrage. T’will not be long before we have the cove slung beneath the hatches of Newgate gaol.’

Townsend had an extensive network of spies and informants among the criminal underclass, built up over many years. He also had a phenomenal memory for faces and names, acquired from his habit of spending hours in the public gallery at criminal trials making notes about the defendants and listing whom was found guilty and who was acquitted. This diligent approach had been the basis of his success as a detective but Lavender knew that Townsend’s methods had their limitations. The only way to relieve the pressure on Ned and Betsy Woods was to retrieve that damned pocket watch as quickly as possible.

‘Suppose that this villain is not one of your “old acquaintances”,’ Lavender said. ‘Constable Woods thought that the snuffer spoke with a strong West Country accent. Suppose the thief has recently arrived in London from Devon or Dorset. What will you do then?’

Townsend’s face flashed with anger.

‘You’ve seen Ned Woods, Stephen?’ Read asked hastily.

‘Yes, I called on the family last night. He’s still in a sorry state – and upset that he was tricked by the snuffer.’

‘So this is what your interference is really about, eh Lavender?’ Townsend sneered. ‘Your friendship with Woods?’

‘I simply want to help.’

‘Well, I don’t need your help. And as for that constable; he should be dismissed for his bad attitude. I have just explained to Magistrate Read that we would have caught Little Beau if Woods hadn’t insisted on chasin’ the dwarf alone. The man is a vainglorious cock and wanted the credit for the arrest himself.’

Lavender said nothing and Townsend turned back to Read.  ‘Now we have already got the reward notice printed in the news-sheets, there should be some information soon.’

‘Your old acquaintances read the Times, do they?’ Lavender asked. ‘They are literate, are they?’

Townsend flushed from the base of his thick neck up to the roots of his wild-kempt hair. ‘The word’ll soon get onto the streets about the reward, then every snitch, conk and rogue in town will beat a path to the doors of Bow Street with information about the theft – you mark my words!’

‘Yes, I did notice that it was a generous reward. One hundred pounds for a pocket watch. It seems a lot and is bound to attract attention – of one sort or another. Surely the Prince of Wales has several other watches he can use? One hundred pounds would easily buy him a new one, probably several.’

Townsend and Read exchanged a hurried glance. ‘His Royal Highness is very fond of that particular watch,’ Townsend said slowly. ‘He has a sentimental attachment for it.’

Lavender sat back in his chair and feigned a calm acceptance of Townsend’s words that he didn’t feel. The two men were keeping something from him. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘and how was he robbed in the first place? Why on earth was the Prince of Wales walking about in such a notorious area?’

‘The Prince has had some trouble with reporters this week,’ Read informed him. ‘They follow his carriage and dog his steps every time he comes to London. His Highness had a particular assignation to attend to and had decided to slip on a dark cloak and travel on foot in order to give the reporters the slip.’

Lavender blinked. How anyone, least of all the overweight and exuberant Prince of Wales, thought he could wander the streets of his father’s capital city without being recognised was beyond him. Prinny was the most caricatured man in the press. Hundreds of thousands of people knew what the prince looked like. But he was surrounded by fawning sycophants; everyone indulged the Prince his whims and no-one must have had the courage to point out the folly of such behaviour. Lavender didn’t ask about the ‘assignation’. Prinny’s reputation preceded him; no doubt a woman was involved.

‘So how did the robbery happen?’ he asked.

Townsend shuffled uncomfortably on his chair.  ‘There were a crowd of them from the Vauxhall Gardens,’ he said. ‘Some of the acrobats were tumblin’ on the street for coppers. His Highness paused for a moment to watch and the next thing we knew that rogue of a dwarf had filched his watch.’

‘Did he work alone or was he in league with the other acrobats? Were they all part of the pickpocketing gang?’

Townsend shrugged his shoulders. ‘’Twere hard to say. Besides which, it’s not them that has the pocket watch. ’Tis that snuffer we need to catch.’

‘Have you tracked down and arrested Little Beau?’ he asked.

Townsend snorted. ‘We tried. Officers were sent straight to the troupe’s lodgings at Vauxhall Gardens but the little whiddler has disappeared. He’s probably been smuggled out into the provinces by now and has joined some tourin’ company.’

‘Did you not think to set up some road blocks at the toll gates?’

‘What’s the point?’ Townsend snapped. ‘We can’t search every wagon and dray that rolls out of London – and that dwarf is so small he could hide in a pickle barrel.’

‘Well, I am more than happy to offer my services in the recovery of the watch,’ Lavender said.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ snapped Townsend, ‘as I’ve said, I don’t need your help.’

‘Not so hasty, John,’ said Magistrate Read. ‘It might not be such a bad notion to have Stephen working with you. Cooperation may lead to a quicker result in this instance – and we need a quick result.  I’m sure that the Prince would be delighted to hear that not one – but two – of the best detectives from Bow Street were at work on the case.’

At first Townsend looked like he would protest but Read’s compliment mollified him somewhat. ‘I suppose I could use you,’ he said grudgingly. ‘There’s been a report of a gang of snuffers in the streets around Westminster Palace. Take a trip over to the Westminster Police Office and see if they’ve caught the rogues yet.’

‘Constable Woods was quite adamant that the snuffer who stole the pocket watch worked alone,’ Lavender said.  ‘And the robbery took place in Piccadilly – not Westminster. I think it would be more help if I visited the establishments of some of our well-known fences and see if any of them have been offered a valuable silver watch in the last twenty-four hours.’

‘I’ve already seen to that,’ Townsend said. ‘Many of my old acquaintances are lookin’ out both the watch and the snuffer.’

‘Then I shall contact my own network of “acquaintances”.’

‘Magistrate Read said you were to work for me!’ Townsend snapped.

‘Magistrate Read said I was to work with you – not for you,’ Lavender replied calmly.

Townsend pushed back his chair angrily and stood up. ‘Well, in that case get on wi’ it! I’ve no more time for dawdlin’ in here over chit chat – I’ve got a snuffer to catch.’ He turned on his heel, stomped across the floorboards and slammed the door behind him as he left.

Now that he was alone with James Read, Lavender asked the question that had been burning in his mind since the moment he opened his eyes at dawn: ‘You don’t intend to dismiss Ned Woods, do you?’

Read stared hard at Lavender from beneath his frowning, grey eyebrows.  ‘According to Townsend, Woods paid no heed to his instructions and behaved in a reckless manner; he took off after the thief on his own.’

‘The other horse had thrown a shoe,’ Lavender said. ‘He’s a horse patrol officer. You know how they care for their animals.’

Magistrate Read shrugged, picked up a quill and pulled a piece of paper towards him. Lavender sensed that he was about to terminate their meeting. ‘He over-ruled the instructions of a senior officer.’

‘If I had a farthing for every time that Ned Woods has put me right over the past twelve years – and proved himself the better officer for doing so – I would be a very wealthy man.’

Read paused for a moment and twirled the quill above the ink pot. Did the man never blink when he stared? For a moment Lavender felt like a prisoner in the dock of the courtroom downstairs. Even the most hardened criminal would feel nervous caught in that stare from the magisterial bench.

‘Your loyalty does you credit, Detective,’ Read said, eventually. ‘But Woods knew that the matter was urgent – and that it was the Prince’s watch.  I cannot dismiss Townsend’s complaint lightly.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I shall think about it, Detective. I shall think about it.’

It was Lavender’s turn to frown; he had hoped for more reassurance. But Read’s tone had taken on a cold formality. He had pushed the matter as far as he could for the moment. He decided to change tack: ‘What is so special about this pocket watch, anyway?’

The quill now dipped into ink pot. ‘You will understand that when you find it,’ Read said, and added mysteriously: ‘I am relying on your discretion, Stephen.  The best thing you can do is to work with Townsend and find this watch quickly.’ 

His quill moved across the paper.  Despite the distant rumble of traffic and the muted shouts of the hawkers outside in Covent Garden market, Lavender could hear the scratch of the nib.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I have two final questions. First, has Townsend considered the possibility that we may not be the only ones in London on the look-out for the thief who has the watch?’

Read glanced up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, there is Little Beau and his troupe of thieving picket-pockets for a start.  Townsend might have dismissed the idea but I think it sounds like they were working together to distract pedestrians and rob them. They are going to be annoyed that this mysterious snuffer has cheated them out of a valuable prize.

‘And by now, the news of the theft and the size of that reward will have spread like a heath-fire to the Seven Dials and the rookery of St. Giles. Most of the scum and tagrag of London will be searching for the thief. I wouldn’t like to be in the snuffer’s boots.  A reward of that size is a great incentive for murder. And most of those rogues in the Seven Dials would murder their grandmother for her last farthing – never mind, one hundred pounds.’

Lavender watched a range of conflicting emotions pass over James Read’s face as he spoke. It was obvious that neither Read nor Townsend had thought out the full implications of this case. ‘Then you had better solve this mystery quickly, Stephen,’ Read said, ‘before anyone else does.’

Lavender picked up his gloves, stood up and set off across the room.

‘And your final question?’ Read called out after him.

‘Oh yes.’ Lavender partially turned and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Exactly what does the Prince of Wales see in that former coster-monger and coal merchant? Do you think that Townsend has some kind of hold over him?’

The corners of Read’s mouth twitched. ‘Well, it’s definitely not John Townsend’s fashion sense that has caught the Prince Regent’s eye,’ he said, dryly.

Lavender spent a frustrating morning.  He tracked down his own informers and alerted them to his search for the West Country thief and the stolen watch.

‘So ’ow does ’e sound, this cove?’ one of his regular informants asked. They were talking in a dark alleyway between a tavern and a flesh-shop.  The walls of both buildings bulged out with age and dripped with slime. Above them, the over-hanging upper casement windows blocked out most of the light.

‘Constable Woods said he spoke like George Deakin, the actor at Drury Lane.’

His informant shook his shaggy head and stepped away into the shadows. ‘I’ve never seen nor ’eard no play at Drury Lane.’

Next, Lavender headed for Piccadilly.  He made enquiries at every pawn-shop and jeweller he passed. Had anyone tried to pawn a silver pocket watch or sell one to them? They shook their heads. However, two of them did mention that this wasn’t the first time today that they had been visited by police officers asking the same questions. He and Townsend were obviously covering some of the same ground. He wondered if Townsend had had any luck.

He was both thirsty and hungry by the time he reached the scene of the crime. The street was busy. Pedestrians and shoppers scurried about their business, indifferent, it seemed, to the drama that had taken place on that spot the previous day. He found the ancient pump and stone water-trough that Woods had described and stared at them, seeking inspiration. He ignored the jostling crowds who stabbed him with sharp elbows and wicker shopping baskets and tried to think. The sunlight sparkled on the smooth surface of the water and each drop that fell into the stagnant pools on the mossy cobbles below glistened like a small diamond.

If the snuffer was a lone criminal, without any known associates or a previous record for theft, it would be virtually impossible for the Bow Street police and their informants to find him. A man could disappear in that over-crowded city, especially if he was an opportunistic thief and this was first crime. Had the thief seen a chance to make a few guineas out of Woods’ failed attempt to arrest Little Beau, perhaps? Did he watch Little Beau attack Woods with the pocket watch and act on impulse when he snatched the watch for himself?

He would have had to be desperate to take such a risk.  Attacking a Bow Street Officer was guaranteed to bring down the full force of the law on his head, something most Londoners would think twice about.  But this man wasn’t a Londoner. He also risked reprisals from the infuriated dwarf and his cronies.  Had he recently arrived in the capital perhaps? Was he unused to its ways? His strong accent suggested this.

An image formed in Lavender’s mind.  He pictured the decent, smartly-dressed man from Woods’ description but gave him the crest-fallen expression of a man who had fallen down on his luck. Something had gone wrong; the work he had been promised in the capital had not materialised. Desperate for money, he had turned to crime to ease his poverty and fill his hungry belly.  Such a man probably couldn’t afford to travel far. And an inexperienced, impulsive thief might live close to this scene of the crime. He glanced around at the upper storeys of the shops on the streets. Many of them contained rooms for rent. 

And he wondered.

He remembered how the forger he had recently arrested had eluded capture for months because he never left the house, choosing to send out his young grand-daughter to run his errands instead.

Lavender’s stomach rumbled and distracted him from his thoughts. He shook himself to empty his mind of speculation. He had let his imagination get the better of him. He needed to chase down the evidence and use solid old-fashioned police work to uncover the thief. However, their investigation was struggling.  He would suggest a door-to-door search of the lodgings in this area to Townsend and Read when he returned to Bow Street.

He decided to visit the White Bear coaching inn and have a meal. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the daylight was fading. The White Bear was a pick-up and drop-off point for passengers travelling to and from London and the West Country. There was a slim chance he might turn up some information there about their mysterious thief, and the staff would be far more forthcoming in the answers they gave to his questions if he gave them some custom.

He turned to return to Piccadilly but did a double-take at the sight of a beggar at the bend in the street. Slumped on the ground with drooping shoulders and a begging bowl beside him, the man was half-hidden in the shadow of the buildings. Muffled in scarves with an old hat pulled low over his eyes, he had an injured arm wrapped in a grimy old bandage. At first Lavender didn’t know what had stopped him in his tracks then his lips curled into a smile. This was the burliest, best-fed beggar he had ever seen.

He approached the man, tossed a handful of change down into the cap on the ground and winked.  ‘You look like you have fallen on hard times, my friend,’ he said. 

‘I may have,’ growled Woods, from beneath the scarves. He had thickened his accent and his voice was gruffer than normal. The nearby shoppers glanced curiously in their direction.  ‘I think my luck will depend on the help I can get from my friends – such as you, kind sir.’ Lavender could just see the blood-shot whites of Woods’ eyes beneath the low rim of his hat. The flesh on the side of his face was still swollen and bruised. A strong whiff of the fish wharf emanated from his constable’s dirty old fishing jacket.

‘Your friends are looking out for you,’ Lavender said, conscious that they were using a clipped kind of code. ‘You can tell that to your lady wife. You should be at home, nursing your injury – and let others take care of your problems.’

‘This street’s my home for now,’ said Woods.  ‘Till I sees what I wants to see.’

‘What you have seen while you have been sat here today? Lavender asked.

‘I’ve seen lots of police constables and officers askin’ the shop-keepers and shoppers questions to which everyone shakes their head,’ said Woods. ‘And I’ve seen a known crowd of villains from the rookery of St. Giles botherin’ the same folks with the same questions.’

Lavender frowned. This wasn’t good news. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘From the rookery?’ 

‘Yes.’

‘You’d know them again?’

‘I know them already. ’Tis that cove Conkey Shiels and his side-kicks: Timon Roberts and Big George.’

‘Didn’t Roberts have a sister who works the dark groves at Vauxhall Gardens?’

‘Yes, right loud-mouthed trollop she is: Lola.’

‘There might be a connection,’ Lavender said thoughtfully. ‘If so, then Little Beau has been keeping some bad company.’

‘Ye’ll never find him in the rookery,’ Woods warned. ‘There’s more rat holes in there than in the bilge of a French Man o’ War.’

Lavender straightened up as another pedestrian strolled by. ‘I’ll wish you “good-day” my poor chap,’ he said loudly, ‘and a speedy recovery.’

He didn’t want to compromise Woods’ secret surveillance any further so he dropped a few more coins into the hat and walked away. He’d catch up with him later that evening. That’s if Woods went home that night, of course. His constable was a stubborn man when riled, who bore discomfort bravely and never stayed inactive for long. He should have known that Woods wouldn’t sit fretting at home while his career was in jeopardy and there were thieves to catch.

Woods’ information worried him. If he was right and the Shiels gang from the rookery were after the snuffer, the thief was in great danger. He must find him first. Imprisonment and transportation would be a picnic compared to the misery and torture that the Shiels Gang would inflict on the man who had robbed one of their own.

He resolved to return to Bow Street and organise a raiding party for dawn the next day.  It would be dark soon and there was no way that any constables from Bow Street could safely navigate that dangerous labyrinth after dusk. The worse slum in England, the rookery of St. Giles was a maze of gin shops, prostitute’s hovels and secret alleyways, dissected with open sewers. Cut-throats lurked around every corner at night, while whole families of starving paupers and immigrants cowered in the squalor of single-roomed, damp cellars. No. Any raid on the rookery should be carried out at dawn. In the meantime, his complaining stomach reminded him that he needed to eat.

The frontage of The White Bear on Piccadilly flanked a stone arch that led into a wide, cobbled yard lined with stables and tap rooms. At the rear of this yard was another covered arch which led out onto Jerrmyn Street. The inn was busy.  Lavender carefully picked his way through piles of steaming horse dung and a crowd of excited passengers who waited to board the six-thirty coach to Dover. The new arrivals who had just disembarked from the coach stretched out their stiff limbs in the yard and waited patiently for their luggage to be handed down from the roof of the carriage. Others made a bee-line for the tables in the smoky taproom, attracted by the strong aroma of mutton stew and freshly-baked pies.

Lavender squeezed through the milling crowd into a corner and found himself a vacant table. He ordered a pie and a tankard of ale and watched the distracted and sweating landlord rush around from one group of customers to another.

‘Will you require anything else, sir?’ asked the young barmaid as she brought him his food. She tilted her head coquettishly and drawled out the last word to draw attention to her mouth. The wicked glint in her dark eyes and the low cut of her bodice left him in no doubt about the nature of what she had in mind.

‘I’m here on business,’ he said stiffly, as he poured gravy over his pie.

‘’Tis a shame, that.’ She moistened her rosy lips with a tiny pink tongue and gave him a half smile. ‘All that work’ll make you a dull boy, sir,’ she purred. ‘You should leave some time fer pleasure, an ’andsome fellah like you,’ she said. Her finger twirled a stray curl of dark hair back that had escaped from beneath her mob cap.

He smiled. ‘Can you ask the landlord to come over and talk to me for a moment? I’m Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street Police Office.’

‘Police?’ Her pretty eyes widened in surprise and alarm. ‘Alright,’ she said hastily. ‘If that’s all you want.’  She flounced away towards the beleaguered inn keeper.

The White Bear landlord proved to be no more help to Lavender than the owners of the pawn shops and jewellers he had visited that morning.

‘’Ave you any idea ’ow many men, women and children pass through this here establishment every week, sir?’ His large, greasy hands twisted his stained apron. ‘’Tis hundreds!’  And I never ’ave time to stop and ask them where they’re from.’ Behind him the little barmaid leaned against the scuffed and cracked wood panelling on the wall, listening to their conversation.

‘I believe that this particular man has found lodgings nearby. He may come back here to drink from time to time.’ Carefully, Lavender passed on the description of the snuffer given to him by Woods. ‘He has a strong West Country accent.’

‘Oh, I don’t speak to half of them that comes in here. I wouldn’t know about ’is accent.’

Sighing, Lavender handed over the money for his food and drink and rose to leave. The barmaid had sidled back up to him. ‘I ’eard what you said to ’im,’ she confessed.

He raised an eyebrow.

‘I think I may know ’im that you want.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, I ’ave seen the fellah.  He comes ’ere to eat, from time to time. He’s pleasant enough – and quiet. Though ’e ’as that strong joskins accent when ’e speaks. I thought ’e were a bit sad. I think he had had some bad luck.’

Lavender stared into her pale, freckled face and tried to assess her reliability as a witness. Her description was uncannily like the profile he had dreamed up for the thief earlier in the day. She looked young, very young. Sixteen perhaps? Or younger? Youngsters like her had quick eyes and better memories than their elders.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Sarah, sir. Sarah Benson.’

She was the kind of girl Woods would have called ‘treacle’.  Suddenly he missed his constable and his stomach clenched at the thought that he might never work with him again. Woods had that common touch, something he knew he lacked. Woods would have had the girl bent double with laughter by now and spilling out her secrets.

‘Well, I hope you aren’t wasting my time, Miss Benson,’ he said. ‘You can be arrested for wasting police time, you know.’  He chided himself for his cold formality as soon as the words came out of his mouth.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ she said, unabashed. ‘Did I ’ere that there’s a reward out for ’is capture?’

‘There is.’

‘Well, I’ll keep my peepers open and I’ll let you know if I sees ’im again,’ she said, nodding. ‘’E told me once where ’e were stayin’. Gave me the street address, he did.’

He tensed. ‘Why did he do that?’

‘’E asked me to call around after I’d finished my work. Said ’e were lonely and needed a bit o’ company – but ’e warned me to be quiet when I came in the door on account of the landlady bein’ so proper and prim.’

Lavender tensed. ‘Did you go?’

‘No, sir.’ Her sly smile had returned. ‘By the end of the night, I’d ’ad a better offer.’ Her mouth opened wider, revealing two perfect rows of pearly teeth.  Then it snapped shut and she was serious again. ‘’E gave me the directions but I’ll be blowed if I can remember them.’

‘I need you to try, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Think hard.’ Use their names, Woods had once told him. It puts them at ease.

She frowned as she racked her brains. The coquettish little strumpet had vanished. Before him stood a serious young woman and intelligence shone in her bright eyes. Eventually she gave up and shook her head. ‘I wants to get away from this life,’ she whispered.

‘I can understand that.’

‘I wants me own stall on the market to sell straw bonnets. I can do that, you know.’

‘I don’t doubt it, Sarah,’ said Lavender with feeling. ‘Are you sure you can’t remember the address of this man, Sarah? The street? Anything?’

‘No – but it might come to me if I think ’ard. ’Ow much did you say that reward were again?’

‘I didn’t.’ He told her the amount and her eyes widened. She swayed as if her knees had suddenly gone weak.

‘You’ll be able to sell silk bonnets – never mind straw – at your market stall if you earn this reward,’ he said slowly. ‘If you remember anything – anything, Sarah – you must come to Bow Street Police Office and ask for Detective Lavender. Detective Lavender, remember?’

‘Lavender? Like the flower? Yes, I will, sir,’ she squeaked.  She bobbed him a curtsey as he took up his hat and left.

He made one last call before he gave up for the day; Bartholomew Wilton’s pawn shop. Storm clouds now billowed across the dusky pink sky, hastening the onset of darkness.

Wilton’s pawn shop was situated in a dank alley off Drury Lane. Lavender called here more out of habit than with any hope of finding out anything useful. That old curmudgeon, Wilton, had been helpful to him and Woods in the past. But when he climbed down the steep flight of greasy steps to the entrance, he found the door to the shop locked. The three peeling red globes creaked miserably on their pole in the breeze above his head but he got nothing but silence when he hammered on the door. 

He peered inside the grimy window panes and saw the usual jumble of battered furniture stacked haphazardly against the walls inside the shop.  Scratched occasional tables were still piled on top of the sagging upholstery of ancient sofas, while framed pictures hung drunkenly across the sections of the crumbling walls that were not obscured by leaning rolls of mouldy carpets and rugs. He caught the glint of metal in the dusty glass cabinets crammed with garnet brooches, snuff boxes, silver watches and teaspoons.

He knew that Barty lived above the premises. Climbing back up the slimy steps to the street level, he raised his eyes to the upstairs windows and yelled. ‘For God’s sake, Barty – open this door!’ Still there was no response. He picked up a handful of stones and hurled them at the grimy window panes.

The warped wood grated and complained as it was forced upwards. Wilton’s fingers curled over the edge of the window sill and the wizened old man leaned out and peered down at him nervously.

‘What you want, detective?’ His straggly grey eyebrows were joined together in a frown over his small, suspicious eyes.

‘I need some information, Barty,’ Lavender replied. ‘About a stolen silver pocket watch.’

‘You and the rest of the damned world,’ snarled the old man. ‘I’m not openin’ my doors again till you’ve caught that bugger.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Large raindrops splattered on his upturned face and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

But Barty had withdrawn his head back into the building.  His filthy hands reached up to close the window.

‘Barty Wilton, if you don’t answer my questions,’ Lavender yelled. ‘I’ll round up the constables, come back here and go through your shop with a fine ivory toothcomb. And so help me God, if we find anything suspicious in your poxy shop, I’ll not spare you from the Beak or from Newgate this time.’

The old man’s head reappeared in an instant. ‘Now, now, detective,’ he said. ‘There’s no need fer threats.’

‘Just tell me what’s happened.’

‘I’ve ’ad a visit from a rough group of fellahs.’ Barty’s voice caught in this throat and Lavender realised that the old man was genuinely shaken. Lavender narrowed his eyes against the rain and saw the purple bruise spreading across the leathered skin of the old man’s cheekbone. ‘Most unpleasant they were.’

‘What did they want?’ The rain fell heavier now but he knew the old man wouldn’t come downstairs and open up the shop. Without taking his eyes off Barty, he pulled up the collar of his coat.

‘They demanded to see me pocket watches – and when none took their likin’ – they got physical, roughed me up and threatened me. ’Tisn’t right,’ Barty whined. ‘You law officers are allus so quick to point the finger at the likes of me but you should be protectin’ us ’onest citizens.’

Lavender took the criticism stoically.  He needed the old man’s cooperation and this wasn’t the right time to remind Barty that he had spent several spells in Newgate for fencing stolen goods.

‘Did they say anything else?’ he asked.

‘They sed that the watch had been filched from a Gentleman George.’

‘Gentleman George?’ Lavender asked in surprise. ‘They said that, did they?’

‘Yes, and they ses that if I were to come across this shiny silver pocket watch then I was to give it to them.’

‘Barty, if anyone tries to sell you or pawn a silver watch – you are to contact me immediately. Do you hear me?’ The rain had plastered Lavender’s hair to the side of his face and had begun to drum on the cobblestones. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘There’s a huge reward out for that watch, Barty – and if you are offered it, I’ll see that you get your share.’

‘That’s kind of you, Detective, I’m sure, but I won’t open my doors again till the fuss is past and you ’ave done your job. I don’t need this kind of trouble.’ His arthritic old hands reached up again for the window.

‘Barty! One more thing – was it Conkey Shiels, Timon Roberts and Big George who threatened you?’

There was an imperceptible pause that told Lavender what he needed to know. ‘Well, it might ’ave been them,’ said the old man warily.  ‘But I’m not sure. I thought it were my time to put on a wooden surcoat. I’m sayin’ no more. I’ve told you too much already.’

The window slammed down with a resounding crash as the first thunder clapped overhead.

To get back to Bow Street, Lavender had to battle his way along the wet pavements against a tide of departing shoppers. Everyone had their heads lowered against the downpour as they scurried to find shelter and no-one looked where they were going. Covent Garden market was hastily closing down; the torrential rain meant the end of business for the day for everyone. The roads were congested with carriages and drays. Skittish horses shied and reared at each clap of thunder and flash of lightning. He was drenched by the time he staggered up the steps into Bow Street Police Office. Fortunately, Magistrate Read had a fire blazing in the hearth in his room. Unfortunately, Townsend was also back and sprawled in his usual chair opposite James Read.

‘I hope you have some good news for us, Stephen,’ Read said. ‘This case has taken a nasty turn and Townsend has come up with nothing.’

‘It’ll be only a matter of time afore one of my old acquaintances…’ the older detective said but Read cut him off with a withering glance. The lamps had already been lit to offset the gloom of the dusk and the storm clouds outside. Magistrate Read looked strained. His knuckles were white with tension as he drummed his fingers on his desk.  Townsend also looked more subdued than normal. 

Lavender strode over to the fireplace, removed his drenched topcoat and hat and ran his fingers through his wet hair. The heat licked and dried his wet skin and clothes. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘A pawn-broker in Spitalfields has been attacked by a gang of men who raided his shop this afternoon. They were looking for silver pocket watches.’

Lavender turned his head sharply. ‘Is he dead?’

‘No, but he’s lucky to survive. He tried to fight them off and they stabbed him. Now reporters from the Morning Chronicle have heard about the story; they’ve been to see me already. As the villains stabbed him, allegedly the poor fellow was heard to exclaim: “Townsend’s reward has done for me!”’

‘I’m sure that I can’t be blamed fer that,’ Townsend protested.  ‘And one of my old acquaintances – ’

‘We don’t have time for your ruddy old acquaintances!’ Read snapped. ‘We need to act now!’ Townsend’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head.

‘I think someone has also discovered that it was the Prince Regent who was robbed,’ Lavender said quietly. ‘The word is out on the street; I’ve heard references to Gentleman George’s stolen pocket watch.’

Read groaned. ‘God’s teeth! So by tomorrow morning, the news-sheets will have columns devoted to the story of this robbery?”

‘Probably – but it was only a matter of time,’ Lavender said. ‘The incident happened in broad daylight in a public street. There will have been witnesses.’

‘Unless we make an arrest soon, Bow Street Police Office will be the laughing stock of London,’ Read snapped.

‘Not if we get to the rookery and arrest them up first,’ Lavender said. The other men glanced up in surprise. ‘It’s the Shiels Gang: Conkey Shiels, Timon Roberts and Big George. They’re the ones behind this attack on the pawn-broker. They’ve spent the day trawling the city looking for the snuffer and that damned watch. I suspect that they’re also harbouring Little Beau. If we pay them a surprise visit at dawn tomorrow, we may also find him.’

‘How do you know this?’ Read asked.

‘They attacked Barty Wilton on Drury Lane.’

‘I’m not sure that I’d trust Wilton,’ Read said slowly.

‘In addition to this, Constable Woods saw the Shiels Gang lurking around Piccadilly; they were asking questions about the pocket watch and the snuffer.’

‘Woods?’ Read snapped. ‘What was he doing in Piccadilly?’

‘His job,’ Lavender said, patiently.

‘I sent him home in disgrace,’ Read snapped. ‘I’ll not pay him his wages for working.’

‘That man never follows instructions,’ Townsend said, slyly.

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Lavender snapped.  ‘Two witnesses have confirmed the names of this gang of thugs. Let’s gather up the men, go to the rookery at dawn and round them up!’

Townsend jabbed a podgy finger towards him. ‘Now, now Lavender, keep your temper.  How do we know that we can trust any of this information, eh? Constable Woods will be desperate to curry favour with Magistrate Read.  He could send us on a wild goose chase.’

Lavender clenched his fists and slid them into his coat pockets. Read had fallen silent, He had picked up a quill and twirled it thoughtfully. ‘It’s the best lead we’ve got,’ he said, eventually. ‘And at least we’ll be seen to be doing something. Go home both of you and return an hour before dawn. I’ll contact the other officers. Those coves will get a rude awakening in the rookery of St. Giles tomorrow.’

It was still dark when Lavender returned to Bow Street the next day. The hallway of the Police Office was packed with twenty hard-faced and powerfully built men.  It reeked with the acrid stench of gunpowder, wet horse and male body odour.  Dragged out early from their beds, many were unshaven and scowling. A deep, underlying growl – interspersed with the occasional curse or short burst of ribald laughter – emanated from the crowd. Metal handcuffs were distributed and glinted in the dying candlelight. Several bleary-eyed horse patrol officers leaned against the walls, priming their pistols, their boots and uniforms splattered with the mud of the outlying roads of the capital where they had spent the night on patrol.

Magistrate Read was taking no chances. Every available man at Bow Street had been called in to participate in the dawn raid on the rookery of St. Giles. They made a formidable sight gathered together in the gloomy and chilly hallway; even the dark shadows they cast on the walls and flag-stoned floor were elongated and menacing.

It was every available man – except one, Lavender realised as he scanned the crowd. There was no sign of Ned Woods. He had hoped that Read would have relented by now and invited his constable back to work. Swallowing his disappointment, he pushed his way through the crowd to the staircase.

Several of his fellow detectives, Vickery, McManus and Donaldson, were gathered with Townsend and Magistrate Read in a group on the bottom rungs of the stairs. Vickery and Donaldson nodded to him as he approached. Their dark, sombre attire contrasted with the blue great coats and red waistcoats of the constables and Townsend’s creased light-coloured kerseymere breeches and battered white hat. Elevated to the rank of detective because of their sharp investigative skills and courage, these men were the best detectives in Britain. Lavender knew that several of his peers regarded Townsend with the same disdain as him but at the moment they were stood in silence as the eccentric detective stood a few steps up and related the dramatic events of the past two days. McManus seemed particularly enthralled. Vickery leaned back against the handrail of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, quietly eyeing the older detective.

‘You were a saphead to let the Prince be robbed while you were on duty, Townsend,’ said McManus with a smirk.

‘It’ll reflect badly on all of us at Bow Street, if we don’t solve this case,’ Magistrate Read interrupted. McManus shuffled uncomfortably and the grin fell from his face. Vickery stood up straighter.

‘And God only knows how many other poor innocent souls will be attacked by that gang before this is over,’ Townsend said, unabashed. ‘’Tis essential we round up these coves today.’

‘Morning, Lavender,’ Read said. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Oh you’re here now, are you, Lavender?’ Townsend interrupted. His tone suggested that Lavender was late. ‘Then I suppose that we’d be better get goin’.’ He climbed up a couple more steps and raised his voice over the buzz of the crowd. ‘Who’s with me?’ he yelled. ‘Who’s fer a trip to the rookery?’

Everyone turned and the underlying growl of the men became a roar of cheers.

‘Who wants a share of the Prince Regent’s reward?’ Townsend shouted above the din.

‘Me!’

‘Aye – lead the way, Townsend!’

Townsend raised his pistol above his head and pointed with it to the door to the stableyard.  ‘Well, come on! Let’s get those buggers in the rookery and give ’em a rousin’ they’ll never forget!’

He marched down the stairs. The excited cheers of the officers rang in his ears as he pushed his way through the men and led the way to the back of the building.  The officers fell in behind him.

‘Detective Lavender!’ One of the desk clerks waved frantically to attract his attention. The man pointed to a young woman standing beside the desk, pressed up beside the wall in the shadows.  It was Sarah, the barmaid from The White Bear. He hadn’t noticed her before, unable to see past the milling throng of officers.

She had buttoned her fraying coat up to the neck and was clutching the fringed ends of a plain but clean shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked like a prim, little church-goer rather than a tavern wench.

‘I’ll catch up with you!’ he called after his departing colleagues. ‘How can I help you, Sarah?’  He was torn. Part of him wanted to follow his colleagues to the rout in the rookery but the other half hoped beyond hope that the girl had remembered the thief’s address.

‘I’ve been thinkin’ all night about that address you wanted,’ she said. ‘The storm kept me awake and although I can’t remember it exact, I think I may know ’ow to get there.’ Her heart-shaped face peered up at him intently from beneath her straw bonnet. It was tied beneath her chin with a pretty blue ribbon.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I told ’im the address were no use to me because I don’t know my numbers, so there weren’t no point for ’im to give me the number of the street.’ Lavender cast a quick glance at the last of the officers as they disappeared out of the door. Please God, the girl wasn’t wasting his time. ‘So ’e described ’ow to get there,’ she continued. ‘I think I can show you the place. ’E said I should go out of the back arch onto Jerrmyn Street…’

‘Wait a minute, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Let me get a map.’

‘And who do we have here?’ Magistrate Read stood at his shoulder, staring coldly at Sarah. His tone was censorious. ‘This young woman is keeping you from your duties, Lavender.’

‘This is Miss…’ Lavender hesitated, unable to remember her last name.

‘Benson, sir,’ she said. She bobbed Read a dainty curtsey. ‘Miss Sarah Benson.’

‘Miss Benson has some information regarding the snuffer,’ Lavender explained. He took a huge breath. ‘It could be important. I think we need to listen to what she has to say.’

Read’s eyes widened. ‘Then you’re very welcome, Miss Benson,’ he said.

‘Yes, and I’m to get the reward money,’ she said quickly. ‘What did that fat, little man mean when ’e invited those fellahs to come and share the reward wi’ ’im?’ Lavender heard the sudden distrust in her voice.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said. ‘He’s mistaken. The reward is for finding the silver pocket watch and I believe that the man we talked about yesterday has the item with him. If you can lead us to him, you can share in the reward.’

‘In that case, that fat, little fellah is not very bright then, is ’e? ’ Sarah threw them both a disarmingly pretty smile. Lavender felt Read stiffen beside him.

‘Do you have a map of Piccadilly in your office, sir?’ Lavender asked.

‘You know I do.’ Read stepped back and indicated with his outstretched arm that they were to lead the way up the dark staircase.

Read kept a large collection of Richard Horwood’s 1779 maps rolled into scrolls in the bookcase in his office. As he and Lavender went through the scrolls, searching for the map of Piccadilly, Sarah stood in the centre of the spartan room and curiously examined her surroundings.

‘So this is where you police work,’ she said. Her eyes alighted on the two soot-blackened, framed portraits of the Fielding brothers, founders of the Bow Street police force, above Read’s cluttered desk. ‘My, they’re a pair of miserable lookin’ bleeders,’ she said to Read. ‘Are they relatives of yours?’

Lavender thought Read would choke but somehow the magistrate contained himself and managed a strangled; ‘No, Miss Benson, they aren’t.’

‘Come here, Sarah,’ Lavender said.  He unfurled the Piccadilly map, spread it across the desk and turned up the lamp. ‘Let’s start again. The man told you to leave The White Bear and go out through the rear archway into Jerrmyn Street…’

‘Yes, and I were to turn left towards the market. I were to pass the hosiers and the stables.’

Lavender nodded and listened patiently, comparing what the girl said with his knowledge of the poorer east end of Jerrmyn Street.  He ran his finger along the street on the map and pushed back a lock of dark hair that fallen forward over his face with his other hand. To the east of the church was an area of poor repute. It was a labyrinth of burrows and dilapidated houses that extended to the market and St. James Square. These cramped, narrow lanes contained a whole range of shops on the ground floor with cheap lodgings above. It was exactly the kind of place where he expected the thief to live.

Sarah reeled off several more landmarks she had been told to find, then she hesitated. She moved closer towards the map but he knew the printed street names meant nothing to her. He smelt the scent of cheap soap emanating from her warm, little body.

‘He said to turn down …St. Albans Street.  That’s it: St. Albans Street – until I reached Market Lane.’ Now she paused.

‘What next, Sarah?’ he asked gently.

‘I think it were North Street.’

Lavender sighed. There was no North Street on the map. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘I thinks so.’

He hesitated for a moment, leaned forward to get a better look and was hit with a moment of inspiration. ‘Was it Norris Street, Sarah? There’s a Norris Street just here.’

Her bosom heaved with relief. ‘Yes! That were it. Norris Street. I remember now.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course, I’m sure!’ Her voice rose with surprise that he doubted her. ‘I remember because there were a foul-mouthed old butcher called Norris lived next door to me Ma, and I can remember thinkin’ that ’e didn’t deserve to ’ave a street named for ’im.’

‘And at what number house on Norris Street did this man live?’ Read asked.

‘Now there’s the problem,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t pay much attention to that because I don’t know what my numbers look like. But ’e described it to me. There were an ’aberdashery next door, he said. There’d be wools, fine silks, ribbons and the such like in the window. I remembers that because I like me ribbons.’

A smile twitched at the side of Read’s mouth. ‘I’m sure you do, young lady.’

‘Well, he said he lived next door. The ’ouse ’ad a brown door with a wall lantern beside it. Well-lit he said. But I was to go in quietly so as not to wake up his landlady and come to him on the top floor.’

The smile dropped from Read’s face.

Lavender straightened up, satisfied. With Sarah’s directions they could find the snuffer. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Sarah.  We are grateful.’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘Do I get me reward now?’ she asked hopefully and spun round to stare straight up into Read’s face. ‘I wants me own stall on the market and sell straw bonnets, you know. I need that money to start up.’

‘Now young lady,’ Read said, slowly. ‘You will need to be patient for a while. This is what will happen. Detective Lavender will go to Norris Street and arrest this man. Hopefully, he will also recover the stolen watch.’

‘The watch that belongs to the Prince?’

If Read was wrong-footed by her comment this time he didn’t show it. He nodded and his voice was kind. ‘If we find the watch in Norris Street, the reward will be shared out between you and Detective Lavender.’ Her intense gaze now switched to Lavender.

‘I want you to go home now,’ Read continued, ‘and come back here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Let Detective Lavender do his job. I should be able to let you know what has happened by then.’

‘And you won’t try to cheat me?’ she asked.

‘I’m one of the King’s magistrates, Miss Benson. You have my word of honour as a gentleman and a magistrate that I won’t try to cheat you.’

‘Yer a beak?’ Her dark eyes widened again. ‘You never said.’

‘Yes,’ Read replied. ‘I am a magistrate. And to show my personal gratitude for your help, I’d like you to have this.’ He fished in his coat pocket for a couple of shillings. ‘Have you eaten today, Miss Benson? No? Well, this should buy you some breakfast and leave enough to buy you a new ribbon as well.’

With gleaming eyes and the coins clutched in her hot little hand, Sarah took her leave. ‘Don’t let ’im escape!’ she called out to Lavender over her shoulder as she left.

‘You know what she is?’ Lavender asked as he rolled up the map and replaced it on the shelf.

‘I’ve guessed,’ Read replied. ‘But I think the girl genuinely wants to better herself. There’s ambition shining in those pretty eyes.’

Lavender reached for his gloves. ‘Do you want me to follow the others to the rookery and arrest the snuffer afterwards?’

The magistrate picked up his own hat and gloves. ‘No. Townsend and the other men have got the raid covered. They should be able to manage those murderous rogues on their own.  We’ll go straight to Norris Street and pay this thief a visit. Let’s just hope that he hasn’t fenced the pocket watch already.’

‘We?’ This was a new and surprising development.

‘Yes, I’ll come with you. You might need some assistance.  Apart from the clerks and the gaolers who are needed here, there’s no-one left at Bow Street to help you. And yes, before you point it out, I am well aware that I have deprived you of your usual crime-fighting partner.’

They hailed a cab and were soon on their way through the glistening and flooded streets to the rabbit-warren of narrow lanes around St. James’ Market.

‘I’ve told the clerks to send a message to Norris Street the minute they hear any news from Townsend,’ Read said.

Lavender was surprised that Read had offered to accompany him and not particularly grateful. If the thief turned violent when they tried to arrest him, he wasn’t sure how the overweight and unfit older man at his side would react. He was concerned that Read might be more of a liability in such an event than a help. They travelled in thoughtful silence until Lavender suddenly rapped on the roof to attract the attention of the driver.  He stuck his head out of the cab window and told him to take a short detour down Piccadilly.

‘What are you doing?’ Read asked, surprise.

‘Calling for reinforcements,’ Lavender replied. It wasn’t long before he saw the man he needed. He ordered the cab driver to stop again, leaned out of the open window and shouted at a crumpled beggar lounging in the shadows of the overhanging eaves of the houses.

‘Ned!  Get in the cab – we’re off to arrest the snuffer and I want you to identify him.’

The beggar leapt to his feet and strode towards them. Pushing back his hat, Woods pulled away the layers of scarves from around his neck to reveal the huge grin spread across his large, round face. ‘I knew I could rely on you, sir,’ Woods said to Lavender with a wink. There was still a mass of black and purple bruises over his right eye.

‘Good grief!’ said Read.

If Woods was surprised to see Lavender’s companion, he didn’t show it. ‘Mornin’, Magistrate Read. I’ll travel on the outside.’

‘’Ere!’ the driver said, as Woods clambered up onto the perch beside him. ‘Passengers travel inside – not wi’ me.’

‘It’s all right,’ Woods replied. ‘I’m not a passenger; I’m a police constable.’

‘You don’t smell like a police constable.’

‘Oh, we come in all sorts of different flavours.’

Smiling, Lavender closed the window and sat back in his seat. The vehicle jerked into motion.

‘So that’s what he has been doing for the past two days,’ Read said, thoughtfully. Lavender just nodded.

Their journey down Jerrmyn Street and Market Lane was slow. Dawn was breaking over the high brick chimneys that spewed soot and smoke out across this labyrinth of burrows and the streets had already filled with people and carts delivering goods. The shop-keepers were outside their premises opening up for business and sweeping away the puddles of the previous night’s rain. The narrow thoroughfares became even more constricted as the traders piled wicker baskets and earthenware pots containing their goods outside their doors on the street.

‘The girl said that it was a brown door next to haberdashers,’ Read said as they approached the entrance to Norris Street. ‘On the top floor.’

But they didn’t need to remind themselves. The moment they turned into Norris Street they knew the exact establishment where the thief lived.

The brown door next to the haberdashery gaped wide open onto the street and a large, animated crowd was gathered outside. In the middle of the crowd, an elderly woman stood screaming hysterically. Her shocked and pale-faced neighbours buzzed around like agitated insects, trying to comfort her.

Lavender leapt down from the cab and raced across the wet cobbles towards them. Woods was by his side in an instant. Lavender fished out his brass-topped tipstaff from his coat pocket and held it aloft as they forced their way to the front of the crowd.

‘Detective Lavender – Bow Street police!’ he shouted.

‘My! That were quick!’ said a man in the crowd. ‘We’ve only just sent for a constable.’

‘What’s happened, here?’

‘They’ve murdered ’im!’ The elderly woman shrieked. ‘They’ve killed my lovely Mr. Trevelyan!’

‘Who have?’

‘Murder!’ screeched the hysterical woman again. ‘Murder! Murder in my lodgings!’ Two women reached out to comfort her.

‘T’were a gang of rogues,’ someone informed Lavender. ‘Three of them, there were.’

‘’Tis the Shiels gang,’ Woods murmured under his breath. ‘Damn their eyes.’

‘They pushed their way into ’er ’ouse and killed ’er lodger,’ a woman told them.

‘When?’

‘A few minutes ago. They’ve legged it now, though.’

‘Which way did they go?’

There seemed to be some confusion among the crowd at this point but eventually a woman with a baby wrapped in her shawl pointed a trembling finger down the street. ‘I sees them go!’ she said. ‘Down there – towards Haymarket.’

Lavender and Woods set off after the gang but they had barely gone five hundred yards into the maze of narrow alleyways before they pulled up at a junction where three lanes converged.

‘It’ll be impossible to find them on foot in this labyrinth,’ Woods growled.

Lavender nodded.  ‘They’ll be scampering back to their rat holes in St. Giles.’

‘We’d be better to split up – or better still, get back in the cab, drive to the rookery and head them off,’ Woods suggested. He turned on his heel to return to Norris Street.

Lavender grabbed his arm and restrained him. ‘Let’s leave them for now,’ he said. ‘Townsend and twenty officers from Bow Street are already in the rookery. With any luck, Conkey Shiels will run straight back into their open arms.’

Woods’ one good eye widened with surprise then he scowled. ‘I hope they catch them – the murderin’ bastards!’

They returned to the snuffer’s lodgings and found that the distraught landlady had been coaxed into a neighbour’s house but most of the crowd still lingered outside.

Magistrate Read was already upstairs examining the scene of the crime. The dark, low-roofed bedroom had been ransacked by the gang.  The bed was overturned, the mattress slashed, and the contents of every cupboard and drawer had been hurled onto the wooden floorboards.

The thief’s body lay prostrate among the debris of his life. Read had covered him with a threadbare blanket. A dark, stain had spread across the woollen cloth and there were pools of blood on the floor.

‘His name was Henry Trevelyan.’ Read’s voice was dull and emotionless. ‘He was from Truro and had been in London for about six weeks. His landlady said he was the best of tenants: neat, tidy and clean.’

‘What happened to him?’ Lavender asked.

‘It looks like he was stabbed through the heart,’ Read said. ‘A doctor will be able to confirm it. He’s already gone cold.’

‘How did they get in?’ Lavender asked.

‘Apparently, the landlady was in the habit of leaving the front door off the latch and the thugs let themselves in. The first thing she knew about any trouble was when she heard banging and shouting from upstairs. She peered through a crack in the door to her own rooms and saw three men thundering down the stairs. She hastily retreated and locked herself in her apartment. Only when she was sure they had gone did she come up here and discover Trevelyan dead on the floor.’

Woods lifted a corner of the blanket and studied the dead man’s pale face and blank staring eyes. ‘Yes, that’s him.’ His voice was gruff. ‘That’s the snuffer. He caused me a lot of grief – but he didn’t deserve this. Poor sod.’

‘There’s no honour among thieves,’ Read replied curtly.

‘’Tis a rough justice,’ said Woods.

‘Does he have any family in London?’ Lavender asked.

‘Not that the Landlady knows. She said he was a quiet man with no friends, who kept himself to himself. She wasn’t even sure where he worked – although he had told her that he had lost his position recently and was seeking new employment.’ Lavender grimaced. It was exactly the scenario he had imagined. ‘He always paid his rent on time,’ Read continued.

Lavender moved a pile of clothing and the shattered water jug with his foot. ‘It looks like the Shiels gang turned this place over, looking for that pocket watch.’

‘I wonder if they found it? Or if Trevelyan told them where it was?’ asked Woods.

At the mention of the watch, the subdued magistrate suddenly seemed to come back to life. ‘We need to search this place before the doctor and the undertaker get here,’ he said. ‘The pocket watch may still be here. The landlady said that the attack was quick. They might not have had the time to search thoroughly if Trevelyan had proved stubborn and uncooperative.’

‘Maybe that’s why they stabbed him,’ Woods said. ‘He wouldn’t give them what they wanted.’

‘And if they have got the watch?’ Lavender asked, as he bent to pick up the upturned bed frame. Woods took the other end and they lifted it together.

‘Let’s just hope that Townsend and the men are still in the rookery and catch this gang when they return to their bolt-hole,’ Read said grimly. ‘Otherwise we will never see it again.’

Woods moved over to the window, pulled back the heavy, dark green drapes to let in more light and forced open the window. Lavender was grateful for that. The smell of congealing blood always made him nauseous and the whole house stank of boiled cabbage and kippers. Although he suspected that some of the fishy odour emanated from Woods’ old jacket.

‘What’s so special about this damned watch of the prince’s, anyway?’ Woods asked, as he turned back. ‘Why is every cove, policeman and news reporter in the city tryin’ to get their hands on it – and why such a large reward?’

Read hesitated for a moment then sighed. ‘It was given to his Royal Highness by Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert.’

Woods’ eyebrows rose with surprise. ‘His mistress?’

Read nodded.  ‘It has sentimental value for him.’

Woods shook his head sadly. ‘I thought that were long over,’ he said. ‘Especially since the Prince married some years back.’ Lavender just frowned.

They set to work and searched through every nook and cranny of the room. Stepping carefully around the body, they shifted the furniture and pulled up loose floorboards. They also checked the backs and undersides of the cheap wooden furniture for loose panels and secret drawers. 

Trevelyan didn’t have much in the way of personal possessions: a small empty trunk; his shaving equipment; a pack of playing cards and a couple of battered, well-thumbed books.  Woods grunted angrily and scowled as he picked up Trevelyan’s snuff box.  Lavender hid his smile and continued to sift through the mounds of horse hair that had spewed out of the slashed mattress. ‘Check the chimney, Ned,’ he said.

Woods got down on the floor and explored the inside of the cold chimney for secret ledges, while Lavender picked up Trevelyan’s clothing and went through the pockets and linings. The man had had a plain taste in clothes, Lavender decided. Nearly everything he owned, from his woollen socks to his shirts, was brown.  He inserted his hand into Trevelyan’s coat pocket and a sharp pin, attached to some wooden object, stabbed into his hand.  Cursing, he sucked away the trickle of blood and carefully returned his hand into the pocket.  He pulled out a bobbin of dark-green cotton with a sewing needle pushed through the thread on the side.

He frowned and glanced back at the body and the pile of clothes now heaped on the end of the bed.  Most of Trevelyan’s clothes had been patched, darned or repaired, so it was no surprise to find thread and a needle among his meagre possessions. But dark green thread? He picked up some items of clothing and checked again. The repairs had been carried out in small, neat stitches with brown thread or wool that matched the material.

Read glanced through the window, into the street below and sighed. ‘The undertaker is here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go downstairs and meet him. You men carry on.’

When Read left, Woods withdrew his head from the chimney and stood up. A small shower of soot rained down into the hearth.  ‘It looks like those murderin’ buggers have got away with that damned watch,’ he said, angrily. He wiped his large, soot-blackened hands on his jacket.  ‘We’ve turned this place upside down and that pocket watch isn’t here.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Lavender said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

Lavender walked over and handed him the bobbin of thread. ‘Sewin’ cotton?’ Woods asked.

‘Yes. He’d dropped it into his coat pocket and must have forgotten that it was there.’

‘Has he been darnin’ his clothes?’ Woods looked at the pile on the bed.

‘Not his clothes,’ Lavender said. He heard Read’s footsteps on the wooden staircase outside; the magistrate was returning. ‘They’re repaired with brown thread.’

Woods’ frown deepened and he glanced round the room. ‘Then what? What were it used for?’ he asked.

‘The window drapes,’ Lavender said and he stepped back, away from his constable. Woods remained in the same spot with the thread still in his out-stretched hand.

Read came back into the room. He looked pleased and a bit breathless. ‘I’ve left the undertaker downstairs with the landlady. He’ll be up in a moment. And I’ve just received a message from the clerks at Bow Street. It’s good news. Townsend and the others have arrested the Shiels gang – and they’ve also found Little Beau. So at least we now have all the murdering, thieving rogues in custody.’

‘That’s excellent news, sir,’ Lavender said.

‘But there’s no news about the stolen watch. It doesn’t sound like the gang had it on them – or if they did, Townsend didn’t send word.’ He sighed. ‘We might as well give up this search. I don’t think that pocket watch is here.’

‘Constable Woods has just made a discovery,’ Lavender said. ‘He was just about to tell me its significance.’

Read glanced up sharply. ‘What have you got, man?’

Woods’ jaw dropped and he threw Lavender a startled glance.

Read moved towards Woods. His sharp eyes fell on the bobbin of thread in the constable’s outstretched hand. ‘Sewing cotton?’ he asked.

For a moment, it looked like Woods had gone dumb. His mouth opened and closed like that of a fish.  Then he said, slowly: ‘I were just wonderin’…’

‘Yes, spit it out, man.’

‘I were wonderin’ why Trevelyan would have green sewin’ thread?’

The magistrate frowned. ‘What is the significance of that? It must be for some repair, surely.’

‘I thought it might be the window drapes, sir.’

‘The drapes?’

Read swiveled round and stared at window, framed with the heavy, green material. Woods moved across and stood between the drapes with his back to the window. He picked up one in each hand and lifted them from the floor. ‘I were wonderin’…’ he said, as he raised and lowered each drape slowly. ‘I were wonderin’…’

Go on, Ned, Lavender thought silently. You can do it.

Framed against the window, with a drape in each hand, Woods looked like a marionette dangling from two jerking green strings.

‘…if they’d been repaired.’ Suddenly the light dawned in Woods’ eyes. ‘And I think, sir, that this left drape is heavier than the right.’

Read rushed forward and hauled up the voluminous hem of the left-hand drape. ‘You’re right, constable!’ he exclaimed. ‘And there’s a repair at the bottom. Quick!  Open it up. Perhaps Trevelyan hid the watch in the lining.’

Woods pulled out his pocket knife. Read held the heavy material steady while Woods sliced open the fabric. When Read inserted his hand into the folds of the cloth, Lavender heard the soft chink of metal banging against metal as the magistrate fished around among the lead weights used to weigh down the drapes.

Read beamed with delight. ‘You’re right, Woods! Oh, well done!’

Carefully, Read extracted a long silver chain from within the material. At the end was a gleaming pocket watch.  He let the watch dangle down towards the floor and the men stared at it mesmerised as it reflected back the soft light of the morning sun.

‘Well done, Constable Woods!’ Read’s voice was thick with relief and satisfaction.

‘Let me see,’ said Lavender. Before the magistrate could protest, Lavender moved swiftly forward, lifted the dangling pocket watch, flicked open the casing and read the inscription inside.

Read hastily snatched it back. ‘I’ll take care of this,’ he said.

There was a huge celebration in The Nags Head that night.  Every officer involved in the successful dawn raid on the rookery crammed into the ancient and smoky tavern. They were in a jubilant mood. Their laughter rebounded off the low-beamed ceiling with its chandeliers of dripping tallow candles.

Detective Townsend positioned himself beside the fireplace and told anyone who would listen, over and over again, how he had hauled Little Beau out from the beneath the floorboards of Timon Robert’s cellar by his heels. ‘That sister of Roberts’ – that trollop Lola – cursed me like a docker and whacked me with an iron pan at the same time – but I held fast!  There was no way the little whiddler would escape from old John Townsend.’

Lavender sat quietly in a corner with a glass of brandy, enjoying the laughter and excitement of his colleagues. Behind the bar, tiers of mirrored shelving displayed a wide range of brandies and other spirits in a wonderful array of glass bottles that glittered in shades of emerald and sapphire. The glass and the mirrors gave the impression that the smoky tavern and the crowd of officers were twice as large. Lavender took a long drink from his glass, sat back and undid the buttons of his great coat. As the brandy warmed his innards, he felt the tension ease from his tired body and mind.

It had been a long day. Trevelyan’s brutal murder had saddened him but he knew that he couldn’t have done anything else to save him. Despite Trevelyan’s death, they’d still had a good outcome to the case. And, as an added bonus, an outspoken little tavern wench would be lifted out of a miserable life of casual prostitution when she received her share of the reward money. Although what Sarah Benson would say when she learned that she now had to share the reward with Constable Woods as well as himself, he couldn’t imagine. But there would still be plenty of money for her to set herself up in business.  He had no doubt that Miss Sarah Benson would make a respectable and successful businesswoman. His mind flashed back to that other young girl he had seen this week; the child, whom his evidence had sent to New South Wales. He hastily pushed her out of his mind. His job had its compensations as well as its tragedies, he decided.

When Ned Woods arrived at the tavern, he was instantly surrounded by a large, noisy group of drunken officers who slapped him on his back and plied him with liquor. Woods was a popular member of the horse patrol and everyone was delighted at his return to favour. The news had quickly spread around Bow Street that Ned Woods had found the missing pocket watch.

Detectives McManus, Vickery and Donaldson suddenly appeared at Lavender’s table with their drinks and pipes.

‘We need to get away from Townsend.’ Vickery pulled up a stool across the uneven flag-stoned floor and sat down.

‘Yes,’ Donaldson agreed as he relit his pipe. ‘If I hear once more how he wrestled that dwarf to the ground, I think I’ll vomit down me breeches.’

‘Yet the word is,’ said McManus slyly. ‘That it was your intelligence, Lavender, that led to the raid.’

‘It might have been,’ he said, smiling. ‘With some help from Ned Woods.’

‘And we’ve also heard that some little tavern wench – a sweetheart of yours – led you and Old Read to the snuffer.’

Lavender nearly choked on his brandy: ‘She’s not my sweetheart.’

‘Is she Read’s sweetheart?’ Vickery asked. ‘We’ve heard that he bought the little doxy some ribbons.’

‘You’re a dark horse, Lavender,’ said Vickery. ‘We get sent to grapple with a gang of cut-throats, while you and Read entertain young gals in his office.’

Lavender laughed and for the next half an hour he parried his colleagues’ teasing and joined in their banter. Their curiosity was piqued and even in their cups, these men were good at their job. Bit by bit, they wheedled the full story out of him.

‘You’ve done well, Lavender,’ slurred McManus, as they eventually rose to leave. ‘Townsend may try to steal the glory – but we know where the real talent lies in Bow Street.’ He raised his brandy glass in a silent toast to Lavender.

‘It was Ned Woods who found the pocket watch,’ he reminded them.

‘Yes,’ said Vickery, with a wink. ‘Of course it was.’

‘I’m surprised you managed to pull the wool over Read’s eyes with that little trick, Lavender,’ Donaldson said with a grin ‘Magistrate Read’s normally sharper than that.’

Lavender just smiled and took another sip of his drink.  Vickery downed his brandy and stood up to leave. The other men followed suit and all bade Lavender farewell.

Woods broke away from the raucous crowd of patrol officers who were now singing a bawdy song and joined him at his table.  His grey eyes gleamed with alcohol but they focused steadily on Lavender’s face. ‘I wanted to thank you, sir – for everythin’,’ he said.

Lavender smiled. ‘It was my pleasure, Ned. I trust Magistrate Read has invited you back to work?’

‘Yes, I’m back on patrol tomorrow mornin’.’ Lavender heard the satisfaction and excitement in his voice.

‘Well, there wasn’t much else Read could do, was there, except reinstate me?’ Woods continued. ‘Not once I’d solved the mystery of the lost pocket watch.’ He gave Lavender a huge wink with his good eye. ‘That were kind of you, sir – to set me up as the hero of the hour. But it might be best if you don’t do that again. Solvin’ these mysteries is your job – and you do it very well. I’m to provide the back up. It addles my old brain to have to think that much. I nearly didn’t get your meanin’.’

Lavender smiled. ‘I assume that Betsy is happier now?’

‘Yes,’ Woods said quickly, ‘and she’s asked you round for supper tomorrow night. She wants to make bread and butter puddin’ with rum sauce in your honour.’

Lavender’s eyes lit up. This was best news yet. ‘Please tell her I shall be delighted to come.’

Woods nodded and frowned slightly. ‘So what were it you saw in the casin’ of that ruddy watch?’ Woods asked. ‘What’s the damned mystery?’

Lavender put down his glass on the table. ‘Between you and me, Ned – there’s an inscription inside the watch from Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert to the Prince.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘It reads: “For my darling husband, George – from your one true wife”.’

‘Heaven and Hell!’ Woods exclaimed. ‘That would have caused some trouble if it had got into the wrong hands – especially the hands of those reporters.’

‘Exactly,’ Lavender said. His voice hardened. ‘Thankfully it didn’t.’

‘Weren’t there some rumours that he’d married her? A few years back?’

‘Yes, but they died down. There were questions about whether the Prince’s marriage to Princess Caroline is legal, and whether Princess Charlotte is legitimate and the rightful heir to the throne after her father. I can understand Read’s concern. The Prince is hugely unpopular at the moment; a resurgence of this old scandal is the last thing the House of Hanover needs.’

Woods gave a low whistle and shook his head. ‘Tonight’s not the night to worry about such things,’ he said, wisely. ‘We’re servants of the crown and we have a job to do – and today we did it well. Other folks make the rules; so let others worry about the politics.’

A grateful smile spread across Lavender’s face.  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ned.’

‘Well, it looks like you’d do all right – if the last two days are anythin’ to go by. You even managed to get help from that young girl without scarin’ her.’

‘Yes, it was probably a good thing you weren’t there.’ Lavender said. He pointed to the hideous bruising on Woods’ face. ‘Sarah Benson would have taken one look at you, screamed and run away.’

Woods laughed. The amber liquid swirled and flashed in their glasses as the two men clinked them in a private toast.

‘We’ve done well,’ Woods growled.

‘Yes,’ Lavender replied, quietly. ‘We’ve done very well.’

Author’s Notes

Thank you for reading my short story. I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer. 

Detective Stephen Lavender was a real historical figure, a principal officer with the Bow Street magistrates’ court in London during the Regency period. Following the formation of the police force by Sir Robert Peel in 1821, Lavender became the highly-respected Deputy Chief Constable of Manchester until 1833.

I first came across Stephen Lavender when researching my first novel, Catching the Eagle. This is the true story of how one of my late husband’s ancestors was controversially convicted of Northumberland’s biggest robbery back in 1809. Lavender was the detective called up from London to solve the mystery of the Kirkley Hall Robbery. Ultimately, Lavender was the man who put our ancestor in the dock but I don’t hold this against him. In fact, when creating his character for Eagle I began to like the serious, intelligent and slightly melancholic Detective Stephen Lavender. I also grew very fond of his fictional sidekick, Constable Woods.

John Townsend, Magistrate Read and Detectives Vickery, McManus and Donaldson were also real Bow Street personnel and are vividly described in several reference books including: Percy FitzGerald’s Chronicles of Bow Street Police Office and A Certain Share of Low Cunning: A history of the Bow Street Runners by David J. Cox.

As always, the idea for this piece of fiction came from several different sources. While reading my treasured dialogue handbook, Cant, A Gentleman’s Guide; The Language of Rogues in Georgian London by Stephen Hart, I came across the painful, but now obsolete, crime of ‘snuffing’ and decided to feature it in a short story.  This is the crime of ‘going into a shop on some pretence, watching an opportunity to throw a handful of snuff in the eyes of the shop-keeper, and then running off with any valuable article you can lay hands on; this is called snuffing him, or giving it to him upon the snuff racket.’

The idea of a thief hiding stolen items among the lead weights used to weigh down window drapes came from fellow author and friend, Claire Stibbe. Claire told my author group, The Hysterical Fictionaires, the wonderful story of how she and her brothers snipped off the corners of her mother’s dining room curtains, took out the lead weights and tried to spend them at the local sweet shop

Thank you to the gals in the Fictionaires for beta-reading and editing this story, to Sandra for the proofread and Mike at Q Design for the lovely book cover.

If you would like to read more about Detective Stephen Lavender and Constable Woods, they feature in two full-length novels published by Thomas & Mercer: The Heiress of Linn Hagh and The Sans Pareil Mystery (October 2015). The first chapter of Heiress is available to read at the end of this short story. The eBook and paperback can be purchased from Amazon. And The Sans Pareil Mystery is now available for pre-order.

Best wishes,

Karen Charlton,

Marske-by-the Sea, North Yorkshire. 

16th May 2015

THE HEIRESS OF LINN HAGH

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 ground 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?’

‘Yes,’ 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 …’

Praise for

THE HEIRESS OF LINN HAGH

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

Atmospheric mystery

“Karen Charlton’s The Heiress of Linn Hagh is an absorbing glimpse into a Regency England far from London. Detective Stephen Lavender and his partner, Constable Woods, must deal with people who dislike any sign of authority- farmers and gypsies- and as they delve deeper into the facts of the case, they begin to understand why. I loved the way Lavender conducted his investigation and how he pieced the clues together. The comradery and humor he and Woods share is welcome relief from their dealings with suspicious townsfolk and supercilious gentry.

Although there was little doubt as to who instigated Helen Carnaby’s disappearance and why, Charlton really made me wonder just how far those people would go to get what they wanted. All in all, a most satisfactory case for the detective…Charlton hooked me with her eerie, suspenseful tale and I didn’t want to be pulled away from it for a second.

Now after seeing how Lavender and Woods can solve a case, I have only one thing to say: I want more!”

Cathy G. Cole  -  Kittling Books