The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  “I see,” said Violet. “And the others?”

  “The men investigating the Reverend’s ghost?”

  Violet nodded.

  “I haven’t seen them,” said Anne. “But then I’ve been in the kitchen since cock crow. No fancy gentlemen from London are likely to disturb me in here.”

  Violet smiled. “I suppose not. Did you hear the noises last night?”

  “Only the usual knocking sounds,” said Anne. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “They were loud,” said Violet. “A door slammed. It would not have been unusual, except that Mr Podmore had closed all the doors. Only two remained ajar, and they were still open after the slamming stopped.”

  Anne shrugged. “It’s the same every night,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What do you think caused it?”

  “It’s an old house, Miss. There will always be noises, and they seem worse in the dark. As for the rapping - well, it’s a rummin, and that’s a fact. But there’s no use thinking too hard about it. It is what it is.”

  “It doesn’t scare you?”

  “No. Were you frightened?”

  “A little,” admitted Violet. “Though in the light of day, it seems silly. But I can’t think of an explanation for it, and that troubles me.”

  “Not everything has an explanation,” Anne replied. “As I said, best not think too hard about it. It is a pity that the Reverend called the investigators again. Better left alone, in my opinion.”

  “You don’t think they can help?”

  Ann drained her teacup and placed it on the table. “No, I don’t,” she said. “All that writing and measuring squit. Pah! Such pretty men and so well educated. But what would they do if there were such things as ghosts and they came upon one? They do not look the type to fight it or even outrun it. Especially the pompous one. No, they should leave well alone.”

  Violet laughed. “Which one is the pompous one?”

  “Mr high and mighty Podmore,” said Anne. “Though don’t tell the Reverend I said that. Mr Podmore clicked his fingers at me last night before I turned in. Clicked them in my ear and asked for a cup of cocoa. He nearly had one upturned on his head.” She crossed her arms and tucked them under her huge bosom.

  “Not a very polite thing to do,” said Violet. “He behaved so courteously to me last night.”

  “He claimed he called my name twice,” said Anne. “When he couldn’t make himself heard, he clicked his fingers. That what he said, but I did not hear him. I told him straight. "I am the cook, not the maid but I will fetch your cocoa anyway.”

  “Oh, dear. Just a misunderstanding surely?”

  “Pompous,” said Anne.

  “Well, thank you for the tea,” said Violet, “but I think I will go for a walk before breakfast. I need to clear my head.”

  “Very well, Miss,” said Anne. “There’s a nice carved ham and eggs to look forward to for breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” Violet smiled as she left the kitchen. Anne Durrell had been exceedingly frank in her opinions. Violet wondered if she was always that way, or whether their shared Norfolk connection had made her more open. Anne had been bordering on disrespectful to her employer, but her candid observations were refreshing. Violet was grateful that she did not need to interpret Anne’s motives.

  Violet walked through the breakfast room into the rear hallway where she unlatched the door and let herself into the garden. The mist had lifted. After a quick promenade of the lawn, she opened the side gate and set off down the path towards the village.

  Violet shivered as she walked towards the Church. The warmth of the kitchen had masked the cold February morning. She pulled the fur collar of her coat higher and fastened the topmost button. Violet decided against walking to the village and chose a new route instead. She turned into a narrow lane running past the Church and opposite the rectory. The winding tree-lined road was pretty, and Violet momentarily forgot that she was here on duty. She refocussed her thoughts and contemplated what she had learned from her time in Chelmondiston. Apart from a little insight into some of the occupants of the rectory, she had not achieved much. She had managed to exchange a few words with young Frederick Lucas the previous morning but had yet to meet the gardener. Nothing she had seen suggested any trickery behind the recurring noises in the Rectory. Quite the contrary. It seemed likely that the sounds arose from the age and composition of the building. If not, they were, as Anne Durrell suggested, inexplicable.

  Violet was deep in thought, only registering the presence of another person when she heard noises coming from behind her. A quiet tread of boots interrupted her reverie, and she turned to see Doctor Myers clad in a long brown coat, striding in her direction.

  “I thought I recognised you,” he said. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  Violet smiled. “It will be lovely to have some company,” she said, glad of the distraction. She was becoming despondent about the investigation and losing faith in her ability to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.

  “Where are you heading?” asked Myers.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m not familiar with Chelmondiston.”

  “The Rector suggested a walk by the river when we spoke last night,” said Arthur. “It’s quite a long way, but well worthwhile, if you fancy it.”

  “That sounds ideal,” said Violet. “A long walk might keep out the cold. I have managed to leave my gloves behind.”

  “Have mine,” said Arthur Myers removing them from his hands. “They may be a little large, but they will keep you warm.”

  Violet started to speak, but Myers interrupted. “Please take them. I won’t enjoy our walk knowing you are cold, and I do not feel it myself. Besides, I have deep pockets.”

  Violet accepted the gloves and thanked the doctor. They turned off the narrow lane and walked together onto another straight path that stretched into the distance.

  “Tell me about your work,” asked Violet. “A life spent in medicine must be fascinating.”

  “Oh, it is,” Myers agreed. “I always wanted to become a Doctor, although it was a close-run thing between that and being a professional sportsman.”

  “They are two very different occupations,” said Violet.

  “Indeed. But I always enjoyed cricket and had some success at tennis,” said Myers. “I played at Wimbledon when I was a younger man in better health.”

  “How fascinating,” said Violet. Her walking companion was slim and wiry. She could easily imagine him participating in sporting events. His demeanour suggested that he was of a similar age to Violet and probably in his forties. He showed no signs of middle age spread or any outward sign of aches or pains. His hair was grey and slightly receding and his complexion fresh, although bags beneath his eyes suggested a lack of sleep. Violet could see no evidence of poor health and his appearance suggested otherwise.

  “But you chose to become a Doctor,” said Violet.

  “I did, and I am glad of it,” Myers replied. “A sporting occupation is a short-lived thing, so I studied medicine and became a physician. I am currently working at the Belgrave Hospital for Children,” he continued.

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do.” Myers smiled warmly. “It gives me the opportunity to practice medicine and conduct my research. It is a good life.”

  “What do you study?”

  “Have you heard of Raynaud’s disease?”

  “Is that something to do with your hands?”

  “Yes. It is a condition causing pain to the extremities.”

  “Is that why you gave me your gloves?”

  Meyers laughed. “I gave you my gloves because you were cold. There is no evidence of Reynaud’s disease in your hands.”

  “Oh, look.” Violet pointed ahead. They were nearing the end of the road, and the River Orwell was in sight. A small clutch of thatched cottages and an Inn bordered the lane and a brick-built boathouse nestled on the bank to their left. Wooden boats d
otted the shore, some intact and some lying broken on the river bank. The choppy waters of the Orwell were murky blue. The riverside was bitterly cold yet bursting with life. Ahead, a young boy steered a rowboat to the shore where a woman was waiting, arms folded over her stiff white apron. Cattle grazed in a field which reached almost to the river banks where they were tended by a farmer, clad in layers of patched up clothes.

  Violet and Arthur reached the river's edge and surveyed the scene in silence. The Orwell heaved and churned to the rhythm of the wind as dark clouds rolled across the sky. Violet brushed a drop of spray from her face and then another before realising that it was a gentle scattering of snowflakes.

  “We had better go back,” said Doctor Myers.

  They returned up Pin Mill Lane, each distracted by their thoughts. Violet broke the comfortable silence that descended. "What made you interested in Psychical Research", she said. “It is so very different from science. It's nebulous, illogical and relies entirely on faith.”

  “No, it doesn't,” said Myers. “I became involved because of Frederick, my older brother. He has had a lifelong fascination with spiritualism. But our research isn't illogical and is quite compatible with my medical experience. There are scientific grounds for the study of hypnotism and more than adequate proof of the powers of faith healing. The mind is a powerful engine and belief in a cure can aid most conditions.”

  “Do you believe in spirits?” asked Violet.

  “It is not important one way or the other,” said Meyers. “I believe in scientific study and quantifiable results. It is important to approach these matters without prejudice and be circumspect and rational.”

  They were back in the village now and walking towards the Rectory. It was bitingly cold, but the snowflakes had petered out almost as soon as they began. Since they left, a shabbily dressed man had appeared in the front garden of the Rectory and was squatting by the side gate oiling a pair of shears.

  “Are you Mr Daldy, the gardener?” asked Violet.

  “That I am,” he replied.

  “Good morning. I am Violet,” she said, “and this is Doctor Myers.”

  She hesitated. This might be her only opportunity to question the gardener, and she was going to have to do it in front of the doctor without arousing suspicion. In the short time, she had known him Violet had already decided that she liked Doctor Myers. She hoped to portray curiosity rather than nosiness while appearing amiable instead of a gossip.

  The gardener stood and faced Violet. A web of crow’s feet surrounded his pale blue eyes, and his tanned skin was almost leathery. Deep laughter lines furrowed his face. “John Daldy, Ma’am. What do you need?”

  “Doctor Myers and his companion are investigating the noises in the Rectory,” said Violet. “I have found their accounts very interesting. Have you have ever heard any strange sounds yourself?”

  “I have heard them all right,” said Daldy, “and a worst night’s sleep I have never had in all my life.”

  “You stayed in the Rectory overnight?” asked Violet.

  “For one night only,” said Daldy. “Never again. It was just before Kitty left,” he continued. “Last year, before your lot came for the first time.”

  “Yes,” said Myers, “I remember reading the report. I believe Barkworth wrote it. I don’t recall reading an account from you.”

  “I left long before he arrived,” said Daldy. “Other gardening jobs to do, but the Reverend will have told him what happened.”

  “What did happen?” asked Violet.

  The gardener placed his shears on the floor and cleared his throat. “I have worked here for a long time,” said Daldy. “And the disturbances are nothing new. They happened a lot when Reverend Beaumont lived here, but he was never bothered. He had a big family, you see. His children were loud, always larking around and making noise. It drowned out the knocking and rapping, and it was only the servants that ever mentioned it. Well, eventually Reverend Beaumont left, and Reverend Woodward arrived. There were no children this time and the Reverend and Mrs Woodward rattled around the place alone. They bought their servants, of course, but none of them knew anything about the noises. Then one night the Reverend heard footsteps in the passageway. Doors began opening and closing when there was nobody around.”

  As the gardener spoke, Arthur Myers removed a notebook from his jacket pocket. He patted his coat, searching for a pencil, located one and began to take notes.

  Daldy continued. “Reverend Woodward asked his servants if they had heard anything, and they said they had. Kitty was especially upset. She had kept her fears under control while she thought the sounds were only in her imagination. As soon as the others started talking openly about a ghost, fear got the better of her. She was so distressed that the Reverend asked me, young Frederick and another man to search the house. We started in daylight so we could see clearly, and we examined every corner of the house, inspected the drains and took up the floorboards in one of the bedrooms. Even the ivy on the outside wall did not escape our notice. We pulled it away to make sure there was nothing beneath. And still, the noises continued.”

  “What happened on the night you stayed at the Rectory?” asked Violet.

  “It was the smell that did for me,” said John Daldy. “The bedroom reeked of sulphur, and all night I was disturbed by slamming, banging, rapping and footsteps. I did not sleep a wink. Then in the early hours of the morning, Kitty screamed and woke the whole household. Mrs Woodward was furious.”

  “Why?”

  “Kitty said she woke to see the shadow of a small grey-bearded man in shabby clothes standing by her bedside. Mrs Woodward did not believe a word of it. She threatened to dismiss Kitty, but it was too late. Kitty had already made her mind up. The house terrified her, and she said she wouldn't stay a moment longer. She didn’t. She packed her trunk and left the very next day.”

  “It is odd that Reverend and Mrs Woodward have such diverging views,” said Violet.

  “She hears the sounds the same as the rest of us,” said Daldy. “She cannot explain it so she will not admit it.”

  “What do you think it is?” asked Violet.

  “I think it’s the previous rector,” said Daldy looking down at his feet, embarrassed.

  “Reverend Beaumont?” asked Violet.

  “Not him, he’s still alive as far as I know,” said Daldy. “I mean old ‘cabbage’ Howarth, the one before. He was a rotten old miser. Never spent a penny while he was alive and then his will went missing after he died.”

  “You think he has come back to haunt the Rectory?” asked Violet.

  “It’s what they say in the village,” muttered Daldy. “They think it is the Reverend Richard Howarth risen from his grave in the churchyard. He has come back to claim his money.”

  “Have you ever seen this apparition?”

  “No,” said Daldy, “but old man Thompson saw it in the churchyard on the morning Reverend Howarth died in ‘63. Reverend Woodward may have seen the ghost and Kitty did. They’re all the sightings I know of.”

  “Well, thank you for explaining,” said Violet.

  The gardener tipped his cap, collected the shears and trudged off muttering below his breath.

  “Oh dear,” said Violet as they entered the Rectory. “Completely deluded.”

  “But quite compelling, from a parapsychological point of view,” said Myers.

  “It sounds rather unlikely,” replied Violet, dubiously.

  “It’s the first sighting, that interests me,” said Myers. “It's as good an example of a veridical hallucination as one could ask for.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “A veridical hallucination is one that corresponds with a real event — generally something that we can corroborate later on. In this case, Thompson saw what he thought was the ghost of the Rector which coincided with the Rector dying. It is all there in my brother’s book, Phantasms of the Living.”

  “Complicated, but fascinating,” said Violet. S
he was about to ask a question when Frank Podmore came down the stairs carrying a large leather bag.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, addressing Myers. “I have been looking for you everywhere. I was getting worried.”

  Meyers retrieved his pocket watch. “Good Lord, is that the time?”

  “Yes, it’s nine thirty,” said Podmore, “and high time we were off. Sidgwick is expecting us for supper.”

  “I must be on my way too,” said Violet.

  “How are you travelling?” asked Myers.

  “By train,” said Violet.

  “We are too. Our carriage to the station has arrived, and there is plenty of space. Would you care to join us?”

  “Oh, thank you, but no. I must speak with Mrs Woodward first. I will catch an afternoon train.”

  “Then I wish you a good day,” said Myers doffing his hat. “I enjoyed our conversation. The Headquarters of the SPR is in the Adelphi. If you are ever in London, do look us up.”

  “I will,” said Violet. The two men loaded their cases onto the carriage and Violet watched as it pulled away. She sighed. ‘Now just the small matter of what to tell Mrs Woodward’, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back in the Buttermarket

  Monday - 2nd March 1891

  Violet stared out of the window of her office in the Buttermarket and reminisced about the previous year. She missed her employment as Mrs Harris’s companion and felt her absence keenly. Violet often remembered her former employers’ quiet fortitude in the face of poor health. She remembered every corner of the home they shared in Fressingfield. Mrs Harris had been formidable but kind, and Violet had felt useful and secure in her employment. When Mrs Harris died, it had been no less upsetting than it would have been for Violet to lose one of her kin.

  Lawrence’s offer of work had come as a surprise, all the more so when he suggested a partnership. Violet had accepted it gratefully, believing she could perform the task well. That certainty had dwindled lately as she felt Lawrence’s regard for her slip away.

  Violet realised early on that Lawrence was a complicated man, but the extent of his capricious nature came as a surprise. Violet was steady and not given to extremes of behaviour. She was always courteous, generally content and saw no reason why Lawrence should be otherwise. He was moody and downright rude when provoked. He had been unpleasant to their domestic last week. Poor Annie was only singing as she worked, and not very loudly. But Lawrence had thumped his fist on the table, then stalked into the yard where he admonished her loudly. Violet hoped it would not put Annie off coming in tomorrow. Good cleaners were hard to find, and Annie was very thorough.