Lawrence examined the box doubtfully, noting a red string that dangled from a brass-coloured fitting. The contraption looked more like a decorated bird box than a mechanism designed to produce an image.
"Stand there," said his uncle, directing Lawrence towards the window where Connie was posing in an evening gown. "Now squeeze together."
Lawrence complied, trying to produce a smile that did not look artificial and forced. Uncle Frederick pulled a string then tripped a button on the left-hand side of the device. A mechanism inside emitted a gentle whir.
"Can I see it?" asked Lawrence.
"You can pick it up if you like."
"Not the camera," said Lawrence. "I meant the picture."
"Oh, my dear boy, no. That is not how it works. Not at all. Once the film is full, I send the box to Kodak. Then they print the photographs and return the camera. It's jolly clever."
"How long does it take?"
"That depends. This film has the capacity for a hundred photographs. It will take a good few months to use them and another three weeks for processing."
"How many photographs do you take a week?" Lawrence asked.
"One or two."
"Then, it will take most of the year before you see the fruits of your efforts. You will have forgotten what was on the film."
Uncle Frederick pursed his lips. "I expect that will be half the fun of it," he said. "Don't you approve?"
"It's not for me to have an opinion," said Lawrence, hoping he had not offended. "As long as you enjoy your photography."
"Look what it does," said his uncle, hobbling towards an armchair. He knelt, pushed his walking cane under one side of the chair and gave it a push. A large box emerged from the other side. Uncle Frederick retrieved it, opened the lid and pulled out a clutch of black and white images which he passed to Lawrence. The round images were grainy, but a clear representation of Uncle Frederick and Lawrence's father.
"When were these taken?" asked Lawrence, surprised. "I have never seen them."
"Back in 1888 when Lionel last visited. We had them done by a professional photographer. I was so impressed that I bought a camera myself."
"If these devices become readily available, photographers will go out of business," said Lawrence.
"I am surprised you don't make use of a camera yourself, given your occupation."
"How could I? They are cumbersome and slow to operate."
"Not all. Handheld cameras have been around for over a decade, and Stirn's patent concealed vest camera is now available in England."
Lawrence considered the value of purchasing one. "I can see how it might be useful," he admitted. "It would have helped Violet with her cuckolded husband case. She got there in the end, but a photograph would have provided compelling evidence. I will give it further thought."
"Good," said his uncle jovially, patting Lawrence on the back. "By all means, try the camera yourself, if you wish. This model is too conspicuous to be useful to you, but it's fascinating to operate."
Lawrence decided to humour his uncle and took up a position behind the tripod. He lined up a few practice shots using the 'V' shape on the leather to frame his Uncle Frederick and what would no doubt become his Aunt Connie. Once Lawrence was sure of his technique, he pulled the string and committed the moment to print. Turning a key on top of the box, Lawrence advanced the film as the germ of an idea formed in his head.
Tuesday, April 30, 1895
The hackney cab slowed to a halt outside Walton Gaol. Lawrence emerged carrying a tripod and a box containing the camera. He paid the bemused looking cabman and walked towards the turreted gaol. It was a handsome brick structure with stone dressings and round-headed windows, too grand to house the degenerate underbelly of Liverpool's criminal fraternity. Lawrence stopped for a moment to consider his options. There was no easy way to see William Miller and subterfuge was his only choice. Even then, he would need to approach the deception with a bold disregard for the rules. Having racked his brain for a more simple option, Lawrence had ruled out everything else. All that remained was the course of action upon which he was about to embark. He would masquerade as a prison photographer.
There were several reasons why he doubted the efficacy of this plan. Aside from the fact that there may already be a photographer, there was an equal chance of there never having been one. Some prisons routinely catalogued their offenders but by no means all. Worse still, Lawrence might walk in to find an appointed photographer already at work in the gaol. Either way, he would have to negotiate around this and any other problems that he might not have considered. It was essential to locate William Miller and find out how he had managed to conduct a burglary quite so unsuccessfully.
Taking a deep breath, Lawrence walked towards the gate and past the low railings that surrounded the building. He strolled beyond the towers to a large wooden door and rang a brass bell conveniently placed to the side. Moments later, a square window opened, and the deep-voiced guard responded.
"Yes?"
"I've come to photograph the prisoner, Miller."
"Which one?"
"William Miller. He's not been here long."
"I know the one," said the guard. "Shifty little weasel, but aren't they all. Wait a minute."
Lawrence peered through the open hatch as the prison guard removed a sheet of carefully ruled paper from a clip on the wall. He lifted his glasses and squinted.
"Nothing here," he said. "Didn't you come last week?"
"Yes," said Lawrence gruffly. "This is a special request."
"Who from?"
"The chief constable to your guv'nor," he said.
"It's not on my list."
"I can't help that. I've got my orders. Why don't you ask someone in authority?"
Lawrence waited with bated breath, hoping that the guard did not have easy access to the prison warden. With a heavy camera and a cumbersome tripod, Lawrence was in no position to make a quick getaway should the need arise.
"I can't," said the guard. "Just hand me the paperwork, will you?"
Lawrence fished into his jacket for a note of authority from the police station, which he had forged earlier in the day.
"Inspector Strettell," said the guard, as he recognised the signature block. "Seems in order. I'll hang on to this."
"As you wish," said Lawrence.
The door swung open, and Lawrence passed through it and into an inner courtyard. The guard nodded to a pair of younger men who were playing cards on a trestle table outside the guardhouse.
"One of you show him to 'D' block,"
"I'll do it." The fair-haired warder tossed his cards onto the table and picked up a packet of Woodbines and a box of matches. He led the way across the quadrangle in front of the entrance to the towered building dominating the prison complex.
"This way," he said, turning left into a long corridor. They had almost reached the other end when he turned right at a double door and into a seating area, beyond which was a barred door. "You can photograph him in there," said the guard, pointing to a large room on the left with a window facing into the courtyard. "I'll go and fetch him."
Lawrence was too nervous to sit down and tried the door of the side room, hoping to see the view from the inner courtyard. The door would not budge, so he wandered towards a pin board and read the few dog eared notices. Lawrence raised an eyebrow at a flyer from the Primitive Methodists appealing for temperance, hoping they had aimed it at the guards. Traditionally, prisoners lacked access to alcohol, but who knew what might come about from the constant prison reforms. His musings were soon interrupted by the arrival of the fair-haired guard and a man of about five foot six, with a thick brown moustache and chains around his wrists, who accompanied him. At about thirty years old, William Miller was younger than Lawrence had anticipated.
The guard stepped forward, unlocked the side room and ushered Lawrence through. "Set up over there," he commanded before retreating to the next room where he stood quietly next to the prisoner.
Lawrence opened the tripod and attached the camera, hoping that he looked authentic. The Kodak remained steady on the stand, which came as something of a relief. He raised a hand to the guard, who nodded before pushing the prisoner through the door. Then he selected a key from a large chain around his waist and unlocked the fetters. Miller rubbed his wrists and jerked his head while his eye twitched uncontrollably.
"I'll be outside having a cigarette," said the warden, closing the door. Lawrence watched the guard loiter next to a low window running the length of the side room. He lit a cigarette and stared at Lawrence intently.
Lawrence stood behind the camera and, as soon as it was clear that the guard was out of earshot, began to speak.
"I've been to Redcross Street," he said. "You left a mess."
Miller stared at him, and the corner of his mouth began to twitch in time with his right eye.
"People I know, influential people, think you may be innocent," Lawrence lied.
"How would they know?" growled Miller.
"Are you?" asked Lawrence pulling the red cord on the Kodak.
"What's it to you?"
"There isn't much time," said Lawrence. "If you are innocent, I can help."
"And if I'm not?"
Lawrence pressed the button which, in the hands of an expert, would produce an image. Nobody would see the finished article, so he only needed to look the part. The guard continued to smoke, and he assumed that the ruse was working.
"Then I can't do very much. Now, what were you looking for?"
"Where?"
"In the attic of Redcross Street."
"How do you know?" Miller stepped backwards in surprise.
"Never mind that. You missed every valuable item in the property. Nobody is that careless."
"I've got nothing to say."
"Fine. But have you got a good memory?"
Miller nodded.
"My name is Harpham. Lawrence Harpham. My offices are at the Butter Market in Bury Saint Edmunds. I am a private investigator, and I will try to help you."
"I don't need your help," hissed Miller.
The guard tossed his cigarette to the floor, stubbed it out, retrieved it, then dropped it in a waste bin. He glared at Lawrence suspiciously and entered the room.
"Finished?"
"All done," said Lawrence.
The guard repositioned Miller and locked his shackles. "Oy, Jessop." He bellowed to a man further down the corridor.
"Show him out, will you?" he asked, pointing to Lawrence, then without another word he unlocked the barred gate and marched Miller back to his cell.
Minutes later Lawrence emerged into the sunlight, wondering whether the experience had been worth it. He had gained no further information from Miller and, had he been a cat, would be several lives lighter. It might have been worthwhile had Lawrence felt a strong leaning towards Miller's guilt or innocence. Instead, he was ambivalent. His instinct had deserted him. Lawrence hailed a cab conveniently parked down Hornby Road. He would return the camera to his uncle and board the next train to Bury.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Message from the Past
It was a quarter past seven in the evening when Lawrence finally opened the doors of thirty-three Butter Market. He settled at his desk, feeling tired and irritable, recalling unpleasant memories of his train journey home. Lawrence had chosen an empty carriage and was reading a book when two innocent-looking children had invaded his space. At first, he was untroubled and eyed them with benign amusement. But as the journey progressed, they started asking a series of increasingly inane questions and his patience began to falter. He tolerated them until the younger boy started asking why cows slept standing up. Lawrence said he did not know. The boy tried again, and Lawrence gave the same answer. Finally, the boy dissolved in tears and kicked Lawrence on the leg. Lawrence scowled at the mother, waiting for her intervention, but her eyes remained shut. He spent the rest of the journey acting as an unpaid babysitter, glowering resentfully and convinced that she was feigning sleep.
Lawrence had arrived in Bury after what seemed like an eternity. He deposited his luggage at home without bothering to unpack and proceeded to his office. It was clean and tidy, as usual, and he was glad that he had listened to Violet when she insisted on employing a cleaner. Though initially reluctant, it had turned out to be a wise decision. Annie Hutchinson was hard-working and intelligent. Adept at dealing with general enquiries as well as cleaning, she was a safe pair of hands and more than capable of minding the office in their absence. But Lawrence suspected there was trouble ahead with the recent arrival of a young admirer. Annie's sister had introduced her to a young man, Robert Hicks. He had been hanging around far too often for Lawrence's liking. Not that he had anything against Robert, but because he lived in Norwich, he represented a threat. Lawrence had no wish for his reliable domestic to leave and settle elsewhere.
The ever-efficient Annie had piled his post in the centre of the desk. Three sealed letters rested on top of an open envelope, but only one of them held his interest. Lawrence had come to the office with the sole intention of locating the letter containing Catherine's crest. He'd asked Violet to destroy it but knew very well that she wouldn't. Now that it was possible, he felt an overwhelming urge to procrastinate. He ignored the open envelope and turned to another, addressed in the familiar hand of his Uncle Max. It contained an invitation for a luncheon engagement which Lawrence marked on the calendar. He filed the message in his bottom drawer, wondering why Uncle Max had chosen to post it to the office. Generally, mail found its way to his apartment unless it was business-related, but Uncle Max was getting on a bit. Perhaps it was a sign of things to come.
Lawrence picked up the second envelope. It was brown and most likely contained a bill. Under normal circumstances, Lawrence would have put it straight on Violet's desk, unopened. But such was his need to postpone the inevitable, that he opened it and read it, groaning aloud at the contents. The invoice was from the coal merchant who Lawrence should have paid two weeks ago. Violet had entrusted him with visiting the shop and settling the bill. He'd left with the best of intentions, but something had distracted him, though he could not remember what. In any case, Violet would be cross. He shoved the invoice into his jacket pocket intending to settle it another day. Then Violet wouldn't need to know.
Lawrence dealt with the third letter about a missing necklace and the fourth about a poisoned guard dog by making appointments in his diary. He wasted even more time scribbling quick replies to each enquirer confirming his dates of attendance. Sighing, Lawrence rose and rested the letters against the carriage clock on the mantlepiece, ready for Annie to post tomorrow. Then he returned to his desk to confront the unavoidable. Any longer and the problem would assume elephantine proportions.
The cream-coloured envelope lurking on the desk was postmark free and unstamped. Written at the top in capital letters, was the word 'urgent' with the name and office address below. The rest of the envelope was unremarkable and contained no clues to the sender. Lawrence took a deep breath and removed the contents keeping the picture face down, then steeled himself and turned it over. There it was. A perfect line and ink drawing of Catherine's crest with Celtic crosses on a red stripe and blue dolphins on a silver background. He would recognise it anywhere. Penmanship was one of the quirks he'd loved about Catherine. She was proud of her heritage, and a talented artist, regularly combining both through sketches of her coat of arms. This drawing was so close to her style that it could almost belong to her. Lawrence took a closer look. The similarity was uncanny. Who had sent it and why?
Finding no other clues, Lawrence put his head in his hands and stared at the crest. He sat motionlessly for several minutes, then pushed his chair back and walked to the rear of the office. Unlatching the door, Lawrence approached the kitchen area shared with the milliner above and placed a pan on the gas stove. He watched the unlit hob for a few moments, his mind elsewhere. Then shaking his head, he rummaged in the drawer for a packet
of matches and struck one. Wearing a look of grim determination, Lawrence returned to the office. He discarded the crest and collected the envelope in which it had arrived. Lawrence paced the floor of the narrow kitchen, waiting for the pan to boil. Before long, the water began to bubble, and when he judged it ready, he took the envelope and held it over the boiling water. After a few moments, Lawrence removed the envelope and placed it on a low wooden cabinet. He waited, considering the futility of his actions and a plan doomed to failure. The uncanny resemblance of the crest with Catherine's drawing style had provoked memories. Memories of their courtship and time spent apart when they wiled away the hours by writing to each other. It had started when Lawrence was on duty in the Isle of Man. After three weeks of boredom and countless letters, he'd decided to write a secret message on the envelope flap. Catherine had found it and responded in kind, and this continued whenever he went away. They'd kept it up until motherhood stripped away the romance and much of Catherine's time.
Lawrence picked at the envelope flap, not expecting to find anything. Catherine was dead, and nobody else knew about their little game, yet he felt compelled to check. The steam had softened the envelope, and the flap pulled apart with ease. There, beneath the fold, written in dark blue ink, was the word 'Deceiver'. Lawrence dropped the envelope, recoiling in horror. He stumbled into his office, sat down heavily at his desk and pulled the bottom drawer open. Grasping the bottle inside, Lawrence fumbled for a glass, slamming it carelessly onto the table. It split in half, and he hurled it to the floor, splintering shards across the office. His eyes darted from the crest to the envelope. Deceiver, deceiver, DECEIVER. Never, never NEVER. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, and the silence in the office was deafening. He took a slug of whisky straight from the bottle and kept on drinking until darkness fell around him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Distress
Wednesday, April 1, 1895 – 7.30 am
To: Miss Violet Smith, Crown Hotel, Diss
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 58
