The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "I’ll take it to the public house," said Lawrence. "Someone there may know who it belongs to."

  The Inspector nodded. "Is this it?" he asked, pointing to the red brick jettied building, nestling on the edge of the churchyard.

  "It is," said Lawrence, "but the door is on the other side."

  "Jolly good," said the Inspector. "Lead the way."

  They entered the public house, ducking their heads as they passed through the low door. The interior was dark, but welcoming. The bar counter stretched across the longest part of the room, and the barman stood to the side of it polishing glasses.

  "Good evening, sirs," he said, placing the cloth on the bar. "What can I get you?"

  "Two of your finest ales," said Inspector Draper without asking Lawrence what he wanted. "What is your name, sir?"

  "Benjamin Powley," said the victualler, suspiciously.

  "Well, Benjamin Powley, you keep a very fine inn," he said gazing at the room appreciatively. The innkeeper beamed. "I am glad you like it," he said, passing two jugs of beer. "Enjoy your drinks."

  "Shall we sit?" asked the Inspector, gesturing to a table in an alcove further into the room. "It is quiet now, but we may be glad of privacy later."

  "You go," said Lawrence. "I will be with you in a moment."

  Inspector Draper took both beers and settled down on a chair.

  "Do you happen to know who this belongs to?" asked Lawrence showing the shawl to the innkeeper.

  "Sorry," said Mr Powley. "I have never seen it before. Where did you find it?"

  "We saw someone drop it as we were walking from The Vicarage," said Lawrence, "it was lying on a grave. I did not recognise who it belonged to. She was too far away."

  Benjamin nodded. "Wait a moment", he said, opening the door to the rear of the bar. "Margaret!"

  Moments later, Margaret Powley arrived.

  "Do you know who owns this?" asked her father.

  "I found it on the arched granite gravestone nearest to the church," said Lawrence helpfully.

  "It is probably Hannah Roper's," said Margaret. "Her mother is buried there."

  "Good, thank you," said Lawrence. He was glad that it belonged to Hannah, a pleasant woman who he would enjoy seeing again. She was sensible and worth consulting further. He still had one or two questions to ask about Sarah Hammond. As much as he had warmed to Sarah, something was bothering him, and Hannah might be able to help.

  He folded the shawl as he walked towards the alcove, where he joined the Inspector.

  "Cheers," said Jack Draper, "now, to business."

  He interviewed Lawrence at length, in a companionable and unthreatening manner. Lawrence responded in kind, as if deep in conversation with an old friend. Lawrence stopped short of telling Draper about Faith Mill but revealed that he had been summoned to the village by Reverend Raven. He mentioned how unsettled the Reverend had been at the suggestion of witchcraft following the death of baby Hammond.

  "Quite an understandable reaction from the Reverend," said the Inspector rationally. "A credulous lot, it would appear."

  When Lawrence had finished divulging all that he was prepared to tell, the Inspector spoke. "The Clay girl's death is murder pure and simple," he said. "There is no doubt whatever. There will have to be an inquest, of course, but your doctors are adamant that taxine could not have entered her body accidentally. In the absence of any evidence or anecdotal report of suicidal intent, we must assume it was deliberate. So, let's not prevaricate. If the Clay girl was murdered and your servant girl was poisoned by the same means, you were most likely the target. Why?"

  "I don't know," said Lawrence. "I have told you everything relevant to the case."

  "No, not everything," said the Inspector. He waved at Benjamin Powley and gestured for two more beers.

  "Almost everything. The only thing I haven't mentioned is that this may connect to someone who died two centuries ago. It is by no means certain, and the link is tenuous," said Lawrence. "And the subject matter is so unlikely that I am reluctant to mention it."

  "If that is all, I will leave you to investigate that part yourself," said the Inspector. "As for the rest of it, you should avoid proceeding any further with the case."

  Lawrence opened his mouth to protest, but the Inspector pre-empted him. "I am not trying to prevent you from earning your living, Lawrence, but you have come to the attention of someone who wishes to do you harm. Lay low for a bit. You can come back to it all when we've located the poisoner. Understand?"

  Lawrence nodded. He was going nowhere until the case was settled, but it would be sensible to appear to be cooperating.

  "That's a good chap. Now, there is a billiards table over there. Do you fancy a game?"

  Chapter 33

  A Hostile Crowd

  Lawrence woke late the next morning and flinched as sunlight flooded into his room from undrawn curtains. He screwed open one eye and felt for his pocket watch which he hoped would be on the bedside table as usual. It was, and he flipped the catch open and examined the timepiece through bleary eyes, finding, to his chagrin, that it was almost ten o'clock. Lawrence sat bolt upright, wincing at the pain in his head. His temple throbbed in time with the judder of the second hand.

  He wiped his brow while considering how much he had drunk the previous night. It couldn't have been more than four tankards of ale, surely? It had been a long time since Lawrence had indulged in that much beer at once, and the brew was uncommonly strong.

  Lawrence dressed gingerly and made his way downstairs. He peered into the morning room, hoping for some breakfast, but everything had been cleared away. He decided not to impose on Mary Warne given the circumstances and set off for a walk to take his mind off his empty stomach. Lawrence strolled towards the village along the Cratfield Road, walking past the Baptist Chapel and around the village centre towards the Jubilee Pump. His head began to clear in the light breeze. As he approached the Swan Inn, his eye was drawn towards the church, where two figures walked side by side in the distance - Loveday and Doctor Taylor. They walked arm in arm through the empty churchyard deep in conversation. As he watched, they stopped talking, and Andrew Taylor drew her close, then kissed her gently on the lips.

  Lawrence blinked and looked again. They were still together locked in an embrace, Taylor's arms encircling Loveday's waist, and her face lit with a rapturous smile.

  Lawrence lowered his head and walked away, not wanting to see anymore, or God forbid, be seen by them. If he returned to The Vicarage, their paths would cross, so he trekked across the field following the stream until he reached Gules Green Lane. It was a much longer walk than he'd initially intended, but it gave him time to think about the scene he had witnessed.

  Lawrence was undoubtedly attracted to Loveday. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a youthful exuberance, he had never possessed himself. But was he falling in love with her? And if not, why did he feel so flat having seen her with the young doctor? On reflection, he was confident his feelings did not run that deep. If he had wanted to, he could have acted already and encouraged her. It was only an infatuation.

  By the time he returned to The Vicarage, his headache had disappeared, and he had come to terms with Loveday's transfer of affections. He'd been flattered by her attention, but it was right that she was with the younger man. He walked through the door as the grandfather clock chimed midday. Michael's coat and hat were in their usual position on the coat stand.

  "You are back," said Lawrence, opening the drawing-room door. Violet was sitting with Mrs Harris, discussing the evening menu.

  "We arrived ten minutes ago," said Michael.

  "How did you get on?"

  "Good and bad, equally," said Michael. "Violet has it all written down. I will let her explain when she has finished with Mrs Harris."

  "I hope it wasn't too taxing."

  "Not at all, "said Michael. "It only took a few hours, so we decided to visit my brother. He would not hear of us staying at the Inn and offered us rooms
for the night. He laid on a jolly good spread for us too. He asked after you, Lawrence, and sends his regards."

  "I will make a point of going to see him as soon as this is over," said Lawrence. "I am sorry I wasn't with you. It sounds like you enjoyed yourself."

  "How was the Inspector?" asked Michael. "Did he give you a hard time?"

  "Not at all", said Lawrence, "the man is completely charming. Quite the reverse of what I was expecting. I could not find it in me to dislike anything about him."

  "Jolly good," said Michael. "I don't have to feel guilty now for enjoying myself while you were in his clutches. It looks like Violet has finished with Mrs Harris. She has much to tell you, so I'd better leave you to it."

  Violet scurried past. "I'll only be a minute," she whispered as she left the room.

  Lawrence smiled awkwardly at Mrs Harris. She said nothing but picked up her lace, hooking the stitches with slow, deliberate strokes. They sat in uncomfortable silence until Violet returned.

  "Sorry. I was giving Mary instructions for dinner," she said. "Now, listen to this." She opened the notebook. "There were only a few relevant entries - one or two deaths and marriages of distant cousins and hardly any direct line descendants. James Fayers had a brother and sister, but the brother died young and the sister died in childbirth. James also had a child of his own; just the one, a daughter named Ann. Ann went on to have an illegitimate daughter, Sarah. She was christened in 1771 but we could not find any trace of Sarah after her christening."

  "The trail goes cold," sighed Lawrence.

  "It does a little," agreed Violet, "but the register held by Elijah Scoggins begins in 1797, so we could check it for a marriage. Sarah would have been twenty-six or more which is a little old for the time, but it is always possible. On the other hand, she could have died. If she died, there is no trail. Honor's line dies with her."

  "Can Mrs Harris spare you again later?" asked Lawrence. "We could look at the register?"

  "No," said Violet firmly. "She has done without me for almost a whole day, and I cannot abuse my position."

  "I understand," said Lawrence. "I'll save it until you can join me, and I've other errands to run today. I need to visit Sarah Hammond without the Inspector finding out, and I must return Hannah Roper's shawl, at some point. She dropped it yesterday."

  "We can look at the records tomorrow," said Violet. "I'll be free then. Before you go, I must give you some news. Did you know that Anna McElliott has returned to her mother's house?"

  "Has her condition worsened?" asked Lawrence.

  "Quite the opposite. Anna has improved enough to go home. Doctor Taylor says she must rest for at least a week before returning to work, but it appears that she has survived the poison."

  "Excellent news," said Lawrence. "I am relieved. Well, I won’t keep you from your duties any longer. I'll call in on Sarah Hammond and drop the shawl on my way. I'll see you later, no doubt."

  Violet smiled and put the notebook in her pocket before collecting the tea tray for washing. As she walked through the room, she tripped over the fraying edge of the carpet, and a sugar bowl tumbled to the floor. Violet sighed and put down the tray before picking up the spilt sugar cubes from the floor. As she stood to retrieve the tray, she noticed a blue shawl draped across the day bed. She set the sugar bowl down and grabbed the shawl, yanking the front door open so she could hail Lawrence. It was too late. Lawrence had already crossed the road and was striding briskly towards the church, well out of shouting distance. She sighed and hung the shawl on the coat hook, not prepared to run after him. He would have to finish his errand another day.

  Lawrence hurried along the pathway and past the Butcher's Shop, which stood at the end of a terrace of white-painted cottages. He continued until he reached the Post Office, but when he opened the door, he realised he had forgotten the very thing he was supposed to be returning. Inwardly rebuking himself, Lawrence closed the door and walked towards Sarah Hammond's cottage instead. As he neared her house, he happened upon a crowd of people grouped around the village sign. About thirty people were gesturing and discussing something in excitable tones.

  The crowd quietened as he approached, and George Corbyn stepped forward.

  "Hey, Mister Private Investigator," Corbyn hollered. "It's not so much nonsense now." He put his hands on his hips and glared at Lawrence.

  "What do you mean?" asked Lawrence.

  "The witch," said George Corbyn. "Deny it now, if you dare."

  "There is no witch," snapped Lawrence.

  "Well something means to harm you," continued Corbyn. "And how long will it be before it turns on the rest of us?"

  "I don't know what you mean," sighed Lawrence.

  "We know all about it," said a short, slight man with bowed legs. Lawrence recognised him as one of the farmworkers. "The word is out. Young Anna took a dose of poison intended for you and Eliza Clay was killed with something similar."

  "Who told you?" asked Lawrence.

  "What does that matter?" said the man. "Who told us is neither here nor there. George says it is Mary back from the grave, taking the life of all who crossed her; and there were many."

  Lawrence shook his head. "This is the work of someone who lives on this earth, not below it," he said.

  "What would you know," spat an unkempt woman. Her face was furrowed with deep lines and her two front teeth were missing. "History repeats."

  "What she means," said George, "is the way my wife and brother-in-law died. We said it was unnatural and they insisted it was heart disease. Well, they were murdered, and it was Mary who did it. Now she has returned and walks again." George folded his arms and glared at Lawrence, daring him to disagree.

  "You cannot attribute every death in the village to your deceased wife," said Lawrence.

  "He doesn't," said a familiar voice. It was Sarah Hammond. "But there is no denying that deaths come in waves in this village."

  "Yes," said George. "First Jonathan died, then Harriet and before that Henry Riches and poor old Harry Roper."

  "You cannot claim that witch's poison caused Henry Riches and Harry Roper's deaths," said the short man. "Especially not Harry Roper; that was a different kind of brew altogether."

  He winked and poked George Corbyn in the chest. The other men bellowed.

  "It's not a laughing matter," scolded Sarah Hammond turning to her father. "If you would only stop at one or two ales, you would not get in such a state."

  "It was that old fool, Carter," scowled George. "If he'd been concentrating, it wouldn't have mattered that I tripped over him, and Harry would not have fallen from the cart. Doddery old idiot. Don't blame me."

  "Well, it wasn't caused by witchcraft, was it?" said Sarah. "Any more than Henry Riches death was. You have taken a silly idea and run wild with it."

  Lawrence smiled weakly, relieved to find someone in the village who could still view matters with a sense of balance.

  "Witch or poisoner, I don't care," said the unkempt woman, "evil dwells in this village, and it must be stopped."

  "What can we do?" cried a young woman, wringing her hands. "We will all be killed in our beds."

  "We can pray."

  "A lot of use that does in the face of Satan," said the thin man.

  "Go back to the old ways," said the crone. "I have witch bottles aplenty, for those who can afford them."

  "Don't listen." Caroline Elliott, the monthly nurse stepped forward. "She will have all your wages if you are not careful."

  "Hush your mouth, woman," said George Corbyn. "You should know better than to question a wise woman, with your charge full of child."

  "A proper doctor will attend her," Caroline said. "You keep your superstitions away."

  "Tell that to her husband," said the thin man. "He knows the truth. A bigger bag of nerves I have yet to meet since the poor fellow found Jonathan Carter in the churchyard."

  "You leave William Edwards out of this, Henry Harper," hissed Caroline. "He is a sensible man."


  Lawrence watched nervously. Tempers were becoming frayed, and the atmosphere was tense, febrile. He wondered whether to intervene but decided against it. His presence was provoking further anxiety, and an air of mistrust had descended over Fressingfield. Violence threatened, and he began to understand why the Reverend had been sufficiently concerned to call for an investigation. He was on the verge of returning to The Vicarage when he saw a pair of figures in the distance. Inspector Draper was walking toward them, accompanied by Doctor Taylor.

  Lawrence approached them, relieved.

  "What's going on?" asked the Inspector.

  "Things are getting nasty," said Lawrence. "They have heard about the poisonings and think there's a connection with witchcraft. Corbyn says his wife has returned from the dead, and he's whipped them up into a terrible frenzy. Some genuinely fear that the dead walk among them."

  "They are afraid," said Doctor Taylor. "There is a poisoner in their midst who they cannot identify."

  "They are turning on each other," said Lawrence. "They ought to be stopped."

  Inspector Draper strode towards them, holding up his hand. "Move along now," he said.

  George Corbyn began to argue, but the Inspector was firm. "Go back to your homes. There is nothing to see here."

  He stood watching with his arms crossed. A few men objected, but Inspector Draper radiated natural authority, and before long, the crowd had dispersed. The Inspector waited until the last person had gone then returned to Lawrence.

  "I thought you were keeping out of the way," he said.

  "I was running an errand and happened upon them," said Lawrence indignantly. "I was only walking past."

  "You should return to The Vicarage at once," said the Inspector, "and stay there, for your own safety. I don't want to have to ask you to leave Fressingfield."

  "But I need to see the Parish Clerk," said Lawrence.