The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  First Printing 2020

  Dornica Press

  Dedicated to:

  Mum & Dad & Martin, Pat & Philip Dennis

  with fond memories of happy times in Overstrand

  PROLOGUE

  Scole, January 1892

  "Repent therefore and turn again that your sins may be blotted out." Acts 2:19

  My fingers tremble as I raise the hand mirror and regard my features through faded eyes. A murderess, clad in the guise of a harmless middle-aged woman, returns my gaze. She has one foot on the path to old age but will never arrive. Death is close behind her and catching up fast.

  She and I were once the same – selfish, greedy and without compassion. But I have changed. We are different people now. A fleeting moment of regret made its home in my heart and nested there, bringing with it a conscience. A conscience that crept like a vine, infiltrating my memories, nagging and whining like a spoiled child. It thrived on sickness, revelled in infirmity and grew like the disease that ravages my body.

  I am not yet fifty, but my face bears the marks of old age and a life poorly lived. My hair, once a lustrous brown, is grey and patchy. Heavy bags nestle beneath my sunken eyes and wrinkles furrow my face. I try to smile, but my mouth lingers in a permanent scowl, as well it might. My worthless life is coming to a lonely end.

  I blink as a sharp pain sears into my eyeball and peer into the mirror to locate the source of my discomfort. The pain is from a loose eyelash which I brush from my eye with a gnarled finger, then I lower the mirror, and it falls onto the bed. The looking glass is brass, with a tiny bevel the only nod to luxury. It is not elaborate, but I appreciate it, knowing that not every woman can afford a hand mirror. It was a treat to myself with the money I received when Fanny died. It must be fifteen years ago now, but I remember as if it were yesterday.

  I shake my head to dislodge the memories, but they will not leave. I find myself wishing that the disease had taken hold of my sanity as it did with Mrs Peters, who lives in the room below. Her mind went long ago, and now she croons to herself with a vapid smile on her face as she rocks the day away staring from the window without a care in the world. Her life is easy and pointless, but unlike me, she was always a harmless old bird. In the end, the good Lord gives us the end we deserve.

  He came into my life three or four years ago, the good Lord, that is. I hadn't known I needed him, hadn't reached the depths of despair that followed later. Hope still glimmered, if not burned. But back then, I thought nothing of death and was quite content to profit by doing nothing. I did not consider my silence unreasonable, but self-awareness wasn't far behind.

  The Lord entered my life one warm August evening. I'd been walking down Mount Street towards the Market Place on my way to perform a chore. I can't remember what it was. As I passed the Kings Head Hotel, I noticed there were boards propped up against a brick wall on the opposite side of the road. The printed boards announced an address by an American evangelist. He was due to speak at half past seven, and a small crowd had gathered to watch. I hastened along with no intention of listening, but entirely by chance, I found myself returning down Mount Street at a quarter to eight. The evangelist was in full flow, and the crowd had increased in size. They gazed at him with rapt attention. I found myself stopping and without giving it any further thought, I settled on a step and began to listen. I continued watching, fascinated by his words, and he held my full concentration. The preacher was not American at all but spoke with a distinct East Anglian twang. He could almost be a native of Diss, though his deep voice bore traces of another accent and some of the words he used sounded foreign. Not American, though – somewhere more exotic.

  The evangelist was tall with high cheekbones and a full head of white hair. He wore a grizzled, un-trimmed beard that reached the top button of his threadbare waistcoat and he spoke confidently. Impassioned, honeyed words dripped from his mouth, leaving me spellbound. I hardly noticed the minutes pass by, and he finished in no time. One by one, the crowd departed until I was the only one left still sitting on the step and with no inclination to move. He approached me and held out a weather-beaten hand. His leathery skin was the colour of burnt wood and smooth to the touch. He smiled as he pulled me to my feet and asked me what was wrong. I remember wondering what he saw in me that made him ask. "I have sinned," I whispered as a torrent of feelings I had never acknowledged raced to escape.

  He didn't ask questions or attempt to pry, but with a notable lack of curiosity, said, "Shall we pray?" and I nodded. We knelt together on the dirty pavement, and he spoke to God with fervour and faith. When he finished, he smiled at me, and I brushed my skirts and stood before him. But our reverent silence was disturbed by a rattle of stones, and I glanced across the street. Two boys, the Scott twins, were standing there pointing with percipient smirks on their faces. They were laughing at me, and my face reddened as I considered their interpretation of my actions. There was I, older than forty summers kneeling on a dirty pavement with a stranger. I had made myself a figure of ridicule. And it was at that moment that I realised what I had always known. All the secrets I had kept and the lies I had told, would never bring love or happiness or peace. My loyalty was misplaced.

  The preacher watched as I wiped a tear away. Then, he turned and reached into a cardboard box tucked behind one of the boards and took out a Bible. He wrote in the front then handed it to me. Clasping my hands around the holy book, he quoted, "The love that lasts longest, is the love that is never returned." He watched me through weary, knowing eyes and I recognised a kindred spirit.

  I stammered my gratitude and left for my home in Scole, barely remembering the journey back. The same night, I placed the Bible in a drawer where it remained for many months. But from that day, my conscience grew increasingly troubled. Time spent alone gave me opportunities to contemplate the unrequited love that had justified my silence. And as my health failed, and the object of my passion remained indifferent to my suffering, I burned with shame for the part I had played.

  I reach for the hand mirror again and hold it to my chest. I cannot bear to see my reflection a second time, but the weight of the cold metal gives a strange, familiar comfort. Doctor Brown says that it won't be long now. My time is approaching, and my strength fails. I touch the brass to my lips and think of the man whose face I loved and the crimes I concealed on his behalf, though he never loved me. I should tell Sergeant Hannant and let him know what has lain undiscovered for so long, but old habits die hard. I cannot betray my love though I can and must salve my conscience before I die. The mirror slips onto the floor, and I leave it there, reaching instead for the Bible on my bedside table. I pick up the stubby pencil lying beside it, lick the point and write on a flimsy blank page at the end of the book. It takes an hour to get the words down – an hour of concentration and despair. But I finish it while I still can.

  The words are clumsy, untidy, but written from the heart. They form my confession though I doubt anyone will ever read it. At least I can go to God with peace in my heart. I tear the page from the Bible, and it rips with an untidy, jagged edge. Then I fold it twice and roll it until it curls. It fits easily into the spine of the Bible, and I push until it is out of sight before using my last reserves of strength to place the book back on the table. I wonder if it is enough to save my soul, but it is all I have left in me. I sink back into my bed covers and wait.

  CHAPTER ONE

  An Overstrand Holiday

  Overstrand, April 22, 1895

  "Well, that's awkward," said Lawrence. "You might have told me."

  Francis Farrow put down his knife and fork and dropped a napkin onto his empty breakfast plate. Lawrence winced as a fishbone drifted onto the white table linen and wondered how long it would take before he felt compelled to move it.

  "I don't see what the problem is," Francis replied. "Have you quarrelled with Myers?"

  Lawrence sighed as he remembered the last time he saw Frederick Myers, a man he distrusted and feared. A man who had
tried to kill him and afterwards had the nerve to ask for his discretion to cover a terrible crime. Lawrence had acquiesced, not from fear, but compassion. And because telling the story would benefit no one. It had been easy to conclude that the truth was not only unnecessary but vastly overrated. Which was all well and good, but it meant that only Violet and Michael ever knew the full story. Violet, never comfortable with concealing information, refused to discuss it at all. Michael, being a clergyman, was bound by the restrictions of his profession. So, although Francis was a close friend, Lawrence hadn't told him about the events in London that resulted in his incapacitation for the best part of two years. Had he done so, he might not now be sitting in the breakfast room of a man who turned out to be an intimate friend of Frederick Myers, and more if certain rumours were true.

  "Not a quarrel, exactly," said Lawrence, moving his hand towards the plate. He picked up the fishbone and deposited it in a cup while making a split-second decision to lie. "Myers and I had some business dealings, which didn't work out."

  "I doubt he's mentioned that to Cyril," said Francis. "They will have far more important matters to discuss."

  "Perhaps," said Lawrence, distracted by the fishbone floating in the coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup. He stood and walked to the window where he placed his hands on the sill and leaned towards the garden. "They all know each other, though, don't they?"

  "Who?"

  "Our host, Cyril Flower – sorry, Lord Battersea as he is now known. He was a friend of Edmund Gurney too."

  "Ah, the chap who died in Brighton. I see. Didn't he form part of one of your investigations? Something suspicious, if I remember rightly? I hope you don't think Cyril was involved."

  "Not at all. Cyril dined with Gurney the night before he died, but there is no question of any wrong-doing. He is a good man as far as I know."

  "A decent man," said Francis. "An alumni of Trinity College. That's where we met."

  "So, I gathered. It's good of Lord Battersea to extend the invitation to the four of us. I only wish he wasn't so well acquainted with Myers."

  "That's the sort of generous fellow he is," said Francis Farrow. "As soon as I told him why I had declined his invitation, he said I must bring you all if that's what it took to get me here. A fine fellow."

  "And when do we get to meet him?" asked Lawrence turning from the window. He scowled at the coffee cup and dropped a napkin over it. The fishbone was finally satisfactorily hidden from view.

  "At dinner tonight. The Batterseas are in Norwich today. Constance has a long-standing engagement at the prison."

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "Sounds serious?"

  "Not at all. Lady Battersea is an advocate for women prisoners' rights and is seeing the board of governors to campaign for better conditions in gaol."

  Lawrence grimaced and wondered how wise it had been to accept the hospitality of a liberal politician. While far from sympathising with the 'hang 'em and flog 'em brigade', he had seen enough appalling crimes committed by both sexes to be unconcerned about the conditions in which they found themselves incarcerated.

  "Talking of Lady Battersea--"

  The door opened before Francis could finish, and a young housemaid appeared carrying a large silver tray.

  "Excuse me, sirs," she said, bobbing a curtsy. She placed the tray on the sideboard and began to clear the table.

  "Oh dear."

  Lawrence watched as she knocked the coffee cup that he had hidden from sight under the napkin. A line of coffee grounds seeped into the white linen table cloth and dripped onto the carpet.

  Lawrence bit his lip. "Sorry," he mouthed.

  "I'll fetch a damp cloth," said the housemaid.

  "What were you going to say about Lady Battersea?" asked Lawrence once the maid had left the room.

  "Ah, yes. I didn't mention this before because I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable. After all, Cyril is much more down to earth. He knows men from all walks of life and status is less important to him."

  Lawrence turned around. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like what you are trying to tell me?"

  Francis walked towards the mirror opposite the sideboard and straightened his tie. "Lady Battersea comes from a prestigious family. She was a Rothschild before she married."

  "Not the daughter of Sir Anthony, the merchant banker?"

  "Yes."

  "I didn't know."

  "No reason why you should, old man. The point is that although she is passionately concerned for the welfare of the poor and needy, her natural companions are among the aristocracy. Lord and Lady Battersea entertain all manner of people from statesmen to royalty." Francis turned to face Lawrence before continuing. "As you know I am acquainted with Cyril from Trinity College. My father is a knighted high court judge; God rest his soul, so Michael and I have the right background..." His voice trailed away.

  "I may not have advanced to your level in the police force," said Lawrence pursing his lips, "but my family have money and connections."

  "You are not the problem," said Francis looking at his feet.

  "I see. You are referring to Violet, aren't you?"

  "She was a governess, Lawrence. She is from a different class."

  "She is more of a lady than many I have known from the upper classes. And if it is such a problem, why did you invite us?"

  "Please don't take offence. I have nothing but admiration for Violet. She is a friend and is welcome in my house at any time. The invitation was extended to both of you because I chose to honour our existing arrangements. I wanted to enjoy some time together, which is why Lord Battersea insisted that you come too. It's because I don't want Violet to feel embarrassed that I told Cyril that she was the daughter of a Scottish baronet."

  "Please tell me you didn't. Violet hates deceit of any kind."

  "Well, she's in the wrong job, then. Isn't that how you find things out?"

  "Of course. Violet understands that it is necessary from a business point of view, but expects absolute honesty outside of that."

  "I'm afraid she will need to treat this visit as if she was undercover. It will be easier for us all."

  Lawrence shook his head. "I wish you hadn't misled Lord Battersea, Francis. Violet won't believe I didn't know."

  Francis Farrow sighed. "It is done now. You had better find her and tell her the plan."

  "Isn't this splendid, Cyril." Lady Constance Battersea beamed as she surveyed the dining room table, which was, as usual, beautifully laid out. Taking pride of place in the centre, was a whole salmon arranged upon a silver salver and surrounded by slices of cucumber. Caviar topped each slice, and the addition of giant king prawns and dressed crabs made a mouth-watering presentation.

  "Yes, my dear. Cook has excelled herself. Please sit down." Cyril Flower gestured to his guests.

  Lawrence Harpham took Violet's arm and guided her to a chair. When she was comfortably seated, he took his place beside her.

  "Thank you," she said, biting her lip.

  He patted her hand. "My pleasure."

  "Well," said Lord Battersea. "It's good to see you at last, Francis. It's been far too long. What kept you away from us?"

  "The Masonic lodge takes up most of my time these days," said Francis. "And I am on the board of Guardians for the Mill Lane workhouse, of course."

  "Very commendable," said Lady Battersea nodding approvingly. "We also take a keen interest in the welfare of the needy. Cyril was in the village last week helping out with the Riseborough boy. So very sad."

  "What was wrong with the poor lad?" asked Michael, ducking out of the way of the footman who was trying to fill his tumbler with water.

  "He is dying from consumption." Lord Battersea shook his head sadly. "I delivered a box of food to his family. They are poor and in great want – but it is not enough to save him. A sad situation. His mother is widowed, and he is the eldest son and provides for the family."

  Michael bowed his head. "God bless him," he said. Violet reach
ed to her right and squeezed his hand.

  "Your gardens are magnificent," said Francis trying to alleviate the gloom that had settled upon the room. He scooped the contents of one of the crab shells on to his dinner plate and ate it with relish. "Delicious."

  "Overstrand crabs are the sweetest in the country," agreed Lady Battersea. "These are fresh from the sea today. As for the gardens, the credit is due entirely to Cyril. They are far from finished, but I love the view of the poppy garden from the veranda".

  "You love it now, my dear. It wasn't always so."

  "But you have made so many improvements since we first came to Norfolk. That awful, draughty cottage. I was never so cold in all my life. And now we are about to join the two villas into one grand house."

  "Really? That sounds like a lot of work," said Francis.

  "And it will take a long time to finish," Lord Battersea replied. "But I have employed the services of Edwin Lutyens. His architectural plans are almost ready. It will be a grand residence when it is complete."

  "And you can entertain as many people as you wish," said Constance. "Which will make you very happy, I am sure. Now, tell me about yourself, Miss Smith. I understand you hail from Scotland."

  Violet lowered her fork. "There isn't much to tell," she said softly.

  Lawrence watched her with concern. It was unlike Violet to be quiet. She had barely spoken during the meal and was showing signs of nervousness in the presence of Lord and Lady Battersea. Lawrence worried that the ordeal of masquerading as someone else had quelled her natural enthusiasm for being in company. Knowing Violet, she would feel like the worse kind of imposter. Under normal circumstances, Violet fitted into any social situation. Tonight, she should have shone, dressed in a royal blue dress with a delicate neckline and looking every inch a lady. Violet Smith was no beauty. The kindest description would cast her as homely, but being in her early forties suited her. Clear unlined skin and delicate laughter lines enhanced her features. She had recently lost weight, but not too much. Her cheekbones now appeared sharper and her jawline firmer. Lawrence realised that he had been staring and took a sip from his tumbler of water wondering why the wine hadn't arrived yet.