"Agreed. The burial records won't get us anywhere. We need to try another way."
They turned into Mere Street and walked past the National Provincial Bank on the right.
"I wonder if Mr Pope was late?"
"He doesn't strike me as the type to care one way or another," said Violet. "He is quite an unusual man."
"I didn't meet him long enough to form a judgement. Anyway, that only leaves us with Fanny Nunn," said Lawrence. "Did you ask about her?"
Violet nodded. "The Reverend confirmed that she drowned, but I couldn't get him to tell me any more than that."
"Nobody wants to talk about it. Odd when it happened such a long time ago."
"A wasted visit then?"
"No. Fanny's mother still lives in Diss. She is the proprietor of the Two Brewers Inn."
"Capital. She will know everything of note."
"If she will speak to us."
"Perhaps you could go and ask her? She is more likely to talk to you than me."
"And if she doesn't, her daughter might. Her daughter's name is Carrie Algar. She's a little younger than Fanny and resides with her mother at the inn."
"Good. And you will speak to them?"
"I'll try. Are you sure you won't come?"
"No," said Lawrence. "This Henry Garrod fellow that you met earlier. The county coroner, you say?"
"I didn't say that. I barely know him."
"It doesn't matter," said Lawrence. "I'm going to visit, regardless. Any coroner worth his salt will have full records about a local drowning. He might be able to assist with the recent female deaths too."
"As you wish." Violet smiled at Lawrence. Though not fully recovered, he had regained that glint in his eye with which she was all too familiar. She had her doubts about their investigation. There was little basis for it and no hope of a financial reward. But if anything could keep his mind off Catherine, it was an unusual case, and for once she was happy to indulge him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Two Brewers Inn
Not one to waste time in contemplation, Violet elected to visit the Two Brewers Inn in St Nicholas Street without delay. She waited outside while Lawrence called into the National Provincial Bank to ask for directions to Henry Garrod's offices. He returned five minutes later, and they parted in the Market Place. Violet went north, and Lawrence made his way past St Mary's Church and into Mount Street. It was a short walk to the Two Brewers Inn which allowed Violet the opportunity to call into the Corn Hall. She crossed through the covered portico and through the foyer where she stopped in front of a printed poster. It advertised a second showing of the Diss Choral Society's rendition of Handel's operetta, Acis and Galatea. She smiled, pleased at her excellent recollection. She had glimpsed an advertisement in the paper earlier that day but hadn't been sure of the date of the performance. It was as she'd hoped. If they were still in Diss tomorrow, the operetta would be an excellent way to spend their leisure time, if she could persuade Lawrence to come. If not, she would go alone.
The Two Brewers Inn stood next door to the Corn Hall. It was a two-storey, timber-framed building with a coach way and more modest than its ostentatious neighbour. It was early afternoon by the time Violet peered through the front window. The inn was full, and for a moment, she baulked at entering alone, but steadied her nerves and walked through the front door. As she passed through the crowd, she tried to think of a reason to bring up the sensitive subject of the publican's daughter's death.
On the way to the counter, Violet noticed a discarded newspaper on a wooden chair. It provoked immediate inspiration for a ruse that might be effective if handled well. Gaining confidence, she approached the young woman behind the counter who was busy serving drinks, and waited for her to finish. The girl poured two tankards of ale from a large jug which she placed on the bar before holding her hand out for money. An elderly man paid at a snail's pace then grasped the tankards with shaking hands and walked an unsteady path to a table by the window. The air in the public house was musty with the smell of hops and none too clean. Violet leaned on the sticky counter and immediately pulled her hand away, wiping it discreetly on her skirts. Her heart sank as she looked at the floor. A combination of dust and spilt ale had already leached over the bottom of her dress.
"Yes?" The girl's accent carried a familiar North Norfolk burr.
"Is Mrs Nunn available?" asked Violet.
"Who wants to know?"
"Miss Violet Smith."
"Is she expecting you?"
"No," said Violet.
"Then she's busy. She has asked me not to disturb her unless the coal merchant calls".
Violet bit her lip. "Well, can you give her a message?" she asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. "Tell her that I am a journalist. I am currently engaged in writing an article on selected East Anglian public houses and would be grateful if she would grant me an interview. Please say that she is free to decline, but to keep my visit secret. The Two Brewers is our first choice, but other inns in the town are under consideration. If she would rather not feature in the magazine, we will select another establishment instead.
The girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I'll be back in a moment," she said and left Violet alone in the busy bar.
Violet stood near the counter, trying to look unobtrusive and thanking her lucky stars that she'd recently read an article by journalist Eliza Lynn Linton. Although Violet disagreed with Mrs Linton's views on feminism, she admired her forthright opinions. Though Violet always regretted lying, she'd seen no other way to proceed without doing so. There had been a reluctance to discuss Fanny Nunn's death so far, and a direct approach would not work. Pretending to be a journalist might. She stared towards the window and waited for the barmaid to return, knowing that the first thing she would need to do is pour another pint. The poor old man had managed to carry the beers as far as the table, but within moments of arriving, had knocked one onto the floor. His companion stared dolefully at the growing puddle, but neither man made any attempt to clean the mess.
"This way." The girl had returned and was beckoning Violet to follow her towards the rear of the inn. "Up there, turn left at the top," she said, curtly. Violet wondered at the wisdom of employing a girl of so few words in a public house where exchanging pleasantries was key. But it was not her problem. Obtaining information was her only concern. She made her way up the creaking stairs, trying not to touch the grey film on the white wooden railing. At the top of the stairs, she opened the door to a room which served as a parlour. A plump woman with auburn coloured hair tinged with a smattering of grey was sitting in front of an unlit fire. She lounged in a reclining chair with her feet on top of an upturned basket, and she'd pulled up her black dress to expose unstockinged feet. Her ankles were red and swollen.
She looked over her shoulder. "Come in, Miss Smith," she said. "Excuse my state of dress. Doctor's orders. Now, take a seat over there." She gestured towards a padded armchair covered with an old shawl. "And tell me all about it."
Violet reached into her bag and pulled out the notebook and pencil she habitually carried. "I am a journalist," she said. "As I explained to your barmaid, I have been commissioned to produce an article on selected public houses in Norfolk and Suffolk."
"So I understand," said Mrs Nunn, scratching her calf. White tracks scored her legs and did not fade. Violet averted her eyes, feeling slightly uncomfortable.
"How did you select the Two Brewers Inn?" asked Mary.
Violet had already considered the question while she was waiting at the bar. "I didn't select it," she said. "Neither did my editor. One of your customers put it forward."
"Well, I'll be," said Mary Nunn. A smile spread across her face, and her blue eyes twinkled. She tucked a lock of hair into her lace cap before continuing. "I am not altogether surprised," she said. "There are no airs and graces in my establishment. Not like others, I could mention. People are free to say what they will and come and go as they please. What publication do you represen
t?"
"The Wymondham Courant," Violet replied, hoping she sounded convincing. "Now, tell me. What hours do you keep?" she continued.
Mary Nunn responded, counting on her fingers as she spoke and Violet scribbled a series of unreadable notes across her book.
"Who works with you?"
"My daughter Carrie, and my servant Maria both live and work here," Mary Nunn replied. "The barmaid Susan who showed you upstairs and another girl, Beatrice live out with family but come in daily to work behind the bar. Thomas Clark is the barrel man and helps with any heavy work. I am a widow, you see."
"I am sorry," said Violet sympathetically.
"Yes, two times over," continued Mary Nunn staring into the distance with misty eyes. "Henry Murton and Henry Nunn. I outlived both of them."
"How sad." Violet leaned over and touched Mary's hand. The older woman's eyes filled with tears at the small gesture of kindness.
"And my poor children," she continued. "Ellen and Fanny. Both girls died young."
Violet stopped writing and looked up with interest. "It's one thing losing your husband, but losing a child – that is a tragedy for a parent to endure."
"It was," Mary agreed. "Ellen died naturally, but poor Fanny. I still do not know to this day whether she did away with herself or whether somebody killed her."
Violet gasped and put her hand to her chest, surprised at the sudden offering of information. "You poor thing."
Mary hoisted herself upright and leaned forwards looking directly into Violet's eyes. "I fear I was too hard on her," she said. "I drove her to it, one way or another."
"What do you mean?"
"She drowned in the mere," said Mary. "They called it murder at the trial, but I am not so sure. I wanted her to go to Norwich to take a situation. You see, I still had younger children at home to care for, and I thought it would be good for Fanny to make her way in life. But she didn't want to leave. Her sweetheart lived here in Diss. Young Alfred Wylie." Mary's eyes filled with tears again. "If I had not sent her away, she might still be alive."
"I am sure that is not the case." Violet felt a surge of empathy for the ageing woman who had buried two daughters.
"She was unhappy about leaving," said Mary, "and she told me that she would not trouble me long."
"What do you think she meant by that?"
"I would not have thought anything of it if she had said it only once. But she mentioned it several times. 'I won't trouble anyone long.' That is what she uttered."
"But that is not the same as threatening suicide," said Violet.
Mary Nunn shuddered at Violet's words.
"I know it is not germane to my article," said Violet, taking a chance. "But I would be glad to hear what happened that day. You might feel better talking about it."
Mary nodded. "It has been a long time since I have spoken of Fanny. Carrie does not like to remember her sister's death. Nobody talks about Fanny any more. The trial divided the town."
"How?"
"Half the people thought she had made away with herself and the other half agreed with the jury. In the end, most people came around to thinking that she was responsible for her death."
"I can see why they might," said Violet. "After all, the alternative would mean a murderer in their midst. What do you believe?"
"I don't know, but I fear it was a suicide, and that means I must bear some responsibility. But worse still is the possibility that somebody killed my poor girl."
"Did she have any enemies?"
"No." Mary shook her head. "She helped me in the inn and was always chatty, always interested in people. She enjoyed a drink, loved to talk and naturally became a great favourite among our customers."
"What happened on the day that she died?" asked Violet gently.
Mary let out a deep sigh and sank back into her chair. "I last saw her alive on the twenty-ninth of November 1877. It was a Thursday and a little after eleven o'clock at night."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The Mere
"It's a day I will never forget," said Mary Nunn, sadly. "My last ever sighting of Fanny was in the passageway at the rear of the inn. The dailies had left, and we were all set to turn in. It had been a long night, and the inn had been full due to a celebration. One of the young men had secured a position in London and prepared himself to leave the next day, just like Fanny. His friends were drunk and quite rowdy. But they left at eleven o'clock, and we closed the doors."
"Was Fanny alone?"
"She was then, but her sweetheart, Alfred, had been with her for most of the evening."
"What was she doing in the passageway?"
"Nothing. She seemed to be waiting. I said to her, 'Fanny, dear, take the light. It is time to go to bed,' and I handed her the oil lamp. She took it without a word, and I suppose she went upstairs. I did not follow as I had to check the doors and windows downstairs."
"Did you always secure the inn?"
"Not always," said Mary. "But some money had gone missing the previous week. Not a lot, but I did not know how or when it disappeared, so I was more careful than usual."
"Did she bid you goodnight later on?"
"She may have, but if she did, I never noticed as I was still locking up."
"And she had been out of sorts, you said?"
"She had been low-spirited all week. I could not make out what the matter was. I knew that she was unhappy about leaving and would not have gone by choice, but it was more than that. She had left home before, you see. I'd secured her an unpaid position in North Walsham as a favour for a friend to get her used to the idea of working away. She had not been unhappy there. Quite the contrary."
Violet turned a page in her notebook, having covered two sides with her small, compact writing. She glanced at Mary Nunn, wondering how she felt about seeing her take notes. If she had an objection, she did not voice it.
"Was Fanny ready to leave for her new position?"
"Not really. She was due to journey to Norwich and should have gone on Wednesday, but she didn't start making preparations to pack until Thursday, the day she died. I'd put the trunk in her bedroom and said, 'Why don't you get on packing your box?' Fanny seemed worried and said that she was in no hurry and that she didn't want to pack more than was necessary. I told her that she could take as much or as little as she needed because she could come home on Sunday morning and spend the day here. Then she could take away extra clothes if she wanted."
"Did she intend to live with her new employer?"
"No." Mary rubbed her hands together as if trying to improve her circulation. "She was going to stay in Bedford Street with my married daughter Ellen Hammond, her stepsister."
"So, you went to bed once you had locked up?"
"Not straight away. I sat up for a while."
"But you didn't hear her come downstairs."
"No. I had no idea that Fanny was out."
Violet lowered her notebook and leaned forward. "I know this will be difficult, but can you tell me how you came to find out that your daughter was dead."
Mary sighed deeply. For a moment, she seemed reluctant to continue, and Violet wondered if she had pushed her too far. She sat quietly, hardly breathing and hoped that Mary would speak.
"It was about seven o'clock on Friday morning. I had been awake since dawn and was tidying and preparing for the day. The busman came in to collect Fanny and take her to Norwich, and I went up to her room."
"Was she usually late up?"
"Yes, often. Fanny was in the habit of taking a little too much drink at times and was not an early riser."
"Did she sleep alone?"
"Yes. Fanny had a room of her own. I went upstairs to wake her as soon as the busman arrived, but she had not slept in her bed. The bedclothes were undisturbed, and her trunk was lying open on the floor."
"Had she packed anything?"
Mary's brow knitted in concentration. "Yes," she said. "Now I come to think of it her trunk was fully packed. Not just the bits I had pu
t in, but most of her clothes and all of her shoes."
"So she intended to leave?"
"I have never been sure," said Mary. "In recent years, I have veered more towards the suggestion that she did away with herself. But today is the first time that I have thought about the trunk. Would she have bothered with it, if she had intended to throw herself into the mere?"
"What did you do when you saw that her room was empty?"
"I went back down to tell the busman, John Rudd. When I said that Fanny was not in her room, he asked me if I had seen Mr Wood that morning. I said that I had not been outside yet and had not spoken to anyone. 'Then you won't have heard the news,' he said."
"News about Fanny?"
"News about a young woman jumping into the mere. I knew at once, as soon as he said it, that it must be Fanny. She was not in her room, and a girl was lying dead in the water. Of course, it must be my daughter. My servant at the time was Elizabeth Peake. I sent her over to Inspector Amis to ask for his help. He came straight back to the inn, but it wasn't until midday that they retrieved her poor body."
"How dreadful." The account almost moved Violet to tears. "Why did they think that she might have met her end by foul play?" she asked. "Though it grieves me to say so, your story suggests that Fanny either jumped or fell into the mere."
"There were many witnesses who thought otherwise," said Mary Nunn. "Upstanding, professional people. John Aldrich, his son Henry and daughters Louisa and Alice, and John and Sarah Wood of the Sun Inn. There is no reason for them to lie."
"No, none at all," agreed Violet. "It must have been a dreadful time for you."
"I was in bed for several days," said Mary. "I could not move or function with the pain of it. I sent my son Christopher to Norwich to fetch Ellen, my eldest daughter. She kept the inn until I was well enough to work again and took care of the funeral with the burial club money. But a week later, I was ordered to give evidence at the inquest."
"And you were not yet recovered?"
"My body was weak and my mind, weaker still. The coroner asked many questions of me as if I was a prisoner on the stand."
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 60
