The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "Do you know where Mary Fagan lives?" he asked.

  "Which Mary Fagan?"

  Lawrence shook his head. He had not anticipated there being more than one.

  "She has a brother, a young man called Needham."

  "That will be flaming Poll," said a tall, dark-haired man, spitting a jet of chewing tobacco to his right. He approached Lawrence. "What do you want with her?" Traces of saliva clung to his swarthy face as he eyed Lawrence keenly.

  Lawrence recoiled at the smell of the man's hard labour as he intruded too close for comfort. He considered the safest response. "It's the boy I need to speak to," he said.

  "You had better not bring any trouble to his door," said the first man. "He's had enough of that."

  Lawrence nodded. "I know. There will be no trouble, I swear."

  "Henderson Street," said the dark-haired man pointing ahead. Number thirty-seven. Tell her Padraig sends his regards."

  "I will." Lawrence nodded his head as he crossed the road and made his way in the indicated direction.

  He arrived outside Mary's house, having found it by process of elimination. As many houses lacked door numbers as those that possessed them and Lawrence narrowed it down to the most likely by guesswork alone. The front door was open, and a bucket and scrubbing brush lay beside the wet front doorstep. He raised his hand to tap on the door as a woman with copper coloured hair appeared in the doorway. She was clad in a dark brown dress with fraying sleeves and clutched a squirming kitten in her hands, which she deposited by the doorstep.

  "Off with you, now," she said as the kitten skittered across the road.

  "Yours?" asked Lawrence, trying to start a conversation.

  "Kate Harrington's, I shouldn't wonder. Her cat is always in the family way. I don't want the dirty thing in my house with George only recently recovered."

  "George Needham?"

  "Yes. Why?" Mary's eyes narrowed.

  "I'm a detective. I want to speak to him if I may?"

  "You may not." Her mouth set in a thin line. "He has told you what happened over and over again. He has nothing more to say until it goes to court."

  "I won't trouble him long."

  "You won't trouble him at all. Now be off with you."

  Lawrence turned to go, then remembered the navvy. "Padraig sends his compliments," he said. A pink flush spread across her freckled face. "That man is wicked, so he is," she exclaimed. "And me a married woman." Then she softened. "Look, I'll ask George if he will speak to you, but if he says no, then let him be. He still gets upset whenever he talks about it."

  Lawrence nodded and loitered by the doorstep while Mary retreated inside. He was still waiting five minutes later when he felt a warm body press against his trouser leg and heard soft mewls and purrs. He looked down to see the little kitten rubbing herself against his ankles and knelt to tickle her furry ears. She returned his stare through round blue eyes set into a tabby face. Lawrence did not like cats as a rule, but this one was rather appealing. He rubbed it under the chin again, then flinched as a black object landed on the back of his hand. He moved to brush it away, but the creature leapt out of reach. Lawrence stood up and shooed the kitten away. The last thing he needed was an armful of flea bites to add to his other problems.

  "I told you it was dirty," said Mary Fagan re-appearing in the doorway. "This is George," she continued, ushering a scrawny dark-haired boy forward. "He has agreed to speak to you. Do you want to come inside?"

  "No, sister," said George, in a thin, reedy voice. "I would rather walk. This way," he said, pointing southwards down the terrace. They made their way to the end of the street in silence, then George turned right onto Warwick Street and continued towards the docks.

  "I don't want to say anything else in front of Mary," said George. "She gets so upset, feels responsible somehow. I don't know why."

  "Maybe it's because she is a good deal older than you?" offered Lawrence.

  "Perhaps," George agreed. "This way."

  He stopped in front of the Brunswick docks, and they walked across rows of cobbles captivated by the crowded port. Ships, sailboats and flat-bottomed barges jostled for space in the busy docks. Ahead of them, groups of men dressed in hard-wearing work attire hauled planks from freight vessels into a giant warehouse. Two enormous cranes stood idly in the distance, their operators waiting for orders to continue the dock expansion work. The air was warm and salty, and the sea calm and blue.

  "Here," said George, gesturing to a quiet area on the dockside. He lowered himself onto the edge and leaned back, swinging his legs against the sea wall. Lawrence removed his jacket, placed it on the ground and sat beside him.

  "Thank you for speaking to me."

  "Are you a real copper?" George came straight to the point.

  "I am a detective," said Lawrence.

  "But not from round here. You don't sound right."

  "I'm not from here," Lawrence admitted. "I'm visiting my family."

  George seemed content with the inadequate explanation. "Did you know him?" he asked.

  "Who?"

  "Old man Moyse."

  "No."

  "He was a good sort." George picked up a stone and sent it skimming into the sea. "Good and kind. He treated me well. He treated us all well."

  "There were others?"

  "Before me, yes. And sometimes Mr Moyse needed more help when it was busy. He gave me food, shelter and employment. He did not deserve it..." His voice trailed away, and he bowed his head.

  Lawrence waited for him to continue.

  "I suppose you want to know what happened?"

  Lawrence nodded.

  "Is this part of the trial?"

  "No. I visited twenty-six Redcross Street yesterday. The house is still in disarray. I would like to know a little more about what happened that day if you are up to telling me."

  "Why?"

  "I can't help feeling that there's more to the murder than money alone."

  "I'll tell you what I know, as long as I don't have to go back there. I never want to see the place again." George Needham shuddered.

  "Of course not," said Lawrence softly. "Tell me what you can remember."

  Needham stared at the sea for a long time, then swept back his hair with dirty fingers, exposing a vivid welt down the side of his neck.

  "It was a normal evening," he said. "We must have returned about five thirty, six o'clock as usual. I began to prepare our evening meal, and Mr Moyse went to Myrtle Street to pick up some books. He can't have been gone for more than five minutes when there was knock at the door, and I saw a man standing there."

  "Miller?" asked Lawrence.

  The boy nodded. "Miller," he said. "I had never seen him before, and I didn't much like what I saw. He had a queer twitch to his face whenever he spoke. The first time he came, he asked after Moyse, and I told him he wouldn't be back until later and carried on making tea."

  "And Miller returned?"

  "Yes. The second time I could not put him off. He insisted on waiting while I carried on cooking. I set the old man's meal aside for later and ate mine at the table while Miller watched. And all the while I was eating, he kept asking where Moyse kept his money and valuables. He said it was wrong that I didn't know in case something happened."

  "Like what?"

  "He didn't say. Only that friends and family would never know where his things were."

  "What things?"

  "Money, mostly. But he kept asking about personal papers, books and records. I don't know where Mr Moyse kept those things. I didn't need to know."

  "No, of course not." Lawrence smiled encouragingly as George Needham's voice rose. "What happened next?"

  "Mr Moyse returned," he said, picking at a hangnail on his thumb. "He recognised Miller and greeted him warmly, like a friend. He said that Miller was an old lodger of his and could stay if he wished."

  "He had no home to go to?"

  "I don't know. I don't know anything about Miller, and I had gone downstairs
to the passageway while they were talking. When I returned, Mr Moyse asked me to make up the bed in the best room for Miller to sleep in the following night and he would have to make do with the sofa that night."

  "He wasn't expected, then?"

  "No. Mr Moyse would have told me. He shared his supper with Miller that evening, but he was always hospitable. He would have told me if he had known Miller was coming so he could be sure there was enough food to go round."

  "What did they talk about?"

  "I don't know. I went upstairs to bed and rose again at five in the morning. It was still dark so I lit a candle and I made my way to the scullery in my nightclothes as usual. Miller was there." George Needham closed his eyes and put his forehead on clasped hands. His body rocked involuntarily as the memories flooded back. "Oh, that wicked man," he breathed.

  Lawrence waited for the boy to regain his composure.

  "He was half-dressed," said Needham, lowering his hands, "in a blue serge jacket and trousers. He hadn't yet put his boots on, and he had thrown his coat and hat upon a chair. I wished him good morning, and he looked at me with that odd twitch in his face and said, 'I can't waken the master, and there is no coal to light the fire.' So, I showed him the coal hole and gave him a bucket and a hatchet for breaking the coal. Then I went back to my bedroom to finish dressing."

  "Where was Moyse?"

  "In his room, I suppose. I never saw him again after supper the last evening."

  "And Miller?"

  "He must have followed me," George whispered gazing into the distance. "I remember a puff of wind and the candle went out, then something struck me, and I fell to the floor. I must have passed out for a while, but I woke up and saw Miller coming out of the master's room with a poker in his hand. I pleaded for my life, but he raised it over his head and hit me again and again. I lay upon the floorboards, too injured to move, and then Miller stood over me as if trying to make his mind up whether to finish me off. He told me to not to move, or he would kill me, and I stayed as still and quiet as a body can be. Blood dripped into my eyes from my broken head, and I thought I would pass out at any moment and die there on the floor. But then I heard him go downstairs and the door slammed shut. I waited for a long time, then pulled myself downstairs and somehow stood up and staggered into the street. I cannot remember much more until I woke in the infirmary."

  "That's quite an ordeal," said Lawrence. "I am sorry to dredge up such difficult memories."

  "The trial is in a few weeks," said Needham. "I am due to give evidence. He must lose his freedom, and I must tell the court everything they need to know. It will not be easy."

  "Is that why you agreed to talk to me?" asked Lawrence.

  The boy nodded. "If I can talk to you, a stranger, then I can do my duty in court."

  "Will you answer one final question?"

  "Yes."

  "Is there any doubt that Miller was your attacker?"

  "Not the smallest," said George Needham. "I could be mistaken about his voice, or even about his appearance. But that twitch of his, that mannerism – it will stay with me until my dying day."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Scole

  Sunday, April 28, 1895

  "Violet, how lovely to see you. It's been at least four days." Michael Farrow smiled as he took Violet's hand and helped her from the coach.

  "Thank you for coming to meet me," she replied, reaching for her chatelaine bag which had become detached from her belt during the journey. She clipped it back together and fastened the ribbon tight.

  "Wait a minute," said Michael, approaching the driver. They talked for a few moments while Michael pointed to a waiting pony and trap. The driver dismounted and hauled Violet's carpetbag over to the cart, returned to his carriage, and wiped his brow with a large, red handkerchief.

  "Would you like to stay at my lodgings tonight, Violet? The spare room is free today, but not tomorrow. I have spoken to George Panks at The Crown in Diss, and you can have a room there. Then, you can get on with whatever brings you to Scole today."

  "Hopefully," said Violet.

  "Hopefully?" Michael raised an eyebrow.

  "I need to speak to a man called Jackson," she said. "But there has been no time to find out whether or not he is at home. I know nothing about him save for an address in Scole Street."

  "It's nearby," said Michael. "We can walk. What do you want with Jackson?"

  "I am not altogether sure."

  "That sounds like something Lawrence would say."

  "Or something that he would ask someone else to do."

  "Ah. It's like that. Are you here under sufferance?"

  Violet sighed. "Yes and no. On the one hand, Lawrence has gone to Liverpool on a whim, as you know. Another case that isn't a case, masquerading as a visit to his uncle".

  "His uncle is in Liverpool."

  "I know. I have met Frederick. But you know very well that he left prematurely when we happened upon a murder that supposedly needs his urgent attention."

  "And you have agreed to help him?"

  "Only because I get to visit you," she said. "And because I have quite a soft spot for Diss. One of my aunts lived here, and we often visited. Just as well as the other lives in Cornwall."

  "Dreadful journey," said Michael. "Best avoided."

  "I have always thought so. But there is another reason why I wanted to humour Lawrence. Something odd has occurred, and it has upset him greatly."

  "What?"

  "A print of Catherine's family coat of arms turned up in an envelope at our office. I opened it, and there was nothing inside except the crest, no note."

  "Oh, dear. Poor Lawrence. That must have hit him hard."

  "It has. And it's nearly May Day."

  Michael was about to respond when a sign above a shop on the street ahead caught his eye.

  "You are in luck," he said, pointing to the wooden banner over the shop front. "William Jackson Coal and Grocery supplies."

  The door was ajar, propped open by a sack of flour. Michael and Violet negotiated their way around it and entered the establishment.

  The grocer's shop was in a large, airy room fronting the road and appeared to form a substantial part of the ground floor of the property. The neatly organised shop was well furnished. Rows of symmetrical shelving ran from floor to ceiling on the back walls, and a small counter ran along the middle of the room. There was an abundant stock of groceries, but no sign of the proprietor.

  "Perhaps he's through there?" Michael suggested, pointing to a thick wooden door with an iron lock and bolt.

  "You can try it?" said Violet doubtfully. "It looks as though it's locked."

  But it wasn't. The door opened into a walled garden planted with a surprising array of brightly coloured spring flowers. Two large vegetable beds contained the first signs of young plant growth.

  A crash of metal against stone disturbed the tranquillity and drew their attention to a further area behind a trellis leading to a large yard. Sacks of coal and wooden pallets occupied one side, and a woman dressed in black knelt upon the floor.

  "Allow me," said Michael squatting beside her as he collected a set of cast iron shelf brackets from the yard floor.

  "Do excuse me," said the woman, standing up and brushing her dress. "I was trying to carry too much. Thank you for your help. Now, what can I do for you? Groceries or coal?"

  "I rather fancy some tinned peaches and custard for my supper tonight," said Michael.

  "Come this way, then," replied the woman as she led them back into the shop front. She grabbed the tin and gestured towards an upper shelf. "Bird's or Green's?" she asked.

  "Either," said Michael reaching into his pocket for coins.

  "Where is Mr Jackson today?" asked Violet.

  "William? My husband is in Diss." She looked towards the clock by the door. "Or perhaps he is on his way back, by now. He didn't intend to stay long. Can I help?"

  "That depends whether you know anything about the Scole confession," said
Violet.

  The woman regarded Violet quizzically. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean by that."

  Violet sighed. "I thought that might be the case. I'm not sure whether Mr Jackson will know any better, but I would like to ask him, all the same."

  The woman put her elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her hand, peering at Violet with curiosity. "Is it important?"

  "It might be," said Violet. It could pertain to a man called Edward Moyse."

  The woman gasped and covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide with shock, and she spoke with a trembling voice. "Edward was my brother. Amelia Jackson is my married name. I was Amelia Moyse before I wed. What has this confession got to do with Edward?"

  "I am so sorry to have upset you," said Violet. "The truth is that I don't know. I am a private investigator, and my partner is helping the Liverpool police with their investigation into your brother's death. Lawrence contacted me yesterday and asked if I could find out about a confession mentioned in Edward's journal." Violet reached into her bag and extracted a sheaf of papers. She selected a telegram and passed it over the counter to Mrs Jackson.

  "Here."

  "Ask about Edward Moyse and the Scole confession." Amelia mouthed the words as she read the telegram. "I see. Oh, dear. How difficult."

  "I'm sure it must be a dreadful time," said Michael, misunderstanding her meaning.

  "No. Not that. It is upsetting, of course, but the greater problem is William. He is due back at any moment and will not brook any mention of Edward's name under his roof."

  "Why? Edward is your brother," said Violet, offering what she hoped was a safe level of sympathy.

  "Was my brother," said Amelia sadly. "Our family parted on bad terms, yet we lived in harmony to start with."

  "As children?" asked Michael.