Lawrence entered the gaol, relieved to be there with official authority for once. Though he had achieved his objective on the previous visit, it had not been without risks and had created a different problem. An eagle-eyed guard might spot the similarity between his photographer guise and his real identity. But Lawrence had thought ahead. The possibility of being recognised had occurred to him en route to Mrs Bramwell's lodging establishment. He had located a public convenience and applied the moustache he habitually carried and was wearing it when he entered. The landlady had been none the wiser, and he expected it to pass without scrutiny from the gaol staff. But for all the years Lawrence had worn the moustache, it remained tickly and uncomfortable. He would have preferred to leave it behind.
Lawrence approached the building confidently, walked to the entrance and presented the warrant. The guard grunted and directed him through the courtyard to a room at the front of the inner building. After ten minutes, another guard appeared handcuffed to Miller. He nodded to Lawrence, unfastened the cuff and sat in the corner watching them. Miller took a seat opposite Lawrence and nodded his head.
William Miller had lost a considerable amount of weight since they'd last met. His bloodshot eyes stared from a thin, gaunt face, the right eye twitching uncontrollably. The haunted look of a condemned man had replaced the calm demeanour he had presented before.
"How are you keeping?" asked Lawrence.
"How do you think?" Miller's Liverpool accent was strong and his voice gruff. "I'm going to swing. How would you feel?"
Lawrence ignored the question. "Did you do it?"
Miller glanced towards the guard. "Don't I get any privacy?"
The guard crossed his legs and unfurled a newspaper without speaking.
Miller shook his head. "I don't want to talk in front of the guard."
"You don't have much choice. And it's too late to matter."
"Thank you for the reminder," said Miller bitterly. He stared at the floor without speaking. Lawrence began to worry that his visit might be fruitless.
"Why have you asked me here? Do you need my help?"
"Not exactly."
"Then, why?"
"I'll be dead in two weeks. I want to put my affairs in order."
"Go on."
Miller swallowed. His mouth and eye were twitching in tandem. "I did it," he said. "I'm guilty as sin, and I will die like the dog that I am."
Lawrence regarded him with a furrowed brow. He had expected a declaration of innocence, not a bold confession. "Then I'm not sure how I can help," he said.
"You can listen," said Miller. "I will tell you exactly what I did and why I did it. I am resigned to my fate and deserve nothing less. There is a reason why I killed Moyse and attacked the boy. I wasn't going to confess while there was a chance that I might get away with it. But since the trial, I've tried to tell my story, and now nobody believes me."
"Start from the beginning," said Lawrence. "Why did you go to the Moyse house?"
"It was like this," said Miller. "Last year, I left Sissy, my wife. I have always liked women, and for some reason, they like me. I cannot resist the thrill of it, you see. I started seeing a married woman last year. Her name was Mrs Goss, and she had money. Lots of it. I stayed with her until the money ran out, then I took her last few coins and came home."
"You abandoned her?"
Miller bowed his head. "You could say that. Anyway, I came back to Sissy, but she would not have me. She was angry and refused to let me back into the home."
"Understandably," said Lawrence thinking about Catherine. Some men didn't deserve their loyal, faithful wives.
"So I spent a few nights in a coffee house in Great Charlotte Street. I often went there when Sissy got angry. But my money was running out, and I needed some more."
"You could have earned it," said Lawrence, feeling little sympathy with Miller and his lack of morals.
"That's what I was doing," said Miller. "I was on my way to see the gangers on George's Dock when I saw a man hanging around the bookstall."
"Moyse's bookstall?"
"Yes, but Moyse wasn't there. Just one of his half-witted boys."
"What do you mean when you say the man was hanging around?"
"I mean that he was watching the bookstall from a distance as if he was waiting for someone."
"What did you do?"
"I walked past him and over to the gangers. There were no jobs left that day. It was too late, so I came back again, and he was still there. Moyse was back at the stall, but the man was still watching, and I knew there was something odd about him."
"What did he look like?"
"Like Moyse. The same height, with a full beard, but not thin like Moyse who always looked like he needed a good meal. I couldn't see much of his face under the beard, and a cloth cap covered his head. He looked like a working man but didn't speak like one, and he wasn't from around here."
"You talked to him?"
Miller nodded. "I was curious, so I asked him what he was doing. He went to walk away, but turned back instead and asked if I wanted to earn some money. I questioned him further, and he nodded towards the bookstall and asked whether Moyse and I were acquainted."
"Were you?"
"Yes. I lodged with Moyse once when Sissy threw me out and had known him for several years. I passed his bookstall every day when I was working, and we often spoke."
"What happened next?"
"The man said that Moyse had something belonging to him. I asked what it was, and he said it was a Bible containing a letter. Well, I laughed at him. Moyse is a Bible seller. He has hundreds, but the man said that it wasn't the Bible that was important. It was the letter inside. It was unlikely that Moyse would part with it so it must be in his house. He asked me if I could retrieve it and offered to pay me well."
"And you agreed?"
"Of course, I agreed. The price was good, and it was an easy task. Moyse wouldn't miss the letter, and I knew he would let me into his home. There didn't seem any harm in it."
"So you went to Redcross Street?"
"I called in that very evening at about six o'clock. Moyse wasn't there, but one of his boys let me in, and we talked for a while. He said that his master wasn't due to return until much later, so I left. But on my way back to Great Catherine Street, a further thought occurred to me. The boy might know where Moyse kept his valuables which could save a great deal of time. So I returned an hour before Moyse was due and spoke with the boy again. He was useless and said he knew nothing of Moyse's personal affairs."
"That's why you sat at the table with him?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"I talked to Needham."
Miller spoke without meeting Lawrence's eyes." Has he recovered?"
"Physically," said Lawrence. "But he will never be the same."
Miller flushed and lowered his head further still. "I don't know what came over me."
"I cannot begin to understand it," said Lawrence. "You enter the house to retrieve a letter and come out a murderer. Nearly a double murderer, as a point of fact."
"And I will pay with my life," muttered Miller.
"What happened to make you risk everything?"
"I panicked. That is all."
"Why?"
"When Moyse returned, he welcomed me and said I could spend the night on the sofa. His bedroom was on the same floor, and Needham slept in the room above. The boy turned in first and then Moyse. I waited until he blew out his lamp then gave it another half hour. When I was sure that he was asleep, I searched every part of the house. There were Bibles everywhere, but no letters that fitted the description. It was worth a lot of money to me, and I had to find it, so I thought long and hard. The only places I hadn't checked were the bedrooms. It wasn't likely to be in Needham's room, so it ought to be in with Moyse. And it made sense for it to be there. Old people like to keep their valuables close."
"Agreed," said Lawrence. "I suppose he saw you. Was that why you killed him?"
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Yes, he found me in his room. I carried a candle because it was pitch black, and I needed to see to search for the Bible. I thought he would not notice the faint illumination. Moyse was snoring and in a deep sleep. It felt safe to continue, but it wasn't. The floor was a mess with boxes of books stacked on every available space. I nearly tripped over a poker by the fire then noticed a chest at the end of the room with papers strewn across the top. Not those I was looking for, as it turned out. I crept past his bed and opened a drawer. It creaked. My God, it screeched like the scream of a banshee. I stopped dead and extinguished the candle and waited, barely breathing. Moyse started snoring again, so I made for the door, planning to find a way to divert his attention on the morrow. Then I could search his bedroom in daylight. But he was only half asleep. He saw me tiptoe past the bed and sat up."
"And you hit him to stop him crying out?"
"He didn't cry out."
"Then, what did he say?"
Miller turned his head away. "He made a suggestion so revolting, so utterly unexpected and repugnant that I could hardly believe what I was hearing." Miller's words trailed away as he stared out the window with a glazed look across his face.
"What suggestion?"
"I will not say." Miller spat the words out staccato.
"It made you angry?"
"So angry that I could not think straight. I grabbed the poker and slammed it on Moyse's head. His skull split open, and blood poured from the wound. He stared at me whimpering, so I hit him again and kept hitting him until he stopped moving. Then I searched through the chest and the boxes and found nothing. Nothing. Without that letter, there would be no money, and I would have killed a man for no reason."
Lawrence exhaled and put his hand on his forehead, wondering how he had once assumed Miller's innocence.
"You might well look disgusted," said Miller. "I am. I could stomach it while I was still angry, but not now. His face haunts me. What I did to that man, who had been my friend." He shook his head.
"Then you attacked the boy."
"It was not my intention," said Miller. "I went to his room to get him out of bed and asked him to go downstairs and cut up some wood for the fire. I searched his room just in case, but couldn't find anything, so I returned downstairs. I passed the loft hatch on the way to the kitchen and realised that I hadn't looked there. Needham wasn't in sight, so I took a chair and my candle and peered inside. I could barely see and felt around the hatch with my bare hand, but there was nothing but dust. Then I heard Needham snigger, and I looked down to see him staring up at me, with a stupid grin on his face. Then, his jaw dropped in horror. I jumped from the chair and blew out the candle, but it was too late. Needham had already seen my bloody hands. He dropped the hatchet and ran towards his bedroom. I picked it up and followed him up the stairs striking a blow that hit him, but did not bring him down. He struggled past me and headed back to the kitchen. I couldn't let him go, couldn't let him live. His head wound had slowed him down, and I caught up with ease. He screamed and begged me not to kill him. There was another poker by the kitchen fire. I hit him over the head with it, and he fell. He cowered in the corner, staring at me and trembling in fear. Then the anger left me as quickly as it had come. The boy did not know me well and was so badly injured that had he survived; he still might not recognise me. I told him to go to Moyse and that I would not kill him if he did not tell. Then I left."
"Thankfully, the boy survived," said Lawrence, grimly. "And you were not discovered immediately. What did you do in the meantime?"
"I waited at the docks until midday. I had arranged to meet the stranger there to hand over the goods. He was standing in the same place that I had first encountered him. He saw me and held out his hand for the letter, and I told him that I did not have it. There was no document in any Bible in Moyse's home. The man stared at my bloody hands with an expression of disgust and made as if to walk away. I said,' what about my money?' and he said,' you shall not have it'. I told him that I had killed Moyse and he smiled and said that it was as good an outcome as finding the letter and remedied his problem. I asked for my money again, offering to relinquish half if that was all he was willing to give me. He raised an eyebrow and regarded me with cold eyes, then walked briskly to the other side of the road and boarded a bus before I could regain my composure. I wandered the streets, trying to create an alibi, and you know the rest."
"What a waste of a life," said Lawrence. "Can you tell me anything more about this man."
"Nothing at all."
"You said he resembled Moyse. Could he have been related?"
"No. The resemblance was contrived and most likely a disguise."
Lawrence nodded. "Quite possibly. Anything else?"
"Nothing. I would tell you if I knew more. I have lived a sinful life and made bad choices, but that man has blood on his hands too. My life is over, and he walks free. Find him and bring him to justice, Mr Harpham. Let my soul rest in peace."
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The Language of Flowers
Lawrence emerged from Walton Gaol into glorious sunshine. The skies were blue and cloudless, and the temperature was warm without being humid. He had only been inside for a bare hour, but it felt like days had passed. Miller was guilty and would justifiably die. Lawrence felt no sympathy for him. He had killed a man in cold blood out of greed. And it was only by God's grace that John Needham had survived. Miller deserved his fate, but he had not acted alone. The bearded man who had sought the letter had blood on his hands by association and should lose his freedom too. But who was he and where did he go? Miller had not recognised him, and the description he'd given could have applied to half the men in the country. Lawrence did not know where to start. But of one thing, he was certain. He could not face spending the rest of the day in Mrs Bramwell's lodging house.
He crossed over Hornby Road and made his way back towards the city when a yellow tram, the colour of mustard, pulled up. Lawrence removed his jacket, boarded the tram, and climbed the metal staircase to the top seats with no thought to its destination. After a pleasant journey, the tram came to a halt in the centre of the city only ten minutes away from his uncle's house. He briefly considered visiting, but although he felt better, he was still more inclined towards solitude and decided to go for a walk instead. Wandering east along Ranelagh Street, he was admiring the exterior of the grand hotel in front of him when he heard a familiar voice. "Lawrence Harpham. Well, I never."
He turned to see a slender young woman wearing a burgundy ribbed silk dress overlaid with white lace and braid trimming. She carried a brown paper parcel and a lace parasol.
"Do I know you?" Lawrence said, then recognition dawned. "Loveday," he exclaimed.
"You are looking well, Lawrence," she said, smiling.
"Allow me," he said, taking the parcel from her.
"That is very kind, but I am only going to the Adelphi." She pointed to the building that he had been watching.
"Aren't you lucky. But what are you doing here, Loveday? I thought you were in India."
"I was. It's the first time I have been back from Calcutta in four years."
"Are you visiting family?"
"No. My family live mostly abroad now. I'm staying with friends in Cheltenham."
"Why are you in Liverpool?"
"Because that is where my ship docked. You are nosy, Lawrence."
"I'm only making conversation," he said tersely.
"And I am only teasing," she replied. "I am not expected in Cheltenham for another two days. Meanwhile, I am all alone and friendless in this big city."
"Well, we can't have that, can we?"
She smiled as they reached the hotel entrance. "Here we are, then. I am going inside to freshen up. The Adelphi serves a splendid dinner. You should join me."
"Should I?"
"You know you want to. It will be fun."
Lawrence considered it. Loveday was over twenty years his junior, but breathtakingly assured and masterfully manipulative. He remembered their time together in Fressingfield. She had flirted disgracefully, dropping him the moment she met Doctor Taylor. Not that the young doctor had fared any better in her long term affections. She'd left him without a backward glance too. Under any other circumstance, Lawrence would wish her well and walk away. But spending the evening with Loveday was a hundred times better than watching paper peel off the damp lodging house walls.
"Why not," he said.
"Meet me at six," she commanded, holding her hand out for a kiss. Lawrence obliged.
"Haven't you forgotten something?" she asked.
"Ah, yes. Your parcel."
"It's a silk shawl," she said.
"Only the best for you." He could not help but flatter her. She was, if anything, more beautiful than when he last saw her at the vicarage all those years ago. But flirting with Loveday was like teasing a cobra with a stick. He was living dangerously, yet he continued to wave at her as she walked past the doorman and into the hotel lobby.
Lawrence whistled as he walked away from the Adelphi. He waited until Loveday was out of sight, then checked his pocket watch. Two hours to kill until their meal. There wasn't enough time to go back to Rawcliffe Road, even if he had wanted to. Instead, he opted to wander around the city centre, calling into a flower shop where he enquired about purchasing a bouquet. The flower girl was alarmingly direct.
"For a young lady, is it, sir?"
"Yes," he said cautiously.
"Your intended?"
"No. The lady is a friend."
"A particular friend?"
"Just a friend. Nothing more."
The girl smiled knowingly. "If you say so, sir. Might I recommend a tussie-mussie?"
"What kind of flower is that?"
"It's a nosegay, sir. A posy. Flowers arranged together with aromatic herbs – like this." She thrust a small arrangement towards him, and the sweet scent of lavender drifted through the air.
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