The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  He positioned himself in the chair and waited while the barber sharpened his razor from a long strop that dangled from the wall.

  "You from around here?" asked the barber, lathering soap onto Lawrence's face.

  "No. I am visiting."

  "Thought I didn't recognize the accent."

  "I'm staying with my uncle."

  "Very nice, I'm sure."

  "He said there had been a death in Redcross Street."

  "There was, right above this shop," said the barber puffing out his chest as if proud of the connection.

  "Here?" Lawrence could not hide his surprise. He had unknowingly stumbled on the crime scene. "Did you know him?"

  "Of course. The dead man rented out the upstairs rooms, and now my landlord needs to find a new lodger – not easy with all Moyse's effects still lying around."

  "Has nobody been to collect his possessions?"

  "His nephew came and said he would pack them up and take them away this weekend, but he didn't show up."

  "I may be looking for rooms."

  "I thought you said you were staying with your uncle."

  "Temporarily," said Lawrence as the barber dried his newly shaved face with a brown stained towel.

  The bell jangled again, and an elderly man hobbled into the room and heaved himself onto a chair.

  "Morning, Charlie."

  "I'll be right with you."

  "Can I see them?" asked Lawrence.

  "See what?"

  "The rooms. I need to know if they are large enough."

  The barber looked at him. "Are you serious about renting a room?"

  "Very," said Lawrence, handing the man a few coins.

  "Here." The barber reached inside an earthenware jar on the counter near the door and pulled out a set of keys. "Go through the yard and up the passage. The door is on your right."

  Lawrence took the keys and made his way outside while the barber started work on his next customer.

  The heavy wooden door led into a narrow hallway with a door off to the side. Lawrence opened it to find a small parlour with a sofa and two wooden chairs. A coal scuttle lay on its side by the fireplace, and a pair of fire tongs hung from one side of a poker set, the other side unbalanced and empty.

  A flight of steps rose from the end of the hallway, finishing in a scullery situated above stairs. The planks groaned under Lawrence's weight as he tiptoed upstairs trying not to look at the brown stains smudged along the bottom of the wall. A wooden table, chairs and a stove dominated the dimly lit scullery, and a film of dust lay across the table upon which two blackened pans rested, still containing the remnants of Moyse's final meal. Lawrence passed through the room and into an inner hallway leading off to two bedrooms. A set of wooden steps lay directly beneath an open loft hatch. Lawrence climbed the steps and peered inside. It was pitch black, so he retreated, and reached for a small tin that he habitually carried containing fire lighting material. Lawrence retrieved a match and lit the stump of a candle. Holding it aloft, he examined the space. Bloody handprints surrounded the interior of the loft hatch and dust had been disturbed. It appeared as if someone had been feeling around inside. The tiny light was too dim to see much further, so he climbed down and opened the smaller of the two doors. The room was in disarray, coated with dried blood and buzzing with flies. Lawrence held his hand over his mouth, trying to keep the contents of his stomach in place. Someone had made a token effort to tidy the contents of the room with no thought given to the filthy floor which had lain uncleaned and bloody since the slaying. Lawrence wondered whether the barber's landlord knew how unsanitary the conditions were.

  The bigger room was in better shape with a stripped-down bed and floorboards bearing evidence of a cursory clean. At one end of the room, an empty wardrobe hung open, and at the other, boxes of possessions stood haphazardly by the side of a large trunk. Lawrence picked his way across the room, approached the trunk, and heaved it open. Inside were stacks of books on top of which was a bundle of letters affixed with antipodean postage stamps. Lawrence removed a thick piece of paper and read a paragraph from one of the missives. "I joined brother Maguire at Table Cape, and we had glorious meetings in the church. In six weeks, nearly sixty souls were brought before Christ," he read.

  Lawrence flicked through the remaining letters, all written in a similar vein. "Must have been an evangelist," he muttered beneath his breath. He placed the letters to one side and removed a handful of books. There were vast numbers of prayer books, Bibles and other religious texts, most likely intended for the Bible stall. Lawrence was about to replace them when he noticed two small journals which he picked up and opened. The first was an address book written in the same neat hand. The majority of the addresses were from settlements in Australia and New Zealand. He placed it back in the trunk and opened the second journal which, on closer inspection, proved to be a diary. It was a dull journal containing details of appointments and a smattering of Bible verses. There were occasional entries journaling Moyse's thoughts about the day or future pursuits. He had recorded one or two meetings, and there was a reminder to buy lamp oil. But Lawrence was drawn to an intriguing entry in January. It read, Has Jackson replied re the Scole confession? Ask about Fanny Nunn.

  Lawrence walked to the bedstead and sat down, reading and re-reading the entry. Who were Jackson and Fanny Nunn? What was the Scole confession? Could it be the title of a novel? Surely not. As Lawrence mulled it over, he remembered the address book and recovered it again from the trunk. He flicked to the letter 'N' reading entries for Newman, Naylor and 'New Zealand – Hobart, Brethren', but there was no sign of Fanny Nunn. He licked his thumb and turned the pages back again until he reached the letter 'J'. There, written in tidy italics, was an address – Mr William and Mrs Amelia Jackson, Scole Street, Thorpe Parva, Scole, Norfolk. That was Lawrence's home territory. Scole was only twenty miles or so from his office in Bury Saint Edmunds. And if memory served him well, Michael's new parish in the tiny hamlet of Frenze was close to Scole. He could ask the Jacksons about Edward Moyse, and while he was about it, enquire after Fanny Nunn. He scribbled the Scole address in his notebook, closed the trunk and left the room.

  Lawrence returned to the barber's shop and found Charlie talking earnestly. The conversation was one-sided, with the barber struggling to get a word in. It suited Lawrence's circumstances. With the men distracted, he deposited the key on the counter and mouthed a 'thank you', quickly exiting without having to explain himself.

  It was a short walk to his uncle's home in Lord Street, but Lawrence used every second to contemplate the diary entry. The murderer of Edward Moyse was, without doubt, William Miller. There was no logical reason for him to get involved, and Violet would not approve at all. Yet, every instinct Lawrence possessed was on alert, triggered by the innocuous diary entry. One way or another, he needed to find out what had happened in Scole.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lord Street

  "Hello, young Lawrence." Uncle Frederick beamed as Lawrence opened the drawing room door. "You are just in time for a sherry." Uncle Frederick was sitting in his customary chair with a silver salver containing a decanter and glasses by his side.

  "I don't mind if I do," said Lawrence perching on the arm of a nearby chair. He waited for his uncle to finish pouring, then reached for the sherry glass, crossed the room and relaxed into the comfortable sofa. "I'm glad to be back," he said. "You will never guess where I was this afternoon?"

  "Involving yourself in a case that doesn't concern you, I should think," said his uncle, raising an eyebrow.

  "How well you know me," said Lawrence dryly. "Still, it's been interesting."

  "In what way?"

  "The crime scene, for one thing," said Lawrence.

  "Ahh, so Tom Strettell was happy to accept your help? Good of him to let you in."

  "Tom Strettell doesn't know. He hasn't forgiven me for the last time we worked together."

  "I see. So how did you get inside? I presume that's wh
at you mean?"

  "A little subterfuge," said Lawrence. "It doesn't matter. It was pretty revolting in the property. It's been several months since the murder, and the place is still covered in blood."

  Frederick Harpham pulled a face. "They have had more than enough time to clean up."

  "Yes. Anyway, the downstairs was in disarray, but some of Moyse's possessions were stacked upstairs. He kept a diary, and there was something odd about one of January's entries."

  Uncle Frederick sipped his sherry and licked his lips. "What was wrong with it?"

  "Something about a Scole confession. Does that mean anything to you?"

  "No. Not a thing."

  "Scole is a village in Norfolk."

  "So it is. Near Diss, if I remember."

  "Hmmm. Is that all you know about Scole?"

  Frederick nodded.

  "Have you ever heard of Fanny Nunn?"

  Uncle Frederick stroked his chin. "I don't think so. Did she come from Scole?"

  "I have no idea," said Lawrence. "She may not even be a real person. I thought you might remember something from your time in Suffolk."

  "That was nearly forty years ago, now," said his uncle. "The name is vaguely familiar, but I'm blowed if I know why. Anyway, I can't see how it makes a difference."

  "Neither can I," Lawrence admitted. "But it feels like it should."

  He took a sip of sherry and continued. "My search of Redcross Street was not a pleasant experience. There are bloody handprints all over the loft space, and it looks like someone made a thorough search yet Miller left a purse of money behind."

  "Perhaps he couldn't find it. Don't the papers make mention of it being under the mattress?"

  "Isn't that the first place he would have looked?"

  "If he was thinking rationally, but he had just killed a man. Perhaps he panicked."

  "There is no doubt that he was searching for something," said Lawrence. "There's evidence all over the house."

  "We will probably never know. I say, Lawrence. I forgot to tell you. A telegram arrived earlier. It's on the mantlepiece behind the clock."

  Frederick gestured towards the fireplace.

  "I'm not expecting anything," said Lawrence, knocking back his sherry in one gulp. He set the glass down, reached for the telegram and slit it open. "It's from Violet."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Telegram Arrives

  Thursday, April 25, 1895 – 3:30 pm

  From: Smith, Bury Saint Edmunds

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  Hope all is well. Letter has arrived marked 'urgent' for your attention. Love to Frederick. V.

  Thursday, April 25, 1895 – 4:45 pm

  From: Harpham, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Butter Market , Bury Saint Edmunds

  Something odd about the Moyse murder. Go to Scole as soon as possible. Speak to William Jackson, Scole Street, Thorpe Parva. Ask about Edward Moyse and Scole confession. What letter? L.H.

  Friday, April 26, 1895 – 9:00 am

  From: Smith, Bury Saint Edmunds

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  Would ordinarily refuse, but Michael at Frenze, and will join him for weekend then speak to Jackson in Scole. Assume no hostility to questioning? Shall I open it? V.

  Friday, April 26, 1895 – 10:08 am

  From: Harpham, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Butter Market, Bury Saint Edmunds

  Also, ask Jackson about Fanny Nunn. No hostility anticipated. Yes, open the letter. L.H.

  Friday, April 26, 1895 – 10:52 am

  From: Smith, Bury Saint Edmunds

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  Who is Fanny Nunn? The envelope contains a drawing of a family crest. No note. V.

  Friday, April 26, 1895 – 11:17 am

  From: Harpham, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Butter Market, Bury Saint Edmunds

  Describe crest. L.H.

  Friday, April 26, 1895 – 12:15 pm

  From: Smith, Bury Saint Edmunds

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  Silver with a red stripe and Celtic crosses left to right. Blue dolphins either side. Will leave for Scole this evening. V.

  Friday, April 26, 1895 – 12:58 pm

  From: Harpham, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Butter Market, Bury Saint Edmunds

  A cruel hoax. Catherine's family crest. Destroy. L.H.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Toxteth

  Saturday, April 27, 1895

  Lawrence stared at the bowl of porridge then stirred it for the fourth time. His appetite had deserted him since reading Violet's last telegram. But Uncle Frederick was insistent that he join him for breakfast and the thought of eating anything more substantial made him feel ill.

  "Is there something wrong?" Uncle Frederick watched Lawrence anxiously. "You look tired, dear boy. Did you sleep well?"

  "Very," he lied. Lawrence had barely slept at all. His anxious mind would not settle while he pondered the identity of the person who had posted a copy of his dead wife's family coat of arms – and why? From the moment Violet mentioned a crest, he had known. A wave of foreboding had passed through him. Part of him wanted to know more, but mostly he dreaded finding out. Even so, he had hastened to the post office to ask Violet the question that would provoke the inevitable response.

  Catherine had been immensely proud of her heritage. The two dolphins naiant in her crest represented a fusion of her Blennerhessett Suffolk roots with those of Clan Kennedy in Scotland. The family had traced their lineage to the time of Richard II, documenting their genealogy and commissioning a crest. Catherine received an ornate carving of the heraldic shield on the occasion of her engagement, and it took pride of place over the mantlepiece in their dining room. Lawrence had seen it so often that he knew every detail of the crest. The fire that took Catherine's life also took the wooden coat of arms and most of his household furniture and possessions. It would have been a small price to pay, had Catherine and Lily survived, but that night, he lost everything he held dear. It was only now, almost eight years later, that he was finally able to find peace again. Posting Catherine's crest was an act of utter spite made worse by the cowardice of anonymity. Whoever sent it must have understood the consequences, showing a clear intention to drag up memories of the past with all the devastation that accompanied them.

  The chiming from a grandfather clock roused Lawrence from his thoughts. It ticked noisily beside the table, accentuating the silence between the two men. Lawrence fought for composure. Somehow, he had made an enemy, and that enemy knew precisely how to hurt him. Lawrence pushed the porridge away as another wave of nausea enveloped him.

  "I have a headache, Uncle," he said, pre-empting Frederick's inevitable concern. "I can't eat. I need to go out and walk it off."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I don't know. To do something useful, I suppose."

  "Connected with this murder?"

  "Perhaps."

  "You should lie down. You might be coming down with a cold. I'll ask Connie for a cough linctus."

  "Please don't trouble her. I don't have a cough."

  "Then don't spend too long outdoors. You will catch something nasty and end up in the hospital."

  "That's a thought," said Lawrence. "I wonder if the Needham boy is still under medical care. Perhaps I'll visit him."

  "He's long gone," said Frederick. "The boy was discharged back in February. Made a swift recovery, by all accounts, and is now living with his sister."

  "I thought you said you didn't know anything about the murder?"

  "I don't. Needham's sister, Mary Fagan, chars for Cornelius Sullivan. He's a friend of mine, and we were speaking of it only recently."

  "Were you?"

  "Yes. I had intended to ask Mary to do a bit of cleaning a few times a week. But young Needham came home and was under her care so she couldn't oblige."

  "Why do you need a cleaner when you have a housekeeper?"

  "Co
nnie prefers to cook," said Uncle Fred. "She is not a char."

  Lawrence sighed, torn between loyalty to his uncle and fears about Connie. He was glad that Uncle Frederick had found a companion but concerned that she was taking advantage of his good nature.

  "Where does Mary live?" he asked.

  "Close to the church on the edge of Toxteth – about a mile away."

  Lawrence placed his napkin on the table and stood. "Then that's where I'm going," he said.

  "It's raining, Lawrence. You'll get wet. The boy may not be there. You're not well, and it may be a wasted journey. You'd be better off in bed."

  "Don't worry, Uncle," said Lawrence placing his hand reassuringly on the old man's shoulders. "It doesn't matter. It's the walk that I need." He collected his coat and an umbrella from the coat stand and walked into the drizzly street.

  Lawrence had never been to Toxteth and doubted that he would re-visit. The walk along The Strand opposite the dock was, if not exactly pleasant, then at least familiar. But as he strolled past the warehouses and along Sefton Street, the buildings grew smaller and closer together. Many were in varying states of disrepair, and some were empty. The terraces of houses crammed together added a claustrophobic tension to the swirl of emotions in Lawrence's chest. He half hoped that Mary Fagan wasn't at home. The thought of communicating with a stranger was far from desirable, but better, he supposed, than being alone with his thoughts.

  Lawrence approached the corner of Hill Street near to the anchor works. A group of navvies smoking coarse pipes clustered around a lamppost and glared suspiciously at Lawrence's neat attire as he attempted to pass. A thickset man stepped forward and blocked his way. "What's a gentleman like you doing here?" he asked in a heavy Irish brogue. Lawrence ignored him, in no mood for a confrontation while his mind still churned with thoughts of crests and Catherine. Then he reconsidered. Lawrence's geographical knowledge of Toxteth was limited. Uncle Fred's was better, but his directions to Mary Fagan's house amounted to 'somewhere near St Thomas Church'. Lawrence realised he would need help, and he might as well take the opportunity that had presented itself.