"How do you know dear Francis?" asked Lady Constance, trying to put Violet at ease.
"Oh, we met in Bury Saint Edmunds. I--"
The dining-room door opened, and the butler appeared. "Excuse me, your Lordship, Lady Battersea. Mr Morley has arrived."
"Do show him in," said Lady Constance.
John Morley followed behind the butler. Cyril Flower stood, and Francis followed his lead.
"No, please sit," said Morley. "Carry on eating. It looks splendid."
"We have saved you a seat," smiled Lady Battersea.
Morley pulled out a chair at the foot of the table and sat down. "Please forgive me. I was delayed in London unexpectedly."
"Don't give it another thought," said Lord Battersea. "Francis, this is my good friend and colleague, John Morley. John, meet Francis and Michael Farrow, Mr Harpham and Miss Smith."
"Pleased to meet you," said Morley nodding his head. He sat down and helped himself to a plate of food while the footman poured water into his glass.
"How are matters in Ireland?" asked Lady Battersea.
"Complicated," replied Morley. "And not helped by the interminable disagreements within our party."
"Lord Rosebery again?" asked Lady Battersea.
Lawrence loaded his plate with another slice of salmon while Morley nodded in agreement. He wasn't especially hungry, but Lawrence had no interest in politics, and it created a distraction to disguise his evident apathy.
"We'll talk about it later," said Cyril. "The internecine disputes within the Liberal party are not an aid to a convivial conversation. How are you finding retirement, Francis?"
"Very agreeable. I don't know how I found time to work." Francis continued to regale them with stories of his last year as a senior ranking officer in the Suffolk constabulary. Meanwhile, footmen cleared the salvers away and replaced them with an array of mouth-watering desserts.
"And I still see my old colleagues at the Masonic lodge, of course," Francis continued. "And last week brought a nice surprise. The Social Design lodge invited me to join as an honorary member. They want me to assist in the organisation of a banquet in honour of the first Suffolk Grandmaster."
"Can you be in two lodges at once?" asked Michael.
"I won't be. The honorary position is for the Oddfellows, not the Freemasons. They are a friendly society composed, in the main, of town tradesmen."
"I am sure you will be able to offer valuable advice," said Lady Battersea eating a spoonful of cherries and cream.
"I hope so," said Francis. "Representatives will be arriving from Liverpool and Manchester next week. The planning has to be meticulous for an event of this magnitude."
"Ah, Liverpool. I wish you were going there rather than them coming to you," said Lawrence. "I have promised to visit Uncle Frederick next week and would have enjoyed some company on the train. And your Brougham is very comfortable for travelling to the station."
"I will be leaving Norfolk in two days," said John Morley, "and going straight to Liverpool. "If you decide to visit early for any reason, it is only a short journey to Cromer railway station. We could travel together."
"My uncle is expecting me next week," said Lawrence. "He is a creature of habit and not given to changes of plan. But thank you anyway."
"I understand. Let me know if you change your mind."
"Would you like to join me in the music room?" Lady Battersea finished her dessert and dropped her napkin on the table.
"I will, thank you," said Violet looking anxious.
"Are you quite well, Miss Smith?"
"I am well," she replied. "Just a little tired."
"Then you must retire to your room and rest. I will find something else with which to occupy myself while the men talk."
"Thank you, your ladyship. You are very kind."
She waited for Lady Battersea to leave the room, then followed behind.
Lawrence flashed her a smile as she rose, but she did not catch his eye and left the room with her head bowed.
As soon as the ladies had departed, Cyril Flowers got to his feet. "Gentlemen?" he said, gesturing towards the door.
Lawrence discovered why there had been no wine at dinner as soon as they retired to the smoking room. Lord and Lady Battersea were enthusiastic members of the Temperance Society and enforced the prohibition of alcohol after one of their staff committed an unmentionable act while under the influence. Though Lord Battersea alluded to it, the exact nature of the misdemeanour remained a mystery. Lawrence probed him on the matter, but Cyril was tight-lipped. John Morley was evidently in the know but loyally tried to explain the move to temperance in political terms. The Liberal party encouraged abstinence and its many members now embraced it.
Nevertheless, once in the safety of the smoking room, Cyril produced a decanter of whisky and offered it to his guests. Lawrence and Francis both accepted a glass while the others declined. The ensuing conversation was informative and free-flowing, despite the lack of alcohol for one half of the party. But after an hour, Lord Battersea suggested that they regroup on the veranda. By then Lawrence had consumed his third glass of whisky. One look at Cyril's anxious face and he concluded that Lady Battersea was unaware of the alcohol concealed in her husband's private room. It was clear that he was hastening a rapid departure before they drank enough to give the game away.
The tactic was well-judged. Lady Constance had not retired and was sitting on the veranda gazing into the distance with a contented smile on her face. It was approaching nine thirty, yet the evening temperature was still warm. Lady Battersea greeted them cordially and beckoned them to join her in the well-furnished outdoor space. After a few moments of small talk, Morley asked Lord Battersea to join him in a stroll around the garden. They meandered past the poppy beds and were soon out of sight.
"I expect they have party business to attend to," said Lady Battersea, by way of explanation. "Now," she said, turning to Lawrence. "What is wrong with your companion?"
"Nothing that I know of," Lawrence replied. "The journey might have overtired her."
"Yes, that is very likely. It is a pity that Miss Smith retired early. Now I must make conversation with three old bachelors." She continued, "What a shame that you have all missed out on the pleasures of married life. My dear Cyril is the most beautiful of men and such an amiable companion. I cannot imagine life without him."
"I'm not sure Michael qualifies as old," said Francis, "and Lawrence is not a bachelor."
Lady Battersea raised an eyebrow. "I am sorry. I did not realise that you were married," she said. "Francis failed to mention Mrs Harpham."
Lawrence drew a deep breath, unsure of how to reply without causing embarrassment, but Francis seized the initiative. "Lawrence is a widower," he said.
"I am sorry," replied Lady Constance.
Lawrence sighed. "Please don't apologise. You were not to know."
Francis diverted the conversation towards the arts and found himself arguing with Michael about the relative virtues of Byron and the American poet Emily Dickinson.
Lady Constance had been fidgeting throughout their conversation. With the brothers fully occupied in their debate, she turned to Lawrence again. "I have loved Cyril since the day I first set eyes upon him," she said. "And I know the pain of loss when I see it. I am sorry that I upset you."
Lawrence leaned back in his chair and observed his hostess. Her eyes shone with genuine concern. Talking about Catherine was never easy, but it was unavoidable without appearing rude.
"You are not the cause of any distress," he said. "But Catherine died on May Day, and it is rapidly approaching. It will be the eighth anniversary of my wife's death – and also that of my daughter."
"You lost a child?" Lady Battersea's eyes widened, and she leaned forward. "I am so very sorry for you. What a tragedy."
"They died in a fire," said Lawrence, offering the information before she asked. "Catherine, my wife and Lily. She was only four years old. A beautiful little thing..." his vo
ice trailed away, and he swallowed a lump. The pain of their loss had abated during the last few years, yet here tonight, it was raw again. He tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.
Lady Constance touched his hand. "In difficult times, we turn to our friends," she said. "It is so important to have loyal and compassionate companions." She smiled towards Michael and Francis.
Lawrence nodded. "I have known them most of my life," he said. "They are excellent men. Violet has also been a great comfort, although I have not known her nearly so long. But her kindness is inestimable."
Lady Battersea arched a brow, and Lawrence wondered whether she had misinterpreted his meaning. But there was no time to correct her as Francis had given up trying to persuade Michael about the superiority of Lord Byron's poetry.
"What's that about Violet?" he asked.
"Mr Harpham has been telling me about her many virtues," said Lady Battersea. "Ah, Mr Morley and my husband, have finished, it would seem. Hello, my dear," she said, rising to greet Lord Battersea who had emerged from behind the shrubbery.
"Come inside, it is getting cold," said Cyril, ushering them back into the house.
But Lawrence remained seated, in no mood for company. He stared into the darkness of the garden, brooding as he listened to the churning swell of the North Sea. It had been many years since the thought of Catherine had wrenched at his heart as it had tonight. Though he would always love her, he had become accustomed to her absence. His work as a private investigator had given his life meaning again. And because he was rarely alone, he seldom grew introspective and moody. Violet's influence had saved him from the worst of himself. Violet. She would know what to say to make the pain go away, though words were not what he needed. Being in her presence was enough and would take the edge off his misery. Damn Lady Battersea, for all her kindness. Without her interference tonight, the anniversary of Catherine's death might have passed without notice. Now, he was as afflicted by the yearly dread of May Day as he had ever been.
He looked at his pocket watch. It was a quarter to eleven. Violet's room was down the corridor from his own, and he must walk past it to get to bed. Lawrence entered the double doors in the dining room and slipped into the entrance hall bypassing the drawing room where his dinner companions were still talking. He climbed the stairs, then navigated to the west wing landing. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on Violet's door.
CHAPTER TWO
A Tragedy
April 23, 1895
Lawrence woke to the shriek of gulls. Cold air enveloped him as he pushed back the bedspread and rubbed his eyes. The wind must have unhooked the latched window in the night, and it was now splayed open and showing signs of damage. He pulled on his dressing gown and slammed it shut, watching the trees tremble and bend in the blustery wind.
Lawrence perched on the side of the bed and poured himself a glass of water, then contemplated the previous night. His despair at the memories of Catherine had lifted, as he knew they would once he was in Violet's presence. She had a calming effect, and dark thoughts never intruded when she was near. But he shouldn't have gone to her – shouldn't have compromised her position. And now today, he had a new set of problems.
He decided to walk off his worries before breakfast. The weather was unusually cold for April, and dry but with squally winds. A solitary walk on the Overstand cliffs with the sea breeze whipping at his face would make him feel alert and alive. He would know what to do by the time he returned.
Lawrence dressed and descended the grand staircase into the spacious entrance hall. He removed his coat and hat from the stand by the door and made for the side entrance. A murmur of voices alerted his attention to someone in the morning room, and he craned his neck to see who it was. Violet and Francis Farrow were exchanging pleasantries across the table.
"You're up early," he said, popping his head through the door.
Violet was stirring a cup of tea pensively. "I couldn't sleep," she said.
"Nor I," said Francis. "I must have eaten something that interfered with my digestion. Damned dyspepsia. I didn't catch a wink last night."
"I am going to take a stroll," said Lawrence. "Would either of you care to join me?"
Violet looked up and nodded. "I'll get my coat."
"I'll walk part of the way with you," said Francis, wincing as he stood. "I don't think I can manage much of a distance, though."
When they were suitably attired, they strolled through the water gardens and into Gunton Terrace. A right turn at the bottom took them to the promenade where steep stone steps descended to the beach. The tide was out, and rock pools draped in seaweed covered the sand flats. They walked across the beach barely speaking, while gusty winds whipped past their ears ruling out any attempt at small talk. It was just as well. Both Lawrence and Violet were deep in thought, and Francis was grimacing in pain. At the end of the promenade, they climbed a further set of steps reaching the cliff top without uttering a word.
"That's enough for me, old man," Francis yelled against the wind as soon as they reached the coast road. "Are you coming back now?"
Lawrence shook his head. "No, I want to walk a little longer."
Francis raised his hand as they parted, and he set off towards the centre of the village. Lawrence and Violet continued in silence until they reached the Mundesley Road. Then, Violet stopped and took a deep breath. "Are we going to talk about it?" she asked.
"Violet. I'm sorry, I..."
Whatever Lawrence was sorry about remained unspoken. As he was talking, a man dressed in a white shirt and dusty work apron, tore up the road towards them. "Help me," he cried.
"What is it, man?" asked Lawrence. "What on earth is the matter."
The man stopped, caught his breath and put his hands over his face. "I think he's dead; God help him," he said. "Give me a hand cutting him down."
"Who?" asked Lawrence, but the man was already racing back the way he had come.
"Hurry," he called over his shoulder.
Lawrence and Violet exchanged glances, then ran after him, catching him up in a large yard about fifty feet away.
"In there," he spluttered, pointing to a large shed.
"I'll go first," said Lawrence stepping inside.
As Lawrence's eyes grew accustomed to the dark shed, a shape hanging from the rafter in the middle of the room swam into view. It was the body of a man with his head tipped forward, and snow-white hair covered his eyes. The early morning sun had dappled his dark apparel as it filtered through holes in the dilapidated shed. Stack after stack of neatly piled bricks surrounded the corpse, each one standing over six foot high. Closer to the body lay a set of smaller piles. Each block was staggered and fashioned into a rudimentary staircase giving access to the rafters.
"Don't come in," said Lawrence gruffly, but it was too late. Violet was beside him, staring at the hanging man in horror.
"Help me cut him down," said Lawrence, bounding up the brick staircase. He reached the top and touched the man's neck.
"He's still warm," he yelled. "Get me a blade."
The man in the work apron fumbled in his pocket, then pulled out a wooden-handled pocket knife. He held it towards Lawrence who began hacking at the rope. After a few strokes, the frayed rope split and the body fell crashing to the ground. Violet ran towards the man and cradled his head. His face was deathly pale beneath greying stubble, and small patches of blood had formed on his lips and eyelids. She gripped his wrists and felt for a pulse.
"Well?" asked Lawrence.
Violet shook her head. "He is beyond our help."
The man who had raised the alarm let out a strangled cry.
"Do you know him?" asked Violet.
"He's my father-in-law," said the man. "His name is Edward Bowden."
"I'm sorry," said Lawrence. "I wish we could have saved him. Can you fetch a doctor, Mr...?"
"Cotton, George Cotton," said the man who was now sitting on a packing crate looking shocked and pale.
"I don'
t know. I'm--"
They were interrupted by the arrival of another man. "Oh, no," he said, clutching his chest. "Poor old boy. Have you told Mr Riches?"
George Cotton shook his head. "I've not long found him."
"Then I'll fetch him," said the young man, rushing away.
"Get the doctor, too," shouted Lawrence.
George Cotton scrambled to his feet, still pallid. "Wait for me," he said, stumbling from the shed.
"How are you feeling, Violet?" asked Lawrence, squatting on his haunches beside her. She was still holding the dead man's head.
Her voice trembled. "He looks peaceful," she said, "but I can't bear to think of anyone feeling so unhappy that this is their only option." She touched the rope still tied around his neck. "Should I undo it?"
Lawrence shook his head. "No, wait until the doctor arrives. Look, old girl," he continued, touching her arm. "You can't stay like this. Put him down."
"I can't leave him on the cold floor," she said.
"You must," said Lawrence firmly. He stood up and walked towards the door where he had seen a burlap sack earlier. Lawrence returned to Violet, moved Edward Bowden's head away from her lap and placed it gently on the sacking. "There is nothing more you can do," he said before holding out his hand. Violet grasped it, and he helped her to her feet.
"What's that," she asked, pointing to a second packing crate by the right of the brick staircase. Lawrence approached it to find a threadbare handkerchief, a few coins and a Bible.
"They must belong to him," said Lawrence. "He placed them there before..." Lawrence could not finish and stared mutely at Violet.
She bit her lip. "Poor, poor, man."
Without thinking, Lawrence picked up the Bible and opened the cover. "Another Edward," he said. "It's stamped inside. Edward Moyse, The English and Foreign Bible stall, Mann Island. Funny, that name seems familiar."
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 51
