The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A Cancellation

  Back at the Regal, Violet was in a sombre mood. She stared despondently at a china teacup and stirred it repeatedly. Lawrence sighed as he placed his hand over hers and removed the teaspoon. They were sitting in the dining room looking out of the small window which overlooked an even smaller patch of garden. It was an unloved, unattended garden with a gravel covered area to the side of the lawn. Several bicycles in varying states of disrepair lay on the uncut grass.

  Lawrence had arrived back from the Embankment just in time to eat a modest lunch. Michael had taken advantage of his presence to stretch his legs and spend some time alone. Lawrence attacked his bread and soup with relish, but Violet picked miserably at hers. She nibbled the roll and made a perfunctory effort with the bowl of soup.

  “Are you going to eat that?” Lawrence asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then I’ll have it.”

  Violet sighed and pushed the bowl towards Lawrence, then picked up the bread roll and dropped it on his side plate. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

  “I feel like a dog on a lead,” she said, irritably.

  “You don’t look like one.”

  “It’s not funny, Lawrence. I’m bored. I was looking forward to going to Kew.”

  “Ask Michael to take you.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  Lawrence put his spoon down. “You seem to be more interested in your companions than the gardens.”

  “It is nice to go in a group.”

  “What happened? Why was it called off?”

  “Frank Podmore can't make it so Arthur, I mean Doctor Myers, has postponed our trip until tomorrow.”

  “I saw Podmore at the Headquarters,” said Lawrence, conversationally. “No sign of Myers, though.”

  “I expect there was a medical emergency or something like that. He is a very busy man.”

  “I daresay. Anyway, I made another discovery.”

  “Yes?”

  “This.” Lawrence took the little ledger from his pocket and placed it on the table.

  Violet picked it up. “Lots of names and addresses,” she said. There's nothing interesting. How does it help?”

  “Look where the doorman lives.” Lawrence pointed to the bottom of the page.

  “Off White’s Row? It’s only a coincidence, Lawrence.”

  “No. It’s more than that. Both Annie Millwood and Frances Coles had links to White’s Row, and here it is again.”

  “I’m sure lots of people live there. That is no reason to connect it to the case.”

  “There’s every reason. Elias is the most likely person to have received D’Onston’s blackmail letter. He is always in the building.”

  “Why would he bring trouble to his neighbourhood?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m going there.

  Violet sighed. “You are frustrating, Lawrence. Why must you always base your decisions on instinct?”

  “It’s served me well up to now.”

  “What about me?”

  “Michael will be back soon. He can take you out.”

  “I don’t want to go out with Michael. I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve hardly participated in this investigation. There is no point in being here.”

  “You’ll have to bear it. I’m still worried about your safety.”

  “I am perfectly safe, Lawrence. It's clear you don’t want me involved.”

  “Now who’s being illogical?” The door opened, and Lawrence looked up. “Ah, Michael. Glad you are back. I’m going out.”

  “Nice to see you, Lawrence, albeit fleeting.”

  Lawrence ignored the sarcasm and left for the hotel basement where he misappropriated the odd job man’s coat again. The poor man had noticed his missing hat and another, more dishevelled substitute was hanging on the door. Lawrence duly removed it feeling a moment of guilt. It did not last. Lawrence hurried upstairs, but as he took the stairs, two at a time, his shoelace became untied. When he stopped to fasten it, he yanked the frayed lace too hard, and a large piece came away in his hand. Lawrence swore beneath his breath. Karma had intervened. It served him right for borrowing things without asking. Time was short, and Lawrence didn’t have any spare laces. He approached his room and noticed that the occupant of the opposite room had left his polished shoes outside the door. They were brown and a mismatch, but they would do. Lawrence abandoned his brand-new rule about taking things that didn’t belong to him. He tugged a lace out and bolted to his room where he threaded it into his shoe before preparing his tramp disguise.

  The rear door of the hotel was stiff. Lawrence put a shoulder to the swollen door and heaved. As he picked his way past the broken bicycles in the garden, he glanced through the dining room window. Michael was standing over Violet with a protective arm around her shoulder. She was sitting down with her head in her hand. Lawrence shrugged. She must have a headache, he thought.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  An Uncomfortable Night

  It was late afternoon by the time Lawrence arrived in Spitalfields. The weather was cold but dry, and the streets were busy. Lawrence had hoped to locate Elias Haim’s house without drawing attention to himself, but it was not to be. Having walked the length of White’s Row several times, Lawrence realised that Gunpowder Alley did not have the benefit of a street sign. Several alleys were leading off, and it could have been any one of them. Worse still, there were no numbers on any of the houses. He would need help. By the time he had traversed White’s Row for the third time, a group of women had emerged from Spitalfields Chambers. They sat outside the front door chatting to each other. A young boy dressed in frayed trousers finishing halfway up his legs rolled a wooden ball down a gulley which ended in a shallow pit in the middle of the street. Lawrence watched as the boy collected the ball and tossed it again and again. Eventually, it overshot to the cambered side of the Row where it rolled towards Lawrence. He picked up the ball. It bore heavy traces of wear and was no longer round, but a treasure, he suspected, to the poor ragged boy. He held it in the air, and the boy ran toward him. Lawrence ruffled the boy's hair and smiled. Then, remembering he was in character, he scowled towards the women as if the boy was a nuisance.

  “Come ‘ere Thomas.” A young, sallow-faced woman eyed Lawrence suspiciously. “He didn’t mean any harm.”

  Lawrence approached the group. He had not recognised Sarah Fleming from a distance, but she had seen him.

  “You back again?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “I thought you were visiting someone in Swallow Gardens.”

  “Been there and seen him,” he said. “I’m going back to Lambeth tomorrow, but I’ve got business with Elias Haim. Know him?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met.”

  “I need to find him.”

  “Got an address?”

  “Gunpowder Alley.”

  “I know Haim.” Thomas was sitting on his mother’s lap. She wrapped both arms around him and was rocking back and forward as she spoke to Lawrence.

  Lawrence grunted.

  “He lives over there, by the Tenter Ground.” She pointed down the street towards one of the alleyways. “He’s a funny one.”

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t want to talk out of turn if he’s a friend of yours.”

  “It’s business,” said Lawrence, gruffly.

  “He doesn’t talk,” she continued, “keeps himself to himself. We don’t mind that, but he’s not very friendly. We speak to him, but he doesn’t reply. Thinks he’s a cut above us, but he isn’t. He lives where we live and breathes the air we breathe. There’s nothing special about him.”

  “Which one is his house?”

  “First on the left as you go into the alley. It’s nothing special either.”

  Thomas wriggled free, and she watched as he resumed his b
all game. She sniffed and wiped her hand across her face.

  Lawrence nodded. “I’ll be going then,” he said and walked towards the unnamed alley, feeling the eyes of the two women boring into his back. He hadn't wanted to advertise his business, much less acquire an audience, but there was no choice. The East End was a far cry from Westminster with its well-mapped streets and numbered townhouses. Local knowledge took years to gain, and if he hadn’t asked for help, he could have been wandering around for hours.

  The alley was narrow and short. A terrace of dark-bricked houses loomed either side, their brick walls chipped and faded. The properties were identical. Each had a worn wooden door with a rectangular door light and one downstairs and two upstairs windows. The windows overlooked each other. But for the dirty panes, there would have been no privacy at all. Gunpowder Alley was grim and unpleasant. Lawrence wondered what drew a man like Elias to live somewhere so different from and with such a tortuous journey to his place of work.

  As he hovered by the entrance to the alleyway, Lawrence noticed a flicker of light through the grimy window. It was after five o’clock and dusk was falling. The presence of a candle indicated that Elias had arrived home. Things were not going according to plan. Lawrence had hoped that Elias would be at the SPR headquarters for the entire working day.

  His position at the front of the alleyway was conspicuous, and he surveyed the area looking for cover. Two wrought iron gates stood halfway along the row of terraces, one on each side. Lawrence strode towards the left-hand gate and unlatched it. The gate opened into a narrow, cobbled passageway which led to the back of the terrace and allowed access into a small yard at the rear of each property. The wall of the passage was about four feet high, and a corrugated roof ran along it across the width of the first two properties. A large tree grew at the end which might provide cover.

  Lawrence hauled himself up the wall, wincing as tried to accommodate his bodyweight on his strong right hand. His useless left hand crumpled, but he managed to support himself on his elbow. Sitting atop the wall, Lawrence gingerly tested the corrugated roof. It took his weight, and he sat in the shadow of the tree watching the rear of Haim’s property. The wooden back door was ajar, and the rear window was well-lit. Elias Haim was in full view, bathed in the soft glow of a lantern. He was sitting at a table and appeared to be reading. The outside light faded and as day slipped into dusk, the illuminated property became more visible. Lawrence could now see that Haim was reading a newspaper.

  Lawrence fidgeted. He was uncomfortable and time slipped by slowly. It began to drizzle, and he pulled up the collar of the odd job man’s coat. It smelled of glue and gave little protection from the elements. Lawrence shivered, wondering how long he would have to remain here. His presence would be pointless if he couldn't get into the house undetected. He thought about the investigation, as he waited. Violet’s earlier words smarted. She had always valued logic over instinct, and it was one of the reasons he had asked her to be his business partner. They complemented each other in their approach. But if he listened to Violet and ignored his sense of certainty that the answer lay in the building before him, then logic would lead them away. In fact, logic would mean abandoning the venture altogether. From the discovery of Ruth Moss’s body until the moment he entered Gunpowder Alley, was one long series of coincidences with little to connect them. He sighed. Perhaps Violet was right, and he was wasting his time.

  Pins and needles tracked down his leg, his collar was wet through, and his thoughts were turning black. He recognised the early signs of depression and decided to do something physical to evade the cloud of gloom. He slithered from the wall and made for the wrought iron gate deciding to wander the streets for half an hour. If Elias had not left the property by the time Lawrence returned, he would abandon the idea, go back to The Regal and rethink his entire approach. He unlatched the gate and walked out, then quickly stepped back and squatted inside the entrance. He had almost walked right into the path of Elias Haim, who was locking his front door. Lawrence watched as Haim turned right and disappeared into White’s Row.

  Lawrence doubled back to the pathway behind the rear of the terrace. It was dark now, and the pale moon cast speckles of light across the wet cobbles. He spotted a wooden gate set into the low wall between the pathway and Haim’s yard. The wood felt spongy as he pushed it open. He closed the gate quietly behind him, inched towards the door and pulled the handle. Haim had locked it, and the door stood firm. Lawrence sighed. Even in this feral part of the East End, doors were usually left open, but not tonight, regrettably. He tried the window which moved slightly, but not enough. Then, he pushed against the upper window surround with his palms and tried again. A gap opened just wide enough to insert his fingers. One more yank and the stiff window moved freely. Lawrence ducked inside and eased himself into the same room he had seen Haim occupy earlier. He closed the window, noticing a newspaper laying open on the table. Haim had extinguished his lantern before he left, but a box of matches lay open nearby.

  Lawrence turned the wick, struck a match and re-ignited the lamp. It cast a dim glow around the bare, tatty room. Lawrence searched his surroundings. A large section of olive-green wallpaper was peeling away over the door. The fire in the chimney breast contained a low, metal grate and weeks of ash spilt across the floor and coated a nearby threadbare rug. Apart from the table and chairs, the room was empty. Lawrence wondered if he was in the wrong house. Elias Haim had created a favourable first impression with his immaculate clothes and slicked back hair. There was not so much as a loose thread on his apparel. His shoes shone like mirrors, and the sharp crease in his trousers showed great attention to detail. His appearance belied the unkempt room.

  Lawrence moved into the kitchen which was messy but not dirty with pots and pans spread across a small kitchen table, and plates in the sink. Lawrence opened a cupboard door, but there was nothing of note. Across the hallway and to the left he found the parlour tidily set out with two high-backed chairs and a fully stocked bookcase. This room was orderly and clean. Lace antimacassars covered the back and arms of the chairs and a small clock ticked on the mantlepiece. A book lay face down on one of the chairs. Lawrence opened it and held it to the light. The title read - ‘The Methods of Ethics.’ Lawrence had judged Haim as a man of intelligence, and his reading matter concurred.

  There was nothing of further note, so Lawrence made his way upstairs. The floorboards creaked as he moved across the landing. The house was deathly quiet save for the tick of the clock in the parlour. Every footstep sounded like a claxon. Two doors from the landing lead to bedrooms, both open. Lawrence lifted his lamp and peered into the smaller of the two. It was little more than a box room with an unmade single bed and wooden chair. The next room was bigger and was dominated by a large double bed. Haim must have a penchant for oversized furniture. His chest of drawers looked too big to fit through the door frame. Haim’s bed was unmade with sheets and blankets laying in a crumpled heap at one end. A small wooden crate containing a single book lay against the bed. Lawrence placed the lamp on top of the chest and pulled out the drawers one by one. He flinched at the smell of mothballs as the drawers opened. Haim had folded his clothes to exacting standards. They were clean and pressed. Lawrence continued opening drawers to find one full of books and another used for shoes. Both drawers were orderly. Lawrence tugged at the last one. There was no keyhole, but it would not open. He rattled it from the outside, and the contents settled. Inside were reams of paper and ephemera including documents and old copies of SPR journals. Haim had crammed a lifetime of memories inside including black-edged mourning cards, letters and old family photographs.

  In the middle of the mass of paper, Lawrence found two neat clippings attached to a copy of the Pall Mall Gazette. He held them to the lantern. “To the One Who Knows - Go to the premises of Gilbert Price, Butcher on the morning of the 14th inst. to receive news to your advantage.” The other clipping was much the same. Lawrence gasped. The newspaper cuttings could eas
ily be responses to D’Onston’s blackmail demands. He had been right to come, after all. But Lawrence had no opportunity for self-congratulation. No sooner had he closed the drawer, then he heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock and the front door slammed open.

  Lawrence extinguished the lantern and bolted into the back bedroom, flattening himself behind the door. His breath was heavy and laboured, and his heart raced. He listened while Haim prowled around the lower part of the house, opening doors and muttering under his breath. Lawrence felt a weight in his hand and realisation dawned. Haim was looking for the lantern that he knew he had left on the dining table earlier. Lawrence hoped that he wouldn’t ransack the house looking for it. He waited by the door, cramped and uncomfortable trying to decide how to get out of his predicament. The window opposite provided no realistic means of escape. His useless hand would not allow him to hang down long enough to drop to safety, even if he managed to open it undetected. The same applied to Haim’s bedroom. He could only hope that Haim would settle in the parlour with the door shut, so he had a chance to creep downstairs. Fate intervened. As Lawrence stood shuffling from one foot to another, the stairs creaked, and a candle flickered on the other side of the door. Haim was only feet away. Lawrence held his breath, clutching the lamp to his chest, willing his heartbeat to quieten.