The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "Of course, but more recently than that. Edward lodged with us when he returned from New Zealand. He was a missionary," she said. "A godly man. He travelled to the other end of the world, bringing salvation to all who would listen." Her eyes shone with pride.

  "That is a long way to go," said Violet.

  "Yes. My brother was away from our shores for almost two decades," said Amelia. "From Hobart in Tasmania to Christchurch in New Zealand and many other places besides. His passion for the Lord's work was all that mattered to him. He suffered illness and scorn, but nothing could dissuade him from evangelising. That it should come to this." She shook her head.

  "Yet your husband disliked Edward?" asked Violet gently.

  "Not always. There was a time when Edward and William got on well. One moment they were friendly and the next William said he must leave. It was sudden and unexpected."

  "What precipitated the announcement from your husband?"

  "It was either the stranger or the..." she stuttered, tripping over her words, then recovered her composure. "The incident."

  "What incident?"

  "It doesn't matter. The police have caught Edward's killer, and there is nothing to gain."

  "Perhaps," said Violet uncertainly. She was going to have to think on her feet. Lawrence had given her no useful information with which to work. "They have caught the murderer," she repeated, "but they need more information to secure a conviction when he goes to trial." She crossed her fingers behind her back, hating herself for the lie.

  Amelia accepted her story without further questioning. "If you think it will help, I will tell you. Sit down, but we must be quick. If William returns, you must leave immediately."

  "We will," said Violet. "I promise."

  Amelia Jackson cleared her throat. "Two things occurred in quick succession. I think the man came first, but it all happened within a week, and could have been the other way around."

  "Go on," said Violet.

  "One morning in January, I was in the parlour, and William was writing out the ledger beside me. There was a knock at the door, and I opened it to find a stranger on the doorstep. He was about my age with white hair and skin the colour of burnt ochre, weathered and tanned."

  "A foreigner?" asked Michael.

  "I don't believe so," said Amelia, squinting as she recalled the scene. "He might have been English, though his accent sounded Australian. Edward's accent had changed during his time abroad, and the man spoke similarly. He did not strike me as having been born with dark skin – it must have come from spending a long time in the sun. Anyway, he knocked on the door and asked if Edward was available. I said that he wasn't and the stranger said that suited him because he had a private matter to discuss with the man of the house. I showed him into the parlour and left him talking with William. Ten minutes later, my husband showed him to the door and came into the kitchen with a face like thunder."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No. William said that Edward was not welcome in his house and he would be asking him to move out at once. I pleaded with him not to be so unkind. Edward had nowhere to go, and few friends due to his time abroad, but William was adamant that he must leave."

  "Did he put him out?"

  "He gave him a fortnight to pack his things and find another place to stay, but events took a different turn, and the situation worsened."

  "How?"

  "A policeman turned up at our house accompanied by a shopkeeper from Norwich. A certain Mr Roy from Messrs Bunting and Co. I don't know if you have heard of them, but they are drapers on St Stephen's corner. I have often used them. Their goods are of excellent quality."

  "I am sure," said Violet.

  "Well, Police Constable Slaughter insisted on inspecting the contents of my house."

  "Whatever for?"

  "You might well ask," said Amelia Jackson, standing with her hands on her hips. She bristled with indignation, even though the encounter had been several years before. "The very thought of it," she continued. "Well, of course, William said no, but the constable said it was not a request. William must stand back and allow him to get on with it, or he would make more than one arrest that day."

  "Did he want to check the entire house?"

  "Not at first. The constable asked where Edward slept, and we showed him to the room. He looked and found nothing then decided to search the shop instead. He opened a cupboard under the counter and pulled out two rugs and a coloured tablecloth that I had never seen before. Mr Roy examined them and said they were the stolen items. William was furious and accused Roy of putting the items in the cupboard. I thought they might come to blows, but at that moment, Edward returned. As soon as he saw the constable, he burst into tears and admitted the offence. He said that he stole the rugs from Bunting and Co in full view of the shop assistants. It was not the first time. He said he had stolen flannel cloth and some boots on a prior occasion."

  "Did he want for money?"

  "No. If Edward needed money, he had only to ask."

  "It must have been a terrible shock," said Violet, gently.

  "It was." Amelia's eyes welled up at the memory. A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away. "Edward was older than me, and I'd always looked up to him. He was honest and good. I cannot imagine what drove him to it."

  "Did he ever tell you?"

  "He refused to discuss it. Not with me, anyway."

  "What happened to him?"

  "The magistrates treated him well. Reverend Savory appealed for clemency. He visited the magistrates and told them about Edward's work in the colonies. They viewed his case with compassion, but he still went to gaol and endured two months of hard labour."

  "Could he have been unwell? It is not unknown for behaviour to change during sickness."

  Amelia nodded. "It must have been something of that nature. Edward was a changed man when he returned to Norfolk. He suffered severe sunstroke in the outback, and it damaged his constitution and altered his mind. He suffered an enduring melancholy as if he was broken-hearted. He often said that he missed the Antipodes, but I think there was more to it."

  "Why did he leave?"

  "That's another mystery," Amelia sighed. "Edward said that he came back to England because he had no choice, but he would not say why."

  "I am sorry," said Violet. "He sounds like an honourable man."

  "He was. I am glad that you don't think the worst of him having heard the account of his trial. Now, I don't want to be rude, but William is due to return at any moment, and you must go."

  "Of course," said Violet. "Just one more question. How did your brother end up in Liverpool?"

  "It was due to the kindness of my cousin Albert," she replied. "Albert is a bookseller in Liverpool. With nowhere to live and a reputation damaged beyond repair, it was clear that Edward must leave Norfolk. He set off for Liverpool to make a new life there and leave the shame and disgrace behind. He wrote to me saying that he made a reasonable living from the bookstall and was happy. It suited him. How wicked of that man to take his life away when he'd finally found peace."

  "God bless his soul," said Michael, who had stayed quietly in the background. "And thank you for your time." He ushered Violet from the shop.

  "What do you make of that?" asked Michael when they got outside. Violet was about to reply when she noticed a cart outside the front of the grocer's store. A man was walking away from it towards a fenced enclosure on the other side of the road. He carried a heavy sack over his shoulder which he heaved to the ground before slitting the top with a knife. He scooped the contents into a trough and leaned over the fence, watching something on the other side.

  "That will be Jackson," whispered Violet. "He's not going to want to discuss anything."

  "No," Michael agreed. "It's bound to be tricky."

  "Stand still," said Violet, opening her bag and removing a retractable silver pencil. She rummaged inside and located a cream coloured envelope which she placed against Michael's back."

  "W
hat are you doing?"

  "I'm writing a note to Edward Moyse."

  "Why?"

  "You will see."

  She slipped one of the telegrams into the envelope and tucked the flap inside having first addressed it to Mr Moyse of Scole Street, Diss.

  Turning to Michael, she took a deep breath. "Come on then."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  No Love Lost

  William Jackson stared at the chickens in the enclosure, oblivious to Violet's approach. He watched the birds vacantly as if he was not really looking at all. Michael and Violet loitered for a moment, then Michael coughed, and Jackson turned around.

  "Mr Jackson?" asked Violet.

  "Yes. What do you want?"

  "I'm here to deliver a letter," she continued. "With instructions to bring it by hand. It is for your lodger."

  "I don't have a lodger."

  "Oh." Violet looked crestfallen. "Here," she said, thrusting the letter under his nose. "Mr Moyse, Scole Street."

  Jackson scanned the note, then passed it back. "Moyse is dead," he said curtly. "You had better return the note to whoever sent it."

  "Oh, dear," said Violet. "My friend wanted to ask him a question – a matter of some importance. Mr Moyse had alluded to it, but never fully explained."

  "That won't be possible."

  "Perhaps you can help?" she asked.

  Jackson closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He looked Violet full in the face before moving towards her. She tried not to react as she felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek. "I have nothing to say about that filthy sinner," he growled. "The man was a disgrace."

  Violet tried to mask her surprise. "I thought he was a man of God," she said.

  "So did I, but he deceived us all."

  Violet considered eliciting more detail, but thought better of it and changed tack. "My friend was going to ask him about a confession," she said. "The Scole confession."

  William Jackson stared mutely for a moment as if torn between helping or sending her packing with a flea in her ear. He chose the former.

  "The confession was nonsense," he said. "Moyse was deluded. Had he not been part of the temperance movement, I would have thought him under the influence of alcohol when he wrote the letter."

  "What did he tell you?" asked Violet.

  "None of your business," Jackson replied. "What's it to you, anyway?"

  "Nothing. I am helping out a friend. This is rather awkward. He would prefer to ask you himself, but unfortunately, it falls to me."

  "What Violet is trying to say," said Michael, stepping in, "is that the presence of this confession is complicating your brother-in-law's murder investigation. But you imply that their interest is unnecessary."

  "Indeed." William Jackson softened. "Edward Moyse was not right in the head. His exposure to constant sunshine and godless heathens affected his sanity. I cannot imagine why he thought I would be sympathetic to his fancies. He would have received a better reception had he sent the letter to my wife. For reasons best known to himself, he chose to waste my time. Now, tell me what you want to know and be quick about it."

  "Thank you." Violet smiled at Michael, grateful for the intervention, then turned to William Jackson. "What exactly what was in the confession?"

  "I cannot remember," said Jackson. "Moyse was vague in his language and sent a rambling letter expressing concern about a dead woman's Bible. He found it in a box of second-hand books, purchased from Henry Garrod at the auction house in Diss, days before he left for Liverpool. I expect he intended to sell them. He took the books away and later while sorting through the box, he found a Bible that he recognised."

  "How?"

  "Because there was an inscription inside written in his hand."

  "Who did the Bible belong to?" asked Violet.

  "A woman he'd encountered while preaching, which was hardly remarkable. He continued evangelising on his return to England and many, especially those who knew him, were sympathetic to his cause. According to the letter, this woman was memorable due to her burden of guilt. He had prayed with her and given her a Bible upon which she had subsequently written a confession. He expected me to believe that in defiance of reasonable coincidence, he had found it again in the box."

  "You don't believe him?"

  "I doubt it is an outright lie. There is likely is an element of truth in this half-baked story, but not much of one."

  "What did the confession say?" Violet's eyes were wide with anticipation.

  "Moyse did not go into detail. He said that it was a serious matter and had begun with the murder of Fanny Nunn."

  "Fanny Nunn? I was about to ask if you knew the name. Who is she?"

  "She died," said Jackson. "But it was almost twenty years ago, so how this has any bearing today, I do not know."

  "How did she die?"

  "She drowned in the mere."

  "Was it an accident?"

  "I don't wish to discuss it further. It is irrelevant. The alleged confession is fanciful. I do not believe there was anything to it. More likely, Moyse was trying to use it in an attempt to inveigle himself back into my favour."

  "Did he name the woman?"

  "No, he did not. Which is another reason why I suspect much of this is a product of his imagination."

  "Do you still have the letter?" Violet asked, hopefully.

  "No." Jackson snorted. "It was a source of irritation. If memory serves me correctly, I screwed it up and threw it into the crates. It will be long gone by now and good riddance to it. Now, have you finished?"

  Violet unable to think of anything else to ask, thanked him and turned to leave.

  "Lawrence has struck gold again," said Michael when they were out of earshot.

  Violet sighed. "Perhaps," she said. "Though it does sound like Moyse was a man with an overactive imagination. And I cannot see how this confession connects to his tragic end."

  "Yet the note refers to a death, and Fanny Nunn drowned."

  "I was likely an accident and nothing untoward."

  "But Jackson didn't answer your question. It would have been much easier to confirm that she came to a natural end."

  "It is curious," said Violet. "But I will ask Lawrence what he thinks. Is there a post office nearby? I will telegraph him first thing tomorrow morning."

  Michael nodded. "I'll show you where it is on the way back to my lodgings. Peaches and custard for supper," he said, shaking the can.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dear Amy

  January 1895

  Dear Amy,

  I wonder if you ever understood the thrill of drowning? It's a beguiling sensation sparking the senses alive. The splutter and gurgle of a dying breath; the splash of water during the fight for life, a sudden silence – all blend into an exquisite and sensual symphony. The sound of drowning resonates bone deep; cocoons and soothes the soul, evoking all senses. It is intense and satisfying.

  The first time I took a boy's life, I was unaware of the pleasure it would bring. How could I know without trying? How could anybody? The second time, I set off with purpose, to persuade, not threaten, hoping to resolve a conflict without violence. I met my aggressor with the best of intentions. But an opportunity arose, and a split-second reaction changed the course of my destiny. I killed him, and though some questioned the manner of his death, I was never suspected. There were no consequences, and the matter rested. An insignificant life snuffed out early, with memories petering away so quickly that he might never have existed at all.

  But today brings a problem, Amy. My luck may have finally run out.

  You, of all people, know that the Crown Hotel is a focal point in Diss. People come, and people go all day long. Everyone passes through the doors sooner or later. They come for a drink, a chat, or a meeting. Or to make a delivery, as happened today.

  But here am I, claiming my luck has run out, when of course, it cannot have. If so, I wouldn't have seen the letter. Somebody else would have picked it up. Though it lacks enough inf
ormation to give me away, it could lead back to Moyse. And his account could lead to far worse. No, luck was with me. Fate placed me in the right place at the right time to protect my interests. And protect them, I will.

  I was thinking of you earlier today when standing at the counter drinking with my companions. Your demise has not entirely removed you from my memory, and from time to time, I recall our haunts. Anyway, Jackson's delivery boy turned up and hauled a crate through the passageway where he unknowingly deposited a ball of paper in his wake. I picked it up, intending to hand it back, but he walked on ahead, and I unfurled the note. Imagine my horror as I read the second paragraph – Find out about Fanny Nunn.

  I knew she would return to haunt me one day, greedy little piglet that she was; plump, homely Fanny Nunn and her meddling ways. The note gave me quite a start, and I hastened into the street to calm myself down. I found a quiet alleyway and re-read the letter, identifying by the end of it, two significant problems.

  Do you recall a man called Moyse? Well, Amy dear, he is the writer of the note. Moyse, you will remember, is a bearded preacher always trying and usually failing to convert the gullible to godliness. I never understood his motivation. Why would anyone waste their life persuading men into actions contrary to their selfish nature? He is an interfering busybody, and though I have always believed him harmless, this is no longer the case.

  The second problem is the note. It refers to a confession that Moyse possesses, of which you are aware. It has the potential to threaten my comfortable life. Somebody, possibly Jackson, crumpled it into a ball and discarded it. The act suggests a disregard for Moyse's claims and implies that time is on my side. Anyone who knows Jackson, also knows that he has argued with his brother-in-law – hardly surprising after the shame the prison sentence brought upon the family. There was a great deal of sympathy within Diss for the Antipodean felon, but not from me and most definitely not from Jackson. I have even less sympathy now.

  Jackson may have discarded the note, but further interference from Moyse might yet draw unwanted attention. It is a pity, as things are going rather well. Business is good, and so the Moyse problem must be addressed. But the thought of confronting a full-grown, able-bodied man does not appeal. It is not my way. The note provides a contact address at twenty-six Redcross Street in Liverpool. I am going there now, Amy, as soon as possible. I have some clearing up to do.