The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "Not today," said the Inspector. Andrew Taylor smiled sympathetically. Lawrence thought of Loveday and could not meet his eyes.

  "Very well," said Lawrence, trying not to antagonise the Inspector by arguing. It would be easy enough to slip out later.

  He left the two men and retraced his steps, returning through the churchyard. As he picked his way moodily up the path, he saw a squirrel sitting on top of one of the taller gravestones and wondered what the incumbent of the grave would have thought about his visitor. As Lawrence considered the matter, he wondered whether any of Honor's descendants were lying in Fressingfield churchyard. If he could find any gravestones with Mills or Fayers inscribed, he might glean some more information. The weather was clement, and Lawrence was in no rush to return to The Vicarage despite the Inspector's concerns. He circumnavigated the churchyard and began searching for relevant gravestones.

  It was not an easy task. Lichen covered the older graves, their inscriptions weathered and worn. Few were readable, and the newer, clearer tombstones were of little interest. Lawrence couldn’t find any graves bearing the Mills name, but after half an hour of fruitless searching, he found a stone inscribed with the name 'James Fayers'. Lawrence pictured Violet's drawing of the Fayers family tree, remembering that James Fayers was Sarah's grandfather. His tombstone was of reasonable quality with a clearer inscription than most. James had died in 1798 at the age of seventy-six, but the sparse dedication included no further details, and no family members were buried nearby. Lawrence sighed in frustration. After all that searching, he had learned nothing new, but as he turned to go, Lawrence noticed that the lichen-covered rear of the stone was not quite flat. He reached into his top pocket for a handkerchief and gently scraped the moss and debris away. As he surveyed the headstone, he felt a rush of adrenaline, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. Carved into the reverse of the tombstone, was the unmistakable form of a crow.

  Chapter 34

  Somerset House

  Lawrence hurried towards The Vicarage, keen to share his news. By rights, he should discuss the carving with Michael, but Violet Smith had been so helpful, so accommodating, that he wanted to share the discovery with her. Besides, he was not quite sure what it meant and how it helped. Violet was sensible and would, no doubt, have a ready solution.

  When he arrived, the house was quiet. He searched the rooms, but they were empty. Hearing a sound, he glanced towards the garden. The family were sitting outside on the lawn, enjoying tea. Reverend Raven and his wife had returned from Norwich. Michael, Violet, Mrs Harris, and the girls were sitting on wicker chairs, chatting together. Lawrence decided not to join them. It was too intimate a gathering. Instead, he sat at one of the study desks and considered what he had found.

  What exactly did it reveal? He already knew James Fayer's age and death date, so the age on the gravestone was no surprise, and he could not determine the relevance of the Crow. What would Violet say if she was with him and not enjoying tea on the lawn? She would ask why a poor man had a gravestone at all. Of course, that was it. Not only did James Fayers have a headstone, but someone had commissioned a carving on it. He must have been a man of means. And as a man of means, he would have had assets to dispose of when he died. There was a good chance that he'd made a will.

  Lawrence paced the study, watching over the garden. Though he felt uneasy about the prospect of intruding on the family scene before him, he needed to consult with Violet. Just as his patience was coming to an end, Michael stood and walked towards the house, and Lawrence greeted him by the rear door.

  "What are you doing inside?" asked Michael, "Come and join us. It is a beautiful day."

  "It is not a beautiful day in the village," said Lawrence, before describing the scene of discontent he’d witnessed earlier.

  "That’s what the Reverend was afraid of," said Michael. "It was like this a few weeks ago, and then it passed. I don’t wonder at their concern about these poisonings. It is one thing after another. I'll go and meet George Corbyn and see if I can talk some sense into him."

  "He's the ringleader," said Lawrence. "Despite his ridiculous ideas, I have a little sympathy for the man. He has lost a wife and grandchild, after all."

  "I will treat him kindly," said Michael.

  "One thing before you go," said Lawrence.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you know where I can find a copy of a will?"

  "Yes," said Michael. "But it will mean a trip. You’ll need to go to Somerset House."

  "Where is that?" asked Lawrence.

  "In London," Michael replied. "Is it necessary?"

  Lawrence nodded. "I expect so," he said. "I am going to seek out Elijah Scoggins to search his records, but if I cannot find what I'm looking for, it is the only option left."

  Michael nodded. "Then Godspeed," he said.

  Lawrence considered leaving his visit to Elijah Scoggins until the morrow fearing that the Inspector might order him to leave the village if he ignored his request to stay away. But the matter was pressing. If he must go to London, then he'd better go without delay, and if the parish register bridged the gap in information, the trip to London might be avoidable. It was only a short distance to Scoggins’ cottage, and it might save an unnecessary journey. He decided not to wait regardless of the Inspector's request.

  Lawrence watched from The Vicarage window to make sure Church Lane was empty. It was, at least as far as he could see. He took the most direct route to Elijah's cottage, where he received a friendly greeting and an assurance of cooperation. Lawrence was shown inside and given the register which he checked in Scoggin's parlour. It was easier to read than the older versions, and he scanned through it in no time. Within half an hour, his worst fears were confirmed. There was no reference to Sarah Fayers - no death, and no marriage. He asked Elijah's opinion on the matter, who suggested that Sarah could have married or died in another parish. It was news that Lawrence did not want to hear, and he thanked him for his time and left the house, knowing that a journey to London was unavoidable.

  Lawrence joined the family for their evening meal, taking a seat at the top of the table next to Reverend Raven while Violet sat at the opposite end. There was no opportunity to speak to Violet again that evening, and she retired early. After an evening of stilted small talk, Lawrence was unsurprised to be summoned to the Reverend's study after the meal to discuss his progress.

  The Reverend Raven was barely able to conceal his disappointment. "Inspector Draper telephoned me earlier," he said. "I am sure you have tried your best, Lawrence, but the disruption in the village is the very thing I hoped to avoid. There is now an official investigation underway with all the problems that entails. It is time for you to return to Bury."

  "I understand, "said Lawrence, "but there is one further thing I need to check. You are right. This has not been a successful investigation, but I am sure that there is something in Faith Mill's lineage - something that connects the two outbreaks of witchcraft. I want to visit Somerset House to see if I can prove it. If not, I will return to Bury and leave the matter in Inspector Draper's hands."

  "I can't see how it changes anything, whether you succeed or fail," said the Reverend.

  "There is a poisoner afoot," countered Lawrence. Just because the deaths were not caused by witchcraft, does not rule out a connection. The two things link together, I'm sure."

  "I'll give you two days," said the Reverend. "The Church will not pay for any more of your time. Those two days are on the condition that you do not get in the way of the official investigation. You must cooperate with Draper."

  "I will," said Lawrence and they parted company.

  Lawrence spent a restless night at The Vicarage and was relieved to leave the following morning. Michael had been upset and embarrassed by the Reverend's antipathy towards Lawrence, and profusely apologised when he heard Lawrence's account of the meeting. He insisted on ordering a carriage for the journey to the station which Lawrence boarded after breakfast, alighting in Eye in ti
me to embark upon the ten o'clock train to Liverpool Street.

  He spent the most part of the ninety-four miles of the journey reviewing the genealogy of the Mills family which he had traced from Faith Mills to Sarah Fayers. Had James Fayers left a will, he could have named his grandchildren, if any existed with the potential to expose the presence of any other children he may have fathered. Lineages might be revealed in which Sarah did not feature. On the other hand, there might not be a will at all. And if a will existed, it might contain nothing of note, or be unreadable. He decided not to dwell on the negatives and was in an optimistic frame of mind by the time the train pulled into Liverpool Street.

  Lawrence collected his paperwork as soon as the brakes were applied and waited at the carriage door. He vacated the train and walked down the dusty platform and past the ticket offices, pushing through the crowd and into the busy concourse where he hailed a cab. The ride to the Strand was noisy and bumpy. The city smelled rank and unwholesome; hectic, loud, and wholly different to the calm purity of the countryside. He was grateful that he did not have to live in the busy metropolis.

  Lawrence endured an uncomfortable carriage ride to Somerset House, a grand, imposing mansion set around a large quadrangle. The size of the building and the beauty of the neoclassical architecture made the arduous journey worthwhile. He admired the craftsmanship as he walked across a stone balustrade and through one of the side doors. He waited for a moment, enjoying the view from the window, then spotted an official from whom he asked directions to the public search room.

  He found his way to a dark corridor from which he emerged into a large, square room with wood-panelled walls and ceilings. An extensive array of arched windows lit one side of the room while electric lamps illuminated the other. The rear wall contained a floor to ceiling bookcase with a series of over-sized registers. The search room was occupied by half a dozen studious-looking men, mostly in their middle years.

  Lawrence located the appropriate register with relative ease and used two hands to heft it over to one of the giant reading stands. The wills were presented in date order, not alphabetically and there were many for 1797. He spent the first half-hour of his research squinting over exquisitely written but hard to read text, searching without success. It was not until he reached the records for May that he found what he had been seeking. James Fayers had indeed left a will, short but pertinent.

  The Last Will and Testament of James Fayers of Fressingfield in the County of Suffolk being of sound mind and memory, but frail in health. I declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking all other wills by me previously written. I hereby will and bequeath all I do or shall be possessed of at the time of my decease in household items, plate, linen, money and goods in kind and my house in Fressingfield in which I now dwell, to my beloved wife Catherine for her sole use and benefit. To my granddaughter, Sarah, I bequeath the sum of five pounds. I hereby make my son-in-law, John Chittock, my sole executor and leave him five shillings for his pains. Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the above-named testator as his last will and testament.

  Lawrence transcribed the will word for word into his notebook, closed the register and returned it to the shelf. He had accomplished what he came to do, and there was no need to prolong the visit. After hailing a cab, Lawrence returned to the station to wait for the train, where he planned his next move. First, he would visit Elijah Scoggins, and then he would search for John Chittock in the most recent register. James Fayer's will had strongly implied that Sarah Fayers was married to John Chittock. It was also conceivable that Sarah had a sister and the sister married John. It was a strong lead either way, and he was eager to try and track the lineage to the present day. Lawrence paced the platform impatiently, waiting for the train, and in due course, it arrived. He climbed on board and took a break from investigating, passing the remainder of the journey reading a copy of The Times.

  It was dark by the time he arrived at The Vicarage, and he broke his journey to eat in a coaching Inn near Eye station, which lengthened his day. Reluctant to rouse The Vicarage household, he opted instead to let himself in the back door and tiptoed to his room, intending to tackle the search for John Chittock's records next morning.

  Sleep came easily, and he woke after eight-thirty, dressing quickly to reach the morning room in time for breakfast. Lawrence descended the stairs to a house in turmoil. The Revered Raven stood in the hallway, an expression of impatience upon his face, while Elijah Scoggins waited beside him.

  "Mr Harper, have you seen my parish register?" he demanded.

  "You know I have," said Lawrence. "You were with me, but it was no use at the time, so I left it with you. I've acquired more information since then, and I'm eager to look at it again."

  Elijah exchanged glances with the Reverend. "It's missing," he said. "I haven't seen it since your visit."

  "I returned it," said Lawrence. "You took it from me."

  "I know. I wondered if you had borrowed it again?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it without asking first," said Lawrence.

  Elijah signed. "Oh, dear," he muttered.

  "You must search again," insisted the Reverend. "It cannot have gone far. If you can't keep it safe, it will have to stay here," he continued. "And you can use it at The Vicarage when I'm away instead of keeping at your house for convenience."

  "I'll look again," said Elijah, "though it's futile. It isn't there."

  The Reverend shook his head and walked back to the study, shutting the door a little more firmly than usual. Lawrence smiled sympathetically, and the Parish Clerk left, shaking his head. Lawrence turned towards the morning room in anticipation of breakfast. He had just poured a cup of coffee when Michael burst through the drawing-room doors, face ashen with concern. He sat down heavily beside Lawrence. "Violet is missing," he said.

  Chapter 35

  Missing

  "What do you mean?" asked Lawrence. "She was here when I left."

  "Yes, but she went out on an errand yesterday and did not return. Mrs Harris can't decide whether to be worried or angry."

  "Has she told the Reverend?" asked Lawrence. "He seems more concerned about his missing register."

  "She hasn't told him yet," said Michael. "He thinks she's too indulgent with Violet, as it is, and he is always reminding her that Violet is a paid employee."

  Lawrence frowned. "Violet seems devoted to Mrs Harris. I haven't known her long, but her loyalty is plain to see. It seems uncharacteristic of her to disappear without warning. She's helped me a lot lately and always seeks permission first."

  "I agree," said Michael. "This is not Violet's way."

  "When did you see her last?"

  "After lunch yesterday. She wasn't at supper last night, but nobody thought anything of it. Mrs Harris began to worry about her at bedtime. Violet usually gets her undressed, but Mary Warne did it instead."

  "Not good," said Lawrence. "Have you checked Violet's room?"

  "I put my head around the door," said Michael, "but I didn't go in, or check any of her things. Do you think I should have?"

  "I would," said Lawrence. "Something is wrong, and her room might hold a clue. We should look together."

  Michael nodded, and the two men proceeded to the first floor. "Violet sleeps on the upper level," said Michael gesturing to a small staircase at the end of the corridor.

  Michael opened the middle of three doors located on the right-hand side. Violet's room was well-proportioned with a window set into the roof space that overlooked the graveyard. It was light, bright and functional. The furniture comprised a mahogany wardrobe and matching dressing table like those in Lawrence's room, with the dressing table positioned beneath the window which was latched open. Drops of moisture from the open window surrounded a vase of cut lilies. The freshly laundered linen on the single bed was undisturbed, and it was evident that Violet had not returned to her room the previous night.

  "There's no sign of her," said Michael.

  Lawrence frown
ed. "So, I see. We should make a thorough search of the room."

  "What for?" asked Michael.

  "I don't know," said Lawrence. "Something, anything."

  They began looking. Michael rifled gingerly through the wardrobe, muttering to himself, evidently uncomfortable with his task. But Lawrence was an old hand. He opened the dressing table and was unsurprised to find it orderly. Violet Smith was methodical and had tidied everything she possessed neatly away. There were no muddles to be found. Lawrence bypassed her toiletries and took a quick look through a drawer full of books. They were, as expected, exclusively gothic horror. Violet did not stray far from her chosen genre. As Lawrence removed the book closest to the left side of the drawer, he noticed a slip of paper beneath. He picked it out, opened it and passed it to Michael.

  Michael read it and stared at Lawrence open-mouthed. "It is her birth certificate," he exclaimed.

  "I know," said Lawrence. "Violet Judith Mills, daughter of John and Judith Mills. Born 1st June 1850 and not a Smith at all."

  "I don't know what to make of it," said Michael.

  "It means she could be related to Faith Mills," said Lawrence, "or not, as the case may be. But if not, why didn't she mention it?"

  "I daresay she had her reasons," said Michael. "But, if it was of no consequence, she could have trusted us with the information."

  "Which implies that there is some connection," said Lawrence, feeling sick. His good opinion of Violet had intensified over the last few days. Now he was faced with the prospect that she was an imposter - a stranger, and a wave of sadness engulfed him. He gazed out of the window and across the churchyard, where the gravestones brought Catherine to mind. She had been uncomplicated and so familiar to him. He could not imagine understanding anyone as well again. Catherine had been steady, reliable, dutiful, and loving, and now she was dead and far away, but as dear to him as ever. Violet and Loveday were not made the same way as Catherine. They were characters placed in his path to tease and disappoint. He shook his head to dispel the thoughts.