The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "I thought your first wife died naturally," said Lawrence.

  "Did you?" replied George.

  "Didn’t she?"

  "I thought so at the time. Now I am not so sure."

  "But what did Mary say about the child?"

  "She said, 'I am not long for this world, but neither is the child. I will die today, and she will burn in hell."

  "That is not so much a threat as wishful thinking," said Lawrence, "though God alone knows who would wish that upon a child."

  "It was a curse," said George darkly.

  "I have been told that your wife was a herbalist, a medicine maker. That she helped people."

  "If you say so," said George sullenly. "She made tinctures which some said helped with their ailments, and she made charms for the girls. I did not mind at first. I thought she was like a quack doctor, but harmless. If sick people wanted to waste their money on her balms and cordials, then why should I care?"

  "Why did you marry her?" asked Lawrence. "Your children were grown. There was no need."

  "A man should have a wife," said George, "besides, she chose me. I was bewitched." He stared at the floor, embarrassed.

  "Did you always fear her?" asked Lawrence.

  "No, as I said, she was mostly harmless. She changed. It was Hannah Roper that first noticed. Said she was worried that Mary was taking herself too seriously and had frightened one of the other women. Eliza Clay, it was. You should speak to her. She was scared senseless and if she has recovered her senses by now, she might tell you about it. And our Sarah never liked Mary. The more she showed her dislike, the more Mary played up to it. Then it eased again, and people forgot."

  "I can’t see where witchcraft comes into it," said Lawrence.

  "I don’t know where it came from either," said George, "But not long after Harriet died, the whispers started. People claimed Mary had over-looked her. Then someone said she’d bewitched her dead husband, and that she had bewitched me, for I never cared for her until I married her. Then she was accused of causing the death of poor Jonathan Carter. He was scared to death, tormented by crows."

  "What is this story of crows?" said Lawrence. "I'd never heard of crows bringing bad luck before I came to Fressingfield."

  "I suppose you grew up in a town, did you?" asked George.

  "I did, as it happens."

  George looked him up and down. "Not much of a surprise," he said. "You don’t need to hear stories in the countryside. You use your eyes. Where there is death, so there are crows. Human or animal - it is all the same to them. They feast off their own kind." He shuddered.

  "Your wife had a tame crow, didn’t she?"

  "There was nothing tame about that feathered imp," said George, closing his eyes, as if to block an unwanted memory. "She fed it with a spoon, and it talked to her."

  "Talked to her?"

  "She spoke to it, and the thing crowed back at her, like two folk gossiping. It was unnatural; wrong in every way."

  "Where is the crow now?"

  "It has gone," said George evasively.

  "You released it?"

  "No, I wrung its evil neck."

  Lawrence shook his head, disgusted. It was one thing harbouring a fear of witchcraft, but another to use it as an excuse to kill a living creature.

  "Was that necessary?" he asked, "surely it behaved no differently to a caged canary?"

  George scowled, but did not answer.

  "Let us suppose that witches exist," said Lawrence. "Do you really believe your wife hated your grandchild so much that she deliberately caused her death?"

  "I believe it with my whole heart," said George firmly. "Everything my wife predicted came to pass. Everything. Her and I getting wed, the baby’s death and Harriet’s death."

  "You did not tell me she foretold Harriet's passing."

  "That was why Sarah hated her."

  "And you heard her say this?"

  "I did not. Perhaps it was Sarah. And if it wasn’t her, then she would know who did. You should talk to her anyway. Then you would find out how much Mary Corbyn was disliked."

  "I will talk to her," said Lawrence. "Today, if I can."

  "If you see her before I am home, tell her I sent you," said George. "She won’t speak to you, otherwise."

  Lawrence opened his mouth to ask another question, but George had already turned away, and was shuffling slowly back towards the farmhands as if all his energy was depleted. Lawrence returned to the centre of Wingfield, mulling over the conversation. George was fanciful but sincere, and his fear of Mary was real. But their conversation had not helped the investigation. If Lawrence hoped to understand the mood of the village, he would have to speak to George Corbyn's daughter soon.

  Chapter 15

  An Ill Wind

  Lawrence did not return in time to speak Sarah. It was dusk before they arrived in Fressingfield, and the journey had not gone to plan. He had collected Loveday, as promised, before meeting Michael and Violet and they’d boarded the waiting carriage. A few moments into the journey, the carriage hit a hole in the road. It had lurched forward, before tipping to one side. They calmed themselves and stumbled down the steps to find the wheel buckled and beyond repair. The cabman had apologised and said he would need to find a new wheel before they could go any further. There was little choice but to walk, and, as they set off, it had started to drizzle.

  Loveday linked her arm through Lawrence's, and they’d walked ahead of the other two. Lawrence's mood had darkened again, and he felt self-conscious at the public display of intimacy. Michael and Violet had maintained a respectable distance behind, sensing his discomfort. At first, Loveday regaled him with stories of her time in Cheltenham, but as the rain fell harder, she grew quieter and began to shiver. Lawrence had offered her his jacket, which she accepted, but by the time they’d arrived in Fressingfield, they were soaked to the bone, and the greater part of the journey had been spent in unnatural silence. It had not been a happy day.

  Lawrence woke the next morning, burning hot and with a swollen neck. He tried to rise, but the room swam, and as the sweat trickled from his brow, he realised he had a fever. He struggled to his feet, fighting the light-headedness that threatened to overwhelm him, reached the washstand, and vomited.

  Though Lawrence felt dreadful, he was too considerate to leave a mess for the maids. He dressed slowly fighting the urge to return to bed, collected the soiled basin and carried it downstairs to the water closet with its newly installed piped water. The room was not in use, so he entered, emptied the basin into the sink and swilled it, shivering throughout. He left the basin to drain on the side and entered the hallway with the intention of returning to his room with a cup of tea. He contemplated breakfast but was unable to face the thought of eating.

  As he passed the morning room, Michael looked up from his paper. "Good morning," he said, then noticed Lawrence's pale face. "You look awful," he continued.

  "I feel awful," croaked Lawrence. His throat was aflame. Beads of sweat mottled his brow.

  "Go back to bed, old man," said Michael sympathetically. "I will ask Anna to fetch the doctor."

  Lawrence did not argue. He returned to his room, undressed and got back into bed, waking several hours later to a sharp rapping at the bedroom door.

  Anna McElliott opened the door and showed a smartly dressed young man into the room. "Doctor Taylor," she announced.

  Lawrence opened bleary eyes. The young man standing before him did not look old enough to have graduated, much less completed medical training.

  "Good morning," grinned the young man, offering his hand. "Andrew Taylor, locum doctor of this parish, for my sins."

  Lawrence coughed. "Lawrence Harpham," he said, "Private Investigator and carrier of germs."

  "Ah, you still have a sense of humour," smiled Andrew, "that is a good sign and means you can’t be too unwell. Now, sit up please and let me examine you."

  The doctor located Lawrence's pulse, keeping time on a silver fob watch. "Nice
healthy beat," he said, before opening his medical bag and extracting a thermometer and a flat wooden stick.

  "Open," he said.

  Lawrence opened his mouth obediently. The doctor placed the stick on his tongue and looked down Lawrence's throat. He made a clicking sound, then inserted the thermometer in Lawrence's mouth, noted the reading, wiped the instrument and returned it to his bag.

  "You have a temperature," he said. "Your throat is inflamed, and there are some nasty, white spots down there. A touch of tonsillitis, I suspect".

  Lawrence groaned. "I don’t have the time to be ill," he complained.

  "Well, ill is what you are," said the doctor, "and a week's bed rest is what you need to make it better".

  He searched his bag again and produced two envelopes of powder. "Take these twice a day. I will write you a prescription for some more. Have it dropped with Henry Lait at the Chemist, and you’ll be fixed in no time.”

  Lawrence sighed. "I suppose I ought to thank you," he said. "But the prospect of a week's bed rest when I am well on the way to finishing my investigation is not a welcome prospect."

  "Split the difference, then," said Doctor Taylor jovially. "Stay in bed today, then see how you feel tomorrow. If you feel better, then you may go out a short distance if you take it easy."

  "I will settle for that," said Lawrence. "Thank you, doctor."

  Andrew Taylor nodded and left the room. Lawrence closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

  He slept soundly and would have slept through the night had he not been roused by a tapping at his door. He woke with a start, eyes drawn to the uncovered window where the curtains were still pulled apart. It was early evening, and the light was starting to dim. He rubbed his eyes. There was another knock at the door, this time softer.

  "Come in," he said, straining his voice. He was no longer faint, but his throat felt like a flaming poker had been scraped down the sides. The door clicked open. He half expected Loveday and was disappointed when Violet Smith emerged carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She was dressed in a plain, unflattering gown and her dark hair tumbled from an unruly bun.

  "You don’t need to wait on me," said Lawrence, sitting up, "but thank you anyway."

  Violet placed the tray on his lap. "I volunteered to," she said. "Mrs Raven insisted you should eat, and I offered to bring your tray upstairs. Something has happened in the village. I thought you might want to know about it straight away."

  "What is it?" he asked, intrigued.

  "There has been a death," she said, "a sudden death, quite unexpected. I don’t know the woman, but she is young and was in good health."

  "Go on," croaked Lawrence.

  "Her name is Eliza. Her mother found her dead on the floor in her parlour."

  "Do you know anything more?"

  "I know that she lived alone and had two young children, but she worked, so her mother minded them during the day. Eliza failed to bring her children to her mother's house this morning, and her mother was concerned, and set off to find her. When she arrived at the house, the two children were crying beside Eliza's body, which lay prone upon the floor. She was cold to the touch, and her mother summoned the surgeon who lived nearby. Both Mr Smart and Doctor Taylor attended the body, and I’ve heard that neither man was prepared to write a death certificate. She’s been taken away for an autopsy."

  "Extraordinary," exclaimed Lawrence. "Quite shocking. Still, it may yet turn out to be a natural death. Who was the young lady?"

  "Her name was Eliza Clay."

  "But I only heard that name yesterday," said Lawrence. "In fact, I was told to seek her out."

  "There’s no point now," said Violet practically. "But why would you have called upon her?"

  "I am not sure," said Lawrence, shaking his head. "I was told that she was afraid of Mary Corbyn and thought it would be useful to find out why. George Corbyn suggested speaking to her, but I got the impression that he didn’t know much about it either."

  "It’s hard to believe her death is anything more than a coincidence," said Violet watching Lawrence drain his cup. She poured him another tea.

  "Agreed," said Lawrence, "and we must wait until the autopsy is finished to know if there is anything suspicious about the death. It may be entirely natural."

  "In that case, I will leave you to your thoughts," said Violet.

  Lawrence smiled. "Thank you for bringing me the news," he said. "You did the right thing."

  Violet returned the smile revealing perfectly straight teeth. "Sleep well," she said, and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Lawrence’s night was disturbed, and he barely slept at all. At first, he slid beneath the covers expecting to drop off quickly but having rested for the best part of the day, his mind was too active. After a futile hour trying to get comfortable, he gave up, lit his bedside lamp, and walked over to the dressing table. He lit a candle from the lamp and flicked through the untouched sheaf of papers he had placed with the journals the previous day. The documents were loose, but at one time they had been bound together in a book whose binding had long since perished. He scanned each paper, disappointed at their content. Most contained records of the parish overseers. Pages of outstanding accounts were notated, each sum of money ascribed with the name of the payee and the date the payment fell due. His cursory look did not reveal any mention of Faith Mills or witchcraft in general.

  He turned to the notebook he had not found time to read the previous day. Once again, the book appeared modern compared to the parish records. It was seventy or eighty years old, written in the same hand as the other notebooks and was entitled, 'Miscellaneous'. The contents of the book were recorded in neat handwriting on the inside cover. Below, the author inscribed a further explanation of the reason for the transcription, noting that the book was a handwritten record made from fragile parchments too degraded to last. The Vicar's notes read 'Recorded for posterity.' Lawrence nodded, appreciating a fellow historian's attempt to preserve the past.

  He flicked through the notebook comprising several chapters of information, proceeded by a heading and date. The dates did not run in sequence, and the records were written in the order that they were read. The ink had not faded with time, and the writing was tidy. Each record was easy to understand.

  Lawrence turned the front page to an account dated February 1810 which listed the many donors for a repair to the interior of the church. Next, was an account of the tragic death of a young boy, apprenticed to the village thatcher who had fallen to his death from the roof of a house at the young age of thirteen. Lawrence continued reading. Most of the accounts were personal and only indirectly related to the church, which made them more interesting than the paper records. Lawrence assumed they had been chosen out of curiosity as they were not historical documents of public concern.

  Lawrence yawned. Reading had tired him, which was ideal, and he might sleep better now. He decided to read one last chapter to be sure he was sufficiently drowsy to guarantee sleep. He turned several pages at once to assess how much more he had to get through to complete the chapter. The account was huge; much bigger than the previous sections and continued to the end of the book. Lawrence decided to take the journal back to bed and read the first few pages until he dropped off to sleep.

  He carried the candle to his bedside table for extra reading light and turned the page.

  Chapter 16

  Honor - Betrayed

  Call yourself a man of God do you, Vicar? You, who have abandoned us to the paranoia of fools. You, who cast us out of your congregation by your failure to lead your flock as a parish priest ought. You are no better than your predecessor, the useless Fale. Can you imagine what you have done? I thought not, so I will tell you. Hang your head in shame, Vicar. Know that if you had done the right thing, we would not be here facing this evil. Pray for forgiveness while I pray for revenge. Save your soul, for mine is lost forever.

  Do you remember that day in church when we came t
o pray? We were two poor women, threatened and harried by grown men. You stood by and did nothing while they all but forced us through the church door. And why? Because a boy child died of fever and livestock were savaged by a wild animal.

  You will remember burying my mother’s aunt. You were the one who gave the reading at the funeral and prayed for her soul. But when Mother returned to your church, laid off from work for some imagined wrongdoing, where were you to comfort her? She turned to another vicar, one unprejudiced by the hate fermenting in the village. He consoled her; gave her peace while you stood by and did nothing.

  In the end, Laxfield Church was her only place of refuge, the only place she was made welcome - comforted by the vicar and his churchwardens at least, if not by the parishioners. Day after day, she walked long miles there and back, occupying her time in worship for no one would give her work. Then the soldiers came, destroyed her sanctuary, and she never returned.

  How unfair that you who did nothing for her, suffered less damage to your church than the kindly Vicar of Laxfield. He was never the same man again. My mother’s heart, already damaged, was broken beyond repair at the sight of the desecration wrought upon her beloved church. And however awful it was upon that sorry day, fate brought far worse.

  Did you know how I came to be with child? Would you have treated us any differently if you had known that Page’s bastard child was forced upon me? Not only was my mother unemployable, but I was too. They judged me harshly for my pregnancy, assuming I was a harlot with no morals, but I was a virgin until Page had his evil way. Nobody would take us, though we were willing to work, though we needed to work. They would not even take Alice or little Walter for stone picking. You could have influenced them, but you chose not to. You elected to do nothing.