"He is half expecting it," said Lawrence. "It is not the only thing that has gone missing. Violet Smith has vanished too."
Elijah raised an eyebrow. Mary stopped sewing and put her work down.
"Has she been gone long?" she asked.
"She went out yesterday afternoon and did not return," said Lawrence. "We are all very worried."
"She hasn't been here," Elijah reiterated.
"So, you say," said Lawrence. "But she has gone, and the parish register has vanished. She may have an interest in it. Where is it usually left?"
"In the front room," replied Elijah. "Come, I will show you."
They returned to the front of the house and entered the sparsely furnished room, containing only a table scattered with writing implements, and four worn chairs. Elijah evidently conducted his parish duties from the room.
"I kept it here," said Elijah, "when I had it at all. It generally remained in The Vicarage when the Reverend was in Fressingfield, but he went away quite often, and when absent, I made the entries. I am a tailor by trade as well as Parish Clerk, and it suited me to keep the register near my workshop rather than walk to The Vicarage every time I needed it. The Reverend was always reluctant to let me keep it at home, and it appears he was right to be concerned."
"You shouldn't worry unduly," said Lawrence. "I believe the entries are copied and not lost forever."
"You and I see it that way," said Elijah, "but the Reverend is passionate about history. It is second only to God himself, and he will be displeased if the book remains unaccounted for."
"I appreciate his feelings," said Lawrence. "My father was the same, but at least the information hasn't disappeared with it. Do people generally know that parish records are copied?"
"I doubt it," said Elijah. "It is one of those things that doesn't get mentioned in everyday conversation."
"So, if I asked if one of the drovers or servants might know, what would you say?"
"I would say it is doubtful," he replied. "Take my word for it - most people would not know. You didn't know yourself."
"Good," said Lawrence. "If it has been stolen, the perpetrator might think the information is lost forever, which could be their motive for removing it. Where exactly was the register located?"
"Here, on the table," said Elijah, pointing to the chair below the window. "The light is good for reading here."
"Of course," said Lawrence, "But someone only needs to reach through the window to lay their hands upon it."
"Well, yes," agreed Elijah, "but, why would they? What use is it to anyone but the Reverend?"
"What indeed," mused Lawrence. The proximity of the register to the window meant that anybody could have removed it. He could not rule out a single person. Worse still, there was no way of knowing whether Violet's absence and the lost register were connected.
He thanked Elijah and left the cottage. The sky had darkened, and rain threatened, as Elijah had feared. It struck before Lawrence reached the end of the street, and a fat droplet fell on his temple and trickled down his cheek. Two elderly ladies held their hats and scurried along the street, making for home. The road emptied, and he was alone - a marked contrast to his last encounter in the village surrounded by an angry crowd, later dispersed by Inspector Draper. The group had not reconvened, and the anger had dissipated, but Lawrence did not expect the peace to last. It was only a matter of time until Violet's disappearance became public knowledge, and the clamour would resume.
Lawrence passed the door of a brick-built cottage where a young woman emerged into the street as a rain squall struck. She clasped her shawl, hugging it tightly around her shoulders. The seemingly insignificant act triggered a memory. Mrs Harris had said that Violet intended to run an errand, but would Violet use that word in conjunction with reading a parish register? It would have taken much longer than the ten minutes she'd mentioned. Running an errand was a term used for going to the bakers or returning a shawl. Is that what Violet had set out to do? It would explain why the wrap was missing and justified a visit to Hannah Roper. Lawrence had been meaning to see her for days and would value her well-balanced, logical opinion. The Chemist and Post Office was close by, and he was getting wet. A visit to Hannah would provide a welcome diversion from returning to The Vicarage in the rain.
He hastened towards the Chemist and flung the door open. The bell clanged, as usual, announcing his arrival.
Mr Lait was behind the counter, reaching for a substance high above his head. He could not quite grasp the container and cursed beneath his breath.
"Sorry," he said as he turned to Lawrence. "I cannot catch the slippery devil. If only I were a few inches taller. Never mind. I'll fetch the steps. What can I do for you?"
"I would like a word with Hannah if she is available," he said.
"She's around somewhere," Mr Lait replied. "Either in the parlour or her room. You know where it is."
"Thank you." Lawrence left the Chemist and entered the room at the rear of the house before knocking on the parlour door. There was no reply, and he opened the door and went inside. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and an aroma of roasting meat wafted towards him, but there was no sign of Hannah. The back door stood ajar and on the opposite side of the room was another, much smaller wooden door. Lawrence unlatched it and peered through. Behind the door was a narrow set of stairs leading steeply up, and pictures adorned the white wood-panelled walls. Above his head and to the left was an exquisitely embroidered sampler of a tree with cleverly designed branches constructed to contain family names. He studied it for a moment, then called upstairs, but no one answered. He was about to ascend when the back door opened, and Hannah appeared.
She gasped and clutched her chest. "You frightened me almost to death," she said.
"I'm sorry," he replied. "Mr Lait told me to come and find you. I knocked first."
"I was outside," said Hannah holding a cabbage towards him. "Getting some greens. How can I help?"
"I wondered if you had seen Miss Smith?" he asked.
"Violet Smith?"
"Yes, have you seen her?"
"No," said Hannah. "Not for several days. Have you lost her?"
"She's missing," said Lawrence. "Nobody has seen her since yesterday afternoon."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Hannah. "but she hasn't been here."
Lawrence looked disappointed. "I hoped she might have returned your shawl," he said.
"I wasn't aware that it was missing," said Hannah. "But in any case, she wasn't here. She may have gone back to visit Mary Ann Scoggins. The last time I saw her, she was leaving Mary's house."
"When was that?" asked Lawrence.
"A few days ago."
"I've only come from their cottage. Mary said she hadn't seen Violet for some time."
"She must have made a mistake," said Hannah, "Or perhaps Mary was not there, and Violet let herself in."
"They all say she was not there," said Lawrence. "I can't think why they would conceal it?"
"I am not accusing them of lying," said Hannah. "I didn't see any of the family with Violet, but she walked from their house."
Lawrence frowned, heart sinking. Could Elijah or Mary Ann Scoggins be lying? He had believed Mary Ann when she denied seeing Violet, which indicated that Violet had sneaked into the house without their knowledge or consent.
"Thank you, Hannah," he said, sadly. "You have helped more than you can imagine. I won't trouble you any further."
"It is no trouble," said Hannah. "I am only sorry that you didn't find what you were looking for."
"Thank you anyway," he said again, doffing his hat.
He passed through the Chemist. Mr Lait had gone, and the closed sign was hanging on the door. The large receptacle containing the substance Mr Lait was reaching for was now on the counter. He had evidently been successful in retrieving it. Lawrence left the shop to the clang of the bell and walked into the path of Caroline Elliott, the monthly nurse.
She greeted him. "How ar
e you, Mr Harpham?" she asked.
"Better than when we last met," he smiled. "You were the voice of sanity in a sea of ignorance."
She smiled. "It has been difficult to rise above the panic, working for the Edwards. William’s experience with the crows has been so consuming that he cannot see reason. Mary has a little one on the way and refuses to be drawn into it. She has been very sensible."
"I am glad to hear it," said Lawrence. "It is a relief to know that not everyone is infected with this unwarranted hysteria. I have just been speaking to another person with similar sensibilities."
Caroline laughed. "You must mean Mr Lait? He is an amusing man, isn't he? But a typical scientist and not in the least bit susceptible to the supernatural."
"He was there too," said Lawrence. "but I was talking about Hannah Roper. She strikes me as a very rational woman."
Caroline raised an eyebrow. "Does she?"
"Yes, I was going to visit her, anyway. She is practical, and I value her judgement, but events overtook me. Violet Smith has gone missing, and I wanted to ask Hannah if Violet had returned her shawl."
Caroline nodded. "I heard she had missed it," she said. "Has Violet been there?"
"No," said Lawrence. "Hannah hasn't seen her for several days. Have you?"
"Unfortunately, not," said Caroline. "Our paths only cross when I'm attending Mary. Violet often comes in for a cake. She is a delightful woman."
"Yes, she is," agreed Lawrence, "and very well thought of, it seems."
"I have never met anyone who dislikes her," said Caroline. "Not like poor Mary Corbyn."
"Did you know Mary well?" The question was out before Lawrence considered the consequences. He was supposed to be investigating Violet's disappearance and had strict instructions not to interfere with Draper's case.
"I knew her a little," said Caroline. "And I attended some of Sarah's births; most particularly the birth of little Edith, the girl who died. Mary was present when Edith was born."
"What was she like?" asked Lawrence.
"A rather silly woman, I thought," said Caroline. "She was full of self-importance and convinced that she had supernatural powers. It was hardly surprising considering how strongly she was encouraged."
"I thought it was the opposite, "said Lawrence. "I heard that people were generally cynical to start with."
"No, they believed her claims all along. They thought she had the power to make bad things happen, and Hannah Roper took more pains than anyone to encourage her nonsense."
"Hannah was her friend," said Lawrence. "She freely admits she did not discourage Mary for fear of offending her, but neither was she persuasive."
"If that is what you want to believe," said Caroline rubbing her hands together. "I must be off now, it is getting cold, and I need to call on Mary Edwards. Her baby is due any day."
She bustled off, leaving Lawrence to contemplate her words. He stood outside the Chemist, deep in thought. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. "Good Lord," he exclaimed. "Surely not."
Lawrence strode towards The Vicarage, knowing precisely what to do next. A jigsaw of pieces had formed in his mind with one piece, central to the puzzle, out of kilter with the rest. He needed to check the genealogy of Faith Mills and rushed to his room to search for the notes he had made before leaving for London. They were on his dressing table together with the will, and he scanned them briefly. The family tree was only partly completed. It was intact from Thomas Fayers to Sarah, but the detail he wanted - the ancestor above Thomas - was missing. And it was because Violet had compiled the chart and she had all the relevant notes.
He ran upstairs to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. He had searched her room that morning, but couldn't recall seeing her notebook, and would need to look again. He pulled drawers and cupboards open, searching in vain, but the notes were not there. In a final attempt to locate them, he went to the morning room where they had conducted their initial research. There was little furniture except for the table and sideboards which were set ready for breakfast the next day. Lawrence searched every drawer and cupboard but to no avail. There was only one thing for it. He would have to visit the basement room.
Dusk had fallen, and he could hear a buzz of conversation from the dining room. The family must be inside, preparing for supper. He should be with them, but it was not yet seven o'clock, and he ought to be able to do what he needed in the fifteen minutes that remained. The idea of going to the basement alone made him sick to his stomach, but he was not prepared to disrupt the family gathering to seek Michael's help. Instead, he made his way to the orangery and collected the gas lamp and matches.
He put on his coat and braced himself for the ordeal. It was still light outside, but dusk was starting to fall. He held the lamp high as he traversed the garden, watching the bulbous rook's nests distort the slender trees while the light cast crooked shadows across the grass. His breathing was raspy and his hand shook, as he reached the storeroom and made to unlatch the door, but a sturdy padlock barred his way. How could the door be latched and padlocked? He was sure that he'd left it open. Yes, when he returned the registers, he distinctly remembered leaving the door ajar and the window on the furthest latch. Lawrence sighed. The Reverend must have visited the room in the meantime, realised the registers were insecure and purchased a padlock. He would not gain access tonight.
Lawrence crept to the rear of the building in the hope that the window had not been locked. It was firmly shut. He held the lamp high and peered inside. The light cast faint rays across the room, enough for him to notice the overturned table, with ink and candles scattered across the floor. Something was wrong. Without any further thought, he ran to the side and located the large stone he had used to prop the door open during his previous visit.
Lawrence rapped the stone against the window, and the ancient glass exploded, casting shards into the room. He reached inside for the latch and opened the window to its fullest extent. There was no doubt. The table had been upended and the place left in disarray. A faint trail indicated that something had been dragged through the dust.
Lawrence reached into the room as far as he could and set the lamp on the floor, then squeezed through the aperture, landing in an undignified heap. He dusted himself down and collected the lantern with trembling fingers. He had been too caught up in the moment to consider the consequences, but now that he was inside the dark, lonely building, a mantle of dread descended upon him, and he was paralysed with terror. It was not until he started to shiver that time moved again. The lamp juddered in his shaking hand sweeping irregular beams into the void below. Lawrence willed himself to move, taking pigeon steps towards the stairs. As he grew closer, the light caught a dark shape at the foot of the stone steps. He gasped. Something was down there, and it wasn’t books or papers. He steeled himself to look again and saw a body.
Lawrence placed the lamp at the top of the stairs and descended at a pace. As he neared the bottom, he recognised the still form of Violet Smith, lying prone on the floor with a gaping, blood-stained wound on her temple, skin pallid, almost blue. Lawrence crouched beside her and felt for a pulse. There was the barest flicker of a beat. It was weak, but she was alive.
He shook her shoulder. "Wake up, Violet," he called. "Wake up."
She moaned but did not speak. Lawrence held her marble-cold hand, wondering how long she had been in the dark cellar. It was springtime, and although the weather was warm during the day, temperatures in the basement must be near freezing in the dead of night. Violet bore all the signs of hypothermia, and he removed his coat and placed it over her, before rubbing her ice-cold hands.
"Wake up," he urged. "We have to get out of here."
Her eyes flickered open.
"You are back, good girl, Violet, good girl."
She rubbed her temple, "my head," she whispered. "It hurts."
"Don't worry," he said. "I am here. I will fetch help."
"No, don't leave me," she implored.
&nbs
p; "I must. You are injured."
"No." She squeezed his hand with shaking fingers. "I am so cold," she said.
"How long have you been here? Do you know?"
"No, I don't know. A long time, I think," Violet replied, "It was dark - empty and silent, as if I was dreaming. She held me, and I could walk, but not without help. She guided me, stopped me falling. I couldn't think straight. My mind..." She paused and gathered her thoughts.
"It's hazy," she continued. "My actions were not my own, and then she brought me here and pushed me down the stairs, and I can't remember anything after that."
"It sounds like you were drugged," said Lawrence, his clenched jaw betraying the anger that had replaced fear. "Can you walk?" he continued.
"I don't know." She put a hand to the floor and attempted to rise.
"No," she whispered.
"Let me help," said Lawrence. He took her hand, but she stopped him.
"What's that smell?" she asked.
A sound like crunching gravel came from the top of the stairs. Lawrence wrinkled his nose - paraffin. Gazing upwards, past the lamp, he saw a bright glow where no light should have been, and flames flickered across the upended table.
"My God," yelled Lawrence. "Fire!"
He ran up the steps, and towards the light, recoiling as he reached the flames. The hairs on his neck stood on end. Fire, more terrifying than a thousand disembodied crows. He tried to push past the flames, but his body rebelled, hindered at the memory of life-snatching fire. No. He had already lost his family to one unstoppable conflagration. He could still smell the acrid, pungent smoke; still feel the cliff-edge despair at their loss. Snatched memories of his futile attempt to reach them permeated his thoughts. The bitter anger of restraint by well-meaning neighbours clawed at his heart. He would rather have died trying to save them than lived, knowing that he had failed. Now he had an opportunity to push through the inferno, but he could not fight, could not save himself.
Violet whimpered at the foot of the stairs. He might lack the will to protect his own life, but by God, he would not let her perish. With renewed vigour, he pushed past the oil lamp and towards the blazing table, but the flames had taken hold, and the smell of fuel was overpowering. The man-made fire was all-consuming. Caustic soot clouds masked screaming hot flames that licked against the door and windows. He could not pass through and had no means to extinguish the fire. They were trapped.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 22
