"He has more time for me than you do," said Loveday. "Are you jealous?"
Lawrence considered her question. She was a beautiful creature, he thought. But the spectre of Catherine still haunted him, and he was sure that she would disapprove. Dead or alive, her perceived opinion mattered. "Should I be jealous?" he asked.
"He is very handsome," said Loveday, "but so are you."
Lawrence blushed. She was alarmingly outspoken. He had no experience of women who conducted themselves so openly.
"You should not be thinking about either one of us," he said, straightening his tie. "You're leaving England soon."
She raised an eyebrow and looked into his eyes. "I would not leave if I had something to stay for."
Lawrence opened his mouth to reply but could not think of a suitable response. He was nearly forty years old, and in thrall to this young, self-assured woman. He was saved from further awkwardness by the rattle of the door handle. Violet entered the room, pushing Mrs Harris in her bath chair.
"Good morning," said Violet cheerfully. "I do hope we are not disturbing you."
"Not at all," said Lawrence. "I was about to leave."
"Please don't go on our account."
The front doorbell chimed, leaving no opportunity to reply. Loveday walked to the window and peered through the curtains.
"It is Doctor Taylor," she said, rushing from the room.
Emily was already in the hallway and had opened the door to see Doctor Taylor standing on the doorstep, accompanied by a police officer. His face was pinched and solemn.
"Good morning," he said. "I believe you are acquainted with Constable Chapman, Emily."
Emily nodded. "Good morning," she replied.
"Is the Reverend at home?" asked the policeman.
"He is not," said Emily. "He's away in Norwich with my mother and will not return until next week."
Lawrence stepped forward. "I am a private investigator, appointed by Reverend Raven," he said. "Can I assist?"
The policeman nodded. "Is there somewhere we can speak?"
Lawrence turned to Emily. "Do you mind?"
She shook her head. "Please feel free to use my father's study."
Lawrence knocked on the study door. Michael was in his usual place, scribbling at the side desk by the window, and he stood to greet them.
"Can I help?" he asked.
"I am here to bring news," said the Doctor. "Will you stay, Michael?"
"Of course." He gestured to two wooden chairs in front of the Reverend's desk. Lawrence waited for the men to be seated before settling on the Vicar's chair.
"I'll come straight to the point," said Andrew Taylor. "We have analysed young Anna's vomit, and it contains traces of poison. The same substance was also found in your medication."
Lawrence exchanged glances with Michael. For all their speculation, they had convinced themselves that poison was unlikely. They were almost as shocked as if they had not considered it in the first place.
Police Constable Allen Chapman spoke. "This is a serious crime," he said. "Too serious for a village bobby to investigate. Inspector Draper will be arriving from Eye later today. He will want to question you. Please do not leave the village."
"Are you suggesting that I am the target of a poisoner?" said Lawrence, still trying to digest the news.
"Without a doubt," said Doctor Taylor. "The contents of your medication were only partially as I prescribed. A substantial quantity of Taxine had been added to the preparation."
"Taxine?" asked Lawrence.
"Yes, Taxine. From the yew tree. In this case, ground yew tree seeds. Someone had taken great care to acquire the seeds, dry them and grind them to a powder, at some risk to themselves. This was a deliberate act, and you were the target."
"What I need to know," said Constable Chapman, "is why."
Lawrence took a deep breath and looked towards Michael. He'd intended to conduct his investigation discretely, but so many people now knew, that it had become a poorly kept secret. Even so, he was reluctant to divulge the full details without authority.
Michael correctly interpreted his hesitancy. "Reverend Raven asked Mr Harpham to investigate some rumours regarding the Hammond baby's death," he said.
"What has that got to do with this?" asked the Constable.
"Probably nothing," said Lawrence. "I am far from convinced that there is anything to investigate about that particular death."
"Does Eliza Clay have anything to do with your enquiry?" asked Doctor Taylor.
"Possibly," said Lawrence. "I was advised to speak with her and would have done so, had she not died."
"Then you should know that she was poisoned with the same substance," said Doctor Taylor.
A brief silence descended, then Lawrence spoke.
"Then it seems to have more of a bearing than I realised," he said.
"Have you been threatened?" asked the Constable.
"Not directly," said Lawrence. His voice trailed away.
"You sound uncertain?" asked the Constable.
Lawrence rubbed his face. "A decomposing crow was left in a place where I was most likely to find it," he said. "Although there would have been no certainty that I would be the finder or that it would be discovered at all."
"More certainty than you think," Michael interjected. "It was in a basement storage room away from The Vicarage which had not been used for several years before Lawrence availed himself."
"Could the crow have flown in the room and died naturally?" asked the Constable.
"No," said Lawrence. "It had been placed there. It was in a trunk and the lid was shut. Papers and books were strewn around."
"Was anything taken?"
"I could not say," said Lawrence. "I was unfamiliar with the contents of the trunk but noticed that there was more damage to the older documents than the newer. Many had been moved and discarded, yet the recent papers were hardly disturbed. A good thing too, as it turned out, as unexpectedly, my interest turned out to be with the latter."
"None of this seems relevant," grumbled the Constable. "It does not explain why somebody wants to poison you."
"I cannot explain it either," said Lawrence.
The Constable stood up. "Well, you had better consider it now," he said. I don't believe you have been entirely frank with me. Inspector Draper will be along later, and he will not be satisfied with half a story. You must tell him everything."
They left the room and Michael showed them to the front door while Lawrence wandered back into the drawing-room. Mrs Harris was gently snoring while Violet read beside her.
"Good book?" he asked.
"Very good," she replied. "It is Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White."
"Don't you find it rather gloomy?" Lawrence continued.
"I do," Violet replied. "It is one of the reasons I like it so much. I don't frighten easily."
"That's just as well," said Lawrence, frowning. "I have news, and it is not pretty. There is definitely a poisoner here in the village."
Violet snorted, "nonsense," she said.
"I mean it said Lawrence, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of her. "Miss Smith, there is no longer any doubt that Anna McElliott was poisoned or that the poison was intended for me."
Violet's smile faded. "You are serious," she said, "and don't call me Miss Smith. It sounds so terribly formal."
"Sorry," said Lawrence. "But please listen. I am trying to tell you that we must all be careful. Anyone could come to harm. Anna is suffering because she drank from my glass."
"Poor Anna," said Violet. "I hope they can save her."
"The fact that she is still alive is encouraging," said Lawrence. "Poison tends to be fast-acting, and the longer she lives, the greater her chances of survival. As far as we know, she only drank a small quantity."
"Is news of the poisoning common knowledge?" asked Violet.
"If not, I will make it so," said Lawrence. "It's too dangerous to bury this news, and neither of our medical
friends has asked for discretion. Doctor Taylor is on his way to see Anna, and I expect him to tell her the truth. In the meantime, I will inform Miss Emily, but before I do, I must ask you something?"
"Anything, how can I help?"
"Where did you put my powders when you returned from the Chemist?"
"I left them on the table in the hallway. They were there all night as we did not want to disturb you."
"So, anyone could have tampered with them?"
"Anyone," Violet admitted. "I wish I had never collected them in the first place."
"You were only trying to help, said Lawrence. "Don't blame yourself."
"I do not," said Violet, "but in hindsight, I should have left them somewhere safe."
"Did you see anyone touch the envelopes?"
"No, but I didn't stand guard over them. My time is precious."
"I know," said Lawrence, "It was just a thought. You are always fetching and carrying for Mrs Harris and could have seen something and not remembered."
"I didn't," Violet repeated. "Now I have a question for you."
"What do you want to know?"
"Why would someone want to poison you?"
"I have no idea," said Lawrence. "I can only imagine that I've inadvertently uncovered something during my investigation. The trouble is I don't know what it is."
"Call yourself a detective," she laughed. "You don't sound at all like Sherlock Holmes."
"He is a work of fiction," said Lawrence affronted. "I have never met a detective in or out of uniform who thinks like Conan-Doyle's creation."
"I was teasing you," said Violet, "but the point I am making is serious. There must be a reason why someone wants to harm you, and it must have come about since you've been at The Vicarage. Unless, of course, you have an existing enemy who has followed you to Fressingfield."
"Most unlikely," said Lawrence. "But you are quite right. I have been here a short amount of time, and I ought to be able to work it out. A good starting point would be to find out whether it's connected to the crow."
"What crow?"
Lawrence hesitated. Michael had cautioned him not to mention the bird, and he was not sure that he trusted Violet. But she was so rational, so clear-minded, and he valued her opinion.
Lawrence took a deep breath and told her what happened, recounting the discovery of the crow in the bottom of the trunk. He told her about the note sticking out of its breast and the piles of disturbed papers on the floor while omitting to mention his irrational terror when he realised that he was alone in the dark with the stench of death around him.
"What did the note say?" she asked.
He told her verbatim. "I curse you, Lawrence Harpham, death stalks you. For Honor Mills."
"Who is Honor Mills?"
"She is the daughter of Faith Mills," said Lawrence, "the Fressingfield Witch."
"That's an easy puzzle, then," said Violet. "You came to Fressingfield to investigate Mary Corbyn, who was accused of witchcraft. Your only clue directed you to Faith Mills who was also a witch. All you need is to find the connection between them."
"It can't be that easy," said Lawrence. "Assuming there is a connection, how would I find it? Mary is dead, and Faith Mills must have been dead for several centuries."
Violet laughed. "What is in the basement?" she asked.
"Parish records, papers, removal orders and diaries," said Lawrence.
"Precisely," said Violet. "Parish records. Mary and Faith might connect through their lineage."
"They might," said Lawrence. "Though how that will help, I'm not sure. I suppose it could be useful to know if they are related."
"Indeed," said Violet. "You should locate the birth records and see what you can find."
"I had better do it now," said Lawrence, scowling. "I am being interrogated by Inspector Draper later."
He walked towards the door, then turned. "Would you like to help?"
Violet smiled. "I thought you would never ask."
Chapter 28
Nemesis
The ancestors are angry, and I cannot find peace. Their voices whisper constantly; harsh, wounding words haunting my thoughts like malevolent wraiths.
They say I have failed them. They who had lain dormant these two centuries-long, exposed to others when it was our family secret. They want me to atone, and soon.
The fruit of the yew has long been my friend. I harvest it myself, then dry it and store it safely away; always wearing gloves. It is a powerful toxin. My mother taught me not to take risks.
The Clay girl died badly. If the others before her showed traces of their fate, they did not wear it as boldly as she. The doctors suspected an unnatural death and sought to prove it. They have found the evidence.
I should not have used it again on the man. Though he seeks the truth, he knows nothing of consequence. But the voices in my head drove me on, directing the hatred towards him, and when an easy opportunity arose, I took it. How was I to know the silly servant girl would drink it? A situation so unlikely, it ought to have been impossible. But drink it she did, and now lies somewhere between life and death.
I punished him with a crow as I did with the Carter man, the cause of my misfortune. He, who could not complete a simple task without a catastrophic lapse of concentration, deserved his curse crow. It scared the life from him. The perfect death, as I did not need to use the yew. My masterpiece. The killing of a human by manipulation of his mind.
I do not know whether the curse crow will work again, but I will persevere. I cannot hope to replicate the satisfaction of that first death, but this is the route down which my ancestors guide me.
They grow fractious, increasingly restless. I cannot sleep for their constant intrusion and spectral pleas for justice. I must work quickly. This will end soon.
Chapter 29
A Family Tree
“I may as well move my bed down here,” grumbled Lawrence as he unlatched the basement room for the fourth time that week. He searched the vicinity and located a brick which he used to prop the door open. A narrow shaft of light spread into the room.
He entered the storage room, followed by Violet, and they placed two large storm lamps on the desk. "Wait here a moment," he said brandishing a pair of shears which he had bought from the orangery. He walked to the rear of the building and began clipping the ivy that obscured the back wall and a substantial part of the tiny window. When it was clear, he returned, located the latch, and forced the window open.
“It doesn't make much difference to the lighting,” said Violet.
“No, but it will clear the musty air,” Lawrence replied, remembering the smell of decomposing crow. The open window may not be effective as a light source, but it made him feel better about returning to the basement.
He dragged the desk a foot closer to the basement stairs and lit the storm lamp. It cast a wide beam of light into the dark of the cellar.
“Better,” he said.
Violet collected the second lamp and followed Lawrence below. The room was unchanged from his last visit, and he walked to the rear and hefted the lid of the chest without hesitation. There was no smell of decay and no unexpected items in the chest. The books and papers were orderly, as he and Michael had left them once they had cleared the remains of the crow.
He pushed the lid to its furthest extent and rifled through the chest. The parish records were much larger than the journals in his bedroom, and he located them with ease. There were only two books.
"I would have expected more," he said, turning his head towards Violet.
"There should be more," she agreed, "but the current registers are with Elijah Scoggins. You will only find the older entries here."
“I can't see much in this light, so I will take both. I would rather not attempt to decipher the dates in these conditions.” He closed the lid and walked towards Violet.
“No need to spend any longer here than necessary,” she agreed.
They removed the records and returned to th
e house, relocating to the morning room where they spread the books across the table.
Lawrence opened one book and Violet the other.
“This one dates from 1554,” he said. “Oh, dear.”
"What is it?" asked Violet.
“It is in Latin,” he said, “and my schoolboy Latin is not up to the task at hand.”
He turned the first few pages. “Agnes Drane vidua sepulta fuit decimo quarto Iulii 1556,” he read in Latin.
“What does that mean?”
“It is a death record,” he said, “perhaps I will get by. I don’t know every word, but I may not need to.”
“We are looking for entries for anybody called Mills,” said Violet. “Anything else?”
“Not that I know of, but if you see something strange, or anything about witches, note it down.”
He nodded towards papers and ink which he had placed on the table earlier.
“My book dates from 1673,” said Violet, “and finishes only a few decades later. It is very thin, but at least it is written in English and looks a great deal easier to read than yours.”
“That is fortunate,” said Lawrence. “Mine is giving me a headache already.”
"Ah, I may have found something," said Violet. "Alice Fayers als Mills born in 1674. What does 'als' mean?"
“Alias, I think,” said Lawrence. “It sounds like she was a Mills, but the family wished to be known as Fayers. I wonder why?”
“Could they have wanted to escape the association with witchcraft?”
“Yes,” agreed Lawrence. “Faith Mills had a daughter Alice,” he continued, “but that cannot be her christening record.”
"Why not?"
"Because the journals were transcribed from writings made during the Civil War and it was all over by 1659. Faith's daughter Alice was about ten when the original letters were written."
"What letters?"
"Terrible letters, angry letters written to the Vicar of the local church by Faith's daughter, Honor Mills. She held the Parish Vicar responsible for their ills. It seems they received support from another Vicar in a different parish. The incumbent of Fressingfield church sided with the accusers, abandoned them and left them to suffer."
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 16
