Lawrence alighted from the railway carriage to heavy rain which continued for half an hour before petering into a drizzle. He walked along the greying pavements, not bothering to open his umbrella. The dockyard buildings brought a pang of familiarity as he thought of happy childhood visits. Lawrence inhaled a lungful of salty sea air and gazed towards the sea. Sleek-backed gulls swooped low across the sky, buffeted by sea winds. The younger birds, now independent of their mothers, picked at the detritus on the pavements. Circling above, the adult gulls shrieked and mewled their disapproval.
Lawrence closed his eyes and tried to visualise the last time he had been in Liverpool. Aunt Clara had still been alive, and Catherine was with them so it must have been a short time after they married. Had it really been that long since he had visited Uncle Fred? He felt a momentary pang of guilt, quickly forgotten as he approached a pavement opposite a terrace of red brick houses. His attention had wandered to a row of stalls where street vendors were trading their wares. Lawrence hadn't known where to find the Bible seller, but his knowledge of Liverpool was good and he'd thought he could still remember where to find the Mann Island stalls. Sure enough, he located the bookseller's stand close to the Liverpool landing stage. Behind it was a young boy with deep brown eyes and skin the colour of polished ebony. He smiled as Lawrence drew close.
"Can I help you, sir?" His voice was deep and resonant with an unfamiliar but pleasing accent.
"Do you sell Bibles?"
"Uh, huh."
"That's a good start, but I am looking for a particular stall." Lawrence retrieved a notebook from his coat pocket and scanned the pages. "The British and Foreign Bible Society stand, to be precise."
"This is it," said the young man, gesturing to a poster immediately behind him.
"Ah, yes," said Lawrence, relieved. "Do you usually look after the stall?"
"I only been on it 'bout half an hour," smiled the young man. "I've been keeping watch for Mister Patterson while he's gone on an errand."
"When will he be back?"
The boy shrugged. "An hour, maybe two."
"Thank you." Lawrence reached for a red leather Bible and opened the cover. The bookseller's mark, familiar from the Bowden Bible, was on the flyleaf, stamped but without an inscription. "Did you know Mr Edward Moyse?" asked Lawrence.
"I knew him by sight," said the boy. "I never spoke to him an' now I never will."
"But Mr Patterson knew Moyse?"
"Might have. I don't know. Mister Patterson knew the murderer though, and that's for sure."
"How do you know?"
"Because he told me. William Miller was the man's name. I only met Miller once, but he called me names and kicked me out of the way. Mister Patterson took over the stall after Moyse died. When it got busy, he'd ask me to look after it while he did other things. One day, he picked up a newspaper and said he was surprised about Miller's arrest as he never knew him to be violent. I told him that the man was guilty fo' sure. He kicked me when all he had to do was ask me to move."
"Do you think he killed Moyse?" asked Lawrence.
"Everyone thinks so," said the boy, nodding his head. "He was not a nice man."
"Well, thank you for your time," said Lawrence, smiling. "I'll be on my way now."
"You don't want to buy a Bible?"
Lawrence shook his head and retraced his steps, walking the pavements until he reached Derby Square. From there, it was only moments to his uncle's house in Lord Street. He knocked on Uncle Fred's front door, and without waiting for a reply, he stepped inside.
"Lawrence," how lovely to see you. Uncle Fred shuffled down the stairs as Lawrence stepped into the hallway. They shook hands warmly.
"Did you have a good journey?"
"I did," said Lawrence. "Thank you for accommodating the new date of my visit."
"It was no trouble," said the old man, gripping a wooden stick which he'd propped up against the stair post. He gestured ahead to a door on the right.
Lawrence obliged and entered the drawing room where a large photograph of his aunt Clara took pride of place above the marble fire surround. Lawrence smiled at her likeness in fond remembrance. The rest of the room was largely unchanged since his last visit and evoked an unexpected nostalgia.
"Sit down," said his uncle.
Lawrence waited for Frederick Harpham to settle. The older man limped towards a wing-backed armchair and carefully lowered himself onto the seat.
"Gout," said Uncle Fred, by way of explanation before Lawrence had the opportunity to ask.
"How are you keeping, Uncle."
"Tolerably well, for a weak and feeble pensioner."
"And Harriet?" Lawrence had not seen his cousin for at least a decade.
"She is back." His uncle beamed. "She has had enough of Devon and will not return."
"Excellent," said Lawrence. "My father sends his regards," he continued disingenuously. His father would have extended his regards, had he known Lawrence would be in Liverpool a week earlier than planned.
"Good. And how is Lionel?"
"Very well and often calls in on Uncle Max."
"Ah, is Max still spending every waking hour whittling wood?"
"Probably more than is good for him, so Aunt Myrtle says."
They carried on chatting about family until Uncle Frederick took out a pocket watch and checked the time. "What about a spot of tea?" he asked.
"That would be nice."
His uncle lifted a bell tucked away to the side of his chair and rang it vigorously. Moments later, a woman in her sixties, attired in a pinafore dress and white apron, appeared in the doorway.
"Connie, my dear. Would you fetch some tea and cake?"
"Yes, Frederick," she smiled.
Uncle Frederick leaned forward. "This is Connie, my housekeeper," he said, smiling at the woman.
"Pleased to meet you." Lawrence nodded his head, wondering if he ought to stand and offer his hand. He wouldn't ordinarily shake hands with a domestic, but the relationship between his uncle and the housekeeper seemed oddly informal.
Connie left the room before he could decide, and the two men continued talking. Before long, she re-appeared with a wooden tray containing a teapot, cups and a china plate piled high with gingerbread.
"I made it myself," she said proudly.
"Capital," beamed his uncle, stretching forward to take a piece. "Delicious," he continued as crumbs spilt down his waistcoat. "You have excelled yourself."
Connie's face turned pink, and she left the room, beaming.
"A good cook," said Lawrence, eating his cake. It was palatable but no more than that. Still, it wouldn't harm to flatter the housekeeper, as it seemed to matter to his uncle."
"She's a treasure," said Uncle Frederick. "I do not know what I would do without her."
"Has she been with you long?"
"About a year," he said. "I grew tired of managing my domestic affairs after Clara died. And it was lonely with Harriet away. Connie is both housekeeper and companion."
Lawrence nodded, understanding all too well the absence of a loved one. His reaction had been different from his uncle's when he became a widower, and he had chosen a more solitary path. Lawrence had attended to his chores alone, feeding himself only when strictly necessary. It was different now, of course, with time having passed and the torrent of grief trickling to only brief moments of pain. Lawrence would not wish any hurt upon Uncle Fred and what harm could it do if his housekeeper was something more? Good for him.
"I was in Mann Island earlier," he said, changing the subject.
"Whatever were you doing there? There isn't much to see."
"Re-visiting childhood haunts," said Lawrence.
"Of course," chuckled his uncle.
"And I happened upon a Bible stall."
"Oh?"
"Edward Moyse used to own it."
"Moyse, you say. Wasn't he the chap that got himself killed?"
"Yes, he was."
"Rum affair," conti
nued Frederick Harpham. "They've caught him, you know."
"The murderer?"
"Yes. William Miller."
"Guilty as charged?"
"No doubt whatsoever, though he continues to deny it. Too many witnesses, though. He will hang."
"Was it a robbery?"
"Well, it seems that way. Though according to the newspapers, he left a purse of money in the house."
Lawrence leaned forward. "Is that what you meant when you said 'a rum affair'?"
"Partly," said his uncle.
Lawrence waited for Frederick to continue, but he looked fixedly towards the window and stayed silent.
"Did you know him?"
"Who?"
"Moyse."
"No. Not at all."
"Was the murder discussed at your club?"
"Not really. When it first happened, it was all anyone spoke of, of course. But not for long. Why don't you go and see young Strettell, if you want to know more? He was at the heart of it."
"Tom Strettell? Is he still in the police force?"
"Yes, why shouldn't he be?"
"We worked together about eight years ago," said Lawrence." A case of fraud crossing several counties. He didn't come out of it well as I recollect and I haven't seen him since. I could try, I suppose."
"I thought you wanted a break from investigating," said Frederick.
"This is a break," Lawrence smiled. "And if you have the time to spare, you can show me the sights. But I might see Tom while I am here too, for interest's sake. You don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all." His uncle helped himself to another slice of ginger cake. "I am getting old, Lawrence, and spend too much time in this chair asleep, much more than I care to mention. You must come and go as you please."
"Then I'll drop in on Tom tomorrow."
Lawrence sipped his tea and watched as, true to his word, Uncle Frederick drifted off to sleep.
"A rum affair," his uncle had said, without expounding on what he meant. The more Lawrence considered it, the more he felt that his uncle had skilfully evaded a pertinent question. Any murder was unnatural by definition, but there was something nebulous lurking in the background of this one. Something his uncle hadn't felt able to say. The hairs on the back of Lawrence's neck prickled in anticipation. Something was wrong with the Moyse murder, and Violet wasn't here to stop him looking into it. Tomorrow, he would investigate as if the case was officially his.
CHAPTER SIX
Redcross Street
April 25, 1895
"Detective Strettell is outside," said the young police constable. The sallow-faced policeman was sitting at the front desk with his feet on a stool wearing rolled-up sleeves. A half-eaten sandwich lay in full sight. Lawrence regarded him with disappointment. Standards in the police force had dropped over the last few years.
"Where exactly?" asked Lawrence.
"In the yard, around the back."
"Don't get up. I'll find him myself," said Lawrence sarcastically as the constable continued to stare vacuously at the facing wall.
Lawrence walked towards the rear of the police station manoeuvring past a row of cycles propped up against the dirty exterior of the building. He noticed Tom Strettell immediately. Strettell had hardly changed and was ageing well with barely a wrinkle and only a smattering of grey at the temples. He stood in front of an odd-looking vehicle with his arms crossed. Lawrence walked towards him and held out a hand.
Tom Strettell looked up with a puzzled expression that gradually altered as recognition dawned.
"I know you, don't I?" he said, with a hint of an accent.
"Lawrence Harpham, former Suffolk Constabulary. We worked on the Croxteth case.
Strettell's face darkened. "I remember," he said. "What do you want?"
Lawrence rubbed his left palm as he considered his response. It was a habit he had almost lost since discarding his trademark leather gloves the previous year. His brush with death in '91 had encouraged him to scrutinise the less than perfect parts of his life. His obsession with concealing the scars on his damaged left hand suddenly seemed like an unwarranted indulgence. He'd elected to discard the gloves along with some other bad habits feeling an immediate relief akin to shedding an uncomfortable skin.
"I want to ask you something, but first, tell me about this carriage? I have never seen anything quite like it."
Lawrence gestured towards the contraption in the middle of the yard.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" said Tom Strettell smoothing his hand across the polished wooden carcass.
"Yes," agreed Lawrence, tactfully. "Though not dissimilar to a large perambulator."
Strettell scowled. "It's a horseless carriage," he hissed. "Three horsepower with a tube ignition."
"Is it yours?"
"No. It's a prototype belonging to a friend of mine. He was going to test her up a hill."
"Then, what is it doing here?"
"Waiting for a mechanic," said Strettell.
"Ah. It's broken then?"
"Never you mind. What do you want?"
"You remember my uncle?"
"Vaguely."
"I'm staying with him. He happened to mention the murder case you are working on."
"Did he?" Strettell raised an eyebrow.
"Well, yes. And as I'm in the area and uncle is otherwise occupied, I decided to come and ask you about it."
"Why would I want to discuss my cases with you? The last time I made that mistake, I got a dressing-down, and you got a commendation."
"That was hardly my fault."
"It certainly wasn't mine," said Strettell bitterly, flushing a deep red.
"I'm sorry," said Lawrence. "I can't re-write history, and anyway, they wouldn't listen to me. I did try."
Strettell pursed his lips. "The Moyse case is cut and dried, anyway," he conceded. "We captured his killer within a week of the murder and the boy Needham has made an identification."
"There was a witness?"
"Yes, who was also a victim. That animal Miller damn near killed the boy in Redcross Street. God alone knows how he survived so many blows from a poker."
Lawrence grimaced.
"I hear it was theft."
Strettell didn't answer.
"Was anything taken?"
"I've got nothing else to say, Harpham. The case hasn't even gone to trial yet. If you want to know more, you can read about it in the newspapers."
"Just one more thing?"
"What?" Strettell glared as he spat the word out.
"Uncle Fred said there was something rum about the case. I wondered what he meant."
Strettell laughed. "Yes, there's something rum, alright. More about the man than the murder." He turned away from Lawrence and stalked off towards the front of the police station. Moments later, Lawrence could still hear him chuckling.
Thomas Strettell was a good detective. The Croxteth fraud case might have damaged the professional relationship between Lawrence and the Lancashire policeman, not that it was ever close, but Lawrence still admired Strettell's tenacity and drive. Though unlucky on that one occasion eight years ago, Strettell had enjoyed an otherwise impressive career. But if Lawrence could think of one flaw in the man, it was that he never knew when to stop talking. Like a few moments ago when Strettell had inadvertently given Lawrence the address of the crime scene in Redcross Street. And Lawrence knew exactly how to find it.
He traversed the streets in the direction of Mann Island, striding confidently towards familiar haunts. And before long, he arrived on the corner of Redcross Street, a mean little terrace of buildings that had seen better days.
Lawrence walked up and down the road, trying to find any obvious clues that might lead him to the correct property. Nothing stood out, so he doubled back to a barbershop that he had passed at number twenty-six Redcross Street. Lawrence peered through the curved, multi-paned window to see if anyone was inside. The windows were in dire need of a clean, but he could make out a slight movement. He push
ed the door, and it opened to the clang of a bell.
The barber was midway through a wet shave when Lawrence stepped inside. He grimaced at the disturbance, narrowly avoiding nicking his customer's ear as the jangle of the bell disrupted his concentration. "Sit down," he said, pointing to a row of wooden chairs peppered with woodworm. "I'll be with you shortly."
Lawrence perched on the sturdiest chair and examined the room, which was small, untidy, and liberally coated with dust. He rubbed an imaginary stain from his jacket and watched the barber drip foam onto the floor. Lawrence considered the wisdom of using a cut-throat razor in such insalubrious surroundings. He waited as the barber continued his work, using the blade with great dexterity. When he had finished, the barber suggested a trim which the man duly accepted. A clock ticked loudly in the background and Lawrence watched while the barber worked in silence. After a few moments, the occupant of the chair rose, reached into his pocket and grunted a thank you as he paid.
"What can I do for you, sir?" The barber sighed as if he was about to perform an arduous chore.
"A shave, please," said Lawrence. He didn't particularly need one, but finding a customer in the shop had put him off course. He no longer felt able to ask what he wanted without availing himself of the services.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 53
