"No, I won't," he sighed. "But I am busy today. Can it wait?"
Violet shook her head. "No, it can't. Look."
She thrust the note towards him.
"You're not going, are you?"
She nodded.
"It's a terrible idea, Violet. It is either a hoax or dangerous. Either way, you shouldn't be doing it."
"I must. Don't you see? Something is going on around here. Some days I can't be sure if there is a problem, and other days, it is staring me in the face. Today is one of them. If I don't go and find out what this man has to say, I will regret it."
"Man?"
"I assume a man wrote it."
"Doesn't it say?"
"No. Perhaps it's from a woman, then. That would be safer."
"None of it is safe, Violet. Please don't go."
"I hoped you would come with me."
"I will if you insist on this ill-advised meeting. But I doubt whoever it is will make an appearance if I'm with you."
"No. I must go alone. But you could hide within sight of the house. Then, I will meet them, and if I don't return within a quarter of an hour, you can come and find me."
Michael sighed. "And if I say no?"
"Whoever wrote that note will be there at two o'clock . It's my only chance to find out what they want and whether it connects to this case."
"So you will go with or without me?"
Violet nodded. "I must."
Michael sighed and looked at the clock on the vestry wall. "We had better be on our way," he said, getting to his feet. "And when Lawrence does reappear from wherever he has gone, he will be getting a bill for my time."
The disused house in Denmark Road was an unprepossessing property which had lain unloved for a long time. The door was intact, but grime caked the window panes, masking the view inside. Violet knocked on the peeling door, and it creaked open. She stepped cautiously inside, treading on rotten squeaky floorboards peppered with wormholes. The smell of rising damp hung heavy in the hallway and paint was peeling from the walls. Though warm outside, the house was unnaturally cold. Violet called out in an uncertain voice. "Hello. Is anyone there?"
She stood silently, listening for a reply but none came. Then she ventured further inside and through the door at the end of the hallway, taking care to leave the front door open.
The inner door hung uselessly from one hinge allowing a partial view into the kitchen beyond. Violet squeezed past the door, hoping not to dislodge it from its precarious position and called out again. Silence descended until she heard a rustling – a scrabbling sound which seemed to be coming from the floorboards. Violet surveyed the dingy kitchen. The only illumination came from a hole in the broken glass window by the rear door. She peered through the gloom and examined the floor again, but there was nothing untoward. Violet waited, hardly breathing, then the noise began once more, and this time, it came from under the sink. Biting her lip, she tiptoed towards a filthy linen curtain slung between two nails. She lifted the corner. A half-starved rat with a torn ear stared at her through dead eyes. Her gasp disturbed its scavenging, and it slunk furtively away while she stopped and clutched her heart, hoping to calm her breathing. Violet's fingers shook as she counted aloud trying to distract her fears and steady her nerves and pulse. After a few moments, she felt able to carry on, frightened, but secure in the knowledge that Michael was only a short distance away and would hear if she screamed.
Taking a deep breath, she turned towards the inner doorway by the stairs. She was about to ascend when the front door slammed shut with a force so shocking that it took her a few moments to comprehend what had happened. She ran towards the hallway, nudging the inner door which spun off its hinge and crashed to the floor, hitting her shoulder as it fell. The force of the impact propelled Violet forwards onto her knees. And as she knelt there, with dust and debris coating her long skirt, something bright dropped through the letterbox and fell onto a damp patch by the door that she hadn't noticed earlier. It hit the floor, and the area ignited with a roar, as flames blazed along the hallway and straight towards Violet. She gathered her skirts and ran ahead of the fire into the kitchen and towards the rear door. She tugged the brass doorknob with both hands, rattling the glass with her efforts, and the doorknob came away in her hands. She looked over her shoulder to see the hallway aflame, and thick smoke billowing into the kitchen. Violet could hear Michael shouting outside the front door. He must have seen what happened, but was unable to gain access. She scanned the kitchen.
The window with the broken pane was tiny, and she would never fit through, but there was another oddly shaped window set higher up the wall. She might be able to squeeze through if she could reach it before the smoke overwhelmed her. For the second time that day, she thanked her lucky stars for sensible boots. She headed for the chipped and stained fireclay sink set beneath the window with its solitary brass tap listing drunkenly to one side. She pushed down on it, testing her weight as pieces of plaster crumbled around her. The fire had not yet entered the kitchen, but the smoke was acrid. Violet coughed uncontrollably before ripping a piece of decorative satin from her bodice to cover her mouth.
The unsteady sink was the only thing standing between escape and imminent death from smoke inhalation. She would have to take a chance and hope it stayed fixed to the wall. She gulped a deep breath through her satin mask, before plunging the material into her pocket and hauled herself onto the wobbling sink. It tilted to the side as she grabbed the narrow window ledge and fought to balance. Holding tight with one trembling hand, she edged the other towards her pocket, retrieved the satin and wrapped it around her knuckles. Then she slammed her hand into the window punching blindly above. The brittle glass exploded, scattering shards into her hair. Violet grimaced as she cleared loose pieces of glass from the window frame with her barely protected hand as blood poured from deep gouges. Then she lunged for the opening, kicking against the sink which fell from the wall with an almighty crash. With her head hanging from the window, Violet hauled herself free of the kitchen and tumbled to the garden below. She was still lying in a heap, winded and bloody, lungs screaming for air when Michael hurtled into the garden and fell on his knees beside her.
"Stand up," he said urgently. "Violet. Stand up now."
She coughed as her muscles began to relax and gulped the air.
"Come on. Stand up. You're too close to the house."
She lifted her head and gazed at the building. Flames licked at the edges of the window sill from where she had fallen. Michael reached out his hand. "Come on."
He grabbed her and pulled her off the ground. She winced as glass shards pressed further into her wounds, but said nothing and limped towards the open yard behind the house.
"Quickly." Michael pulled her behind him, and they were a bare twenty yards away when the house exploded, and flaming tiles tumbled from the roof.
The door of the adjoining house opened, and a couple ran towards the safety of the road. By the time they reached Denmark Street, the town's men were already forming a line towards the mere, while women fetched pails from their homes. Violet slumped on the roadside, unwrapped the satin from her hand and examined her wounds. "Stay here," said Michael. "I'm fetching the doctor."
Violet was too tired and shocked to argue. She lay there panting as a kindly woman placed a cup of warm milk into her hand. She sipped it and waited for Michael to return. In five minutes, he reappeared and waited while the doctor took her to the nearest house to clean her hand and make a private examination of her wounds.
"How is she?" Michael asked as soon as the doctor returned.
"I have dressed and cleaned her hands," he said.
"Any broken bones?"
"I don't know. She wouldn't let me check."
"Let him help," pleaded Michael.
"There's no need," Violet insisted. "I'm only a little nauseous, and I've felt like that for days. It's got nothing to do with the fire."
"You're not a doctor. You could have a co
ncussion."
"I fell on my back," she said. "And I did not hit my head. Please don't make a fuss."
"Talking of making a fuss," said Michael as a uniformed man came into view.
The man approached Violet. "Are you responsible for this?" he asked, nodding towards the fire. She opened her mouth, but he did not give her time to respond. "You're coming to the police house with me, and you're going to tell me exactly what happened."
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Murder in the Mere
Friday, May 24, 1895
Violet reached her hat from the top of the wardrobe, wincing as a muscle in her back spasmed. The hat dropped to the floor, and she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, staring at her bandaged hands dejectedly. She ached all over, mostly from tiredness and the shock of winding herself when she'd fallen. Her injuries were confined mainly to cuts and grazes, though she still felt nauseous. But worse than her physical condition was the feeling of utter abandonment. Lawrence had been away for a whole week and should have returned to Diss on Tuesday. Here she was three days later, suffering the after-effects of an attack and he hadn't bothered to contact her to explain himself. She was both angry and worried.
Violet reached forward for the fallen hat and placed it on top of her case, then opened the wardrobe door and re-checked for any forgotten garments. She was leaving Diss today at Michael's insistence. He had accompanied her to the police house, listening while she gave the constable a sketchy account of her actions. When asked why Violet had been in the abandoned property, she'd prevaricated as much as possible. The constable was not amused but would have been even less impressed had Violet elaborated on her reasons for being in Diss. If Lawrence had been with her, she might have stayed. There was safety in numbers, and more importantly, it brought confidence. She felt tired and out of her depth. Michael had been an enormous support, but she knew she was taking up too much of his time and was fast becoming a nuisance. Whatever mysteries remained in Diss, were not worth the way she felt today. Violet dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief monogrammed with a lilac V. Then, remembering that her old and much-loved former employer had given it to her one birthday, she let out an involuntary sob. A tear trickled down her cheek and more followed, streaming down her face and plopping into her lap. She put her hand to her forehead and shook her head. "What's wrong with me today?" she whispered. "Enough." She stood and shoved her damp handkerchief into her case and closed it with a snap. Then looked in the mirror and re-pinned an unruly curl. "Control yourself," she said under her breath, then standing tall, she exhaled before striding towards the bedroom door, bag in hand.
Minnie Panks was emerging from the dining room as Violet lugged the case down the stairs.
"You needn't have done that, miss," she said.
"I wanted to," Violet replied. She wasn't an invalid and was getting fed up of the constant attention since the attack.
"You'll be wanting a good breakfast after all your troubles yesterday," said Minnie.
Violet sighed. She wasn't hungry for the third day running, but it was easier to dine than engage in a debate with the good-natured and well-intentioned serving girl.
"Go and sit down and I'll bring you a nice pot of tea."
Violet obeyed, hoping that Minnie would ask her what she wanted for breakfast. A few days ago, Minnie had plonked a large plate of cooked food in front of her without asking. Violet might manage a small bowl of porridge, but anything else was beyond her. She waited quietly, too tired to read her book, then involuntarily jumped when she heard shouting from outside the building. Violet cocked her head and listened. Multiple voices were speaking excitedly, too distant for her to hear what they were saying. She considered walking into the passageway to find out what was going on, but was too tired to move and remained where she was. Her solitude did not last long. Minnie rushed into the room, slamming a tray onto the dining table and sloshing the contents of the teapot over the lace mat on which it stood. "Cor blarst me," she exclaimed, slipping into a stronger version of her usual Norfolk accent. "Oh dear. Oh dear." She waved her hand across her face as if to cool herself.
"Whatever is it?" asked Violet, temporarily distracted from her problems.
"It's a body, miss. Another body in the mere."
Violet gasped. "Who is it?"
"I don't know. They didn't say."
"I must go."
"But you haven't had your tea."
"Sorry, Minnie. You drink it."
Violet left the dining room and rushed out of The Crown, heading down Saint Nicholas Street towards Market Hill. She was not alone. A large group of people surged towards the mere. She turned into Mere Street, where she saw two men walking against the direction of the crowd. They were Harry Aldrich and Joseph Pope. Harry's face glowed red, and he clenched his jaw, doffing his hat without smiling. "Have you seen Henry Garrod?" he asked.
"Sorry, no," said Violet.
"Damn the man." Harry scowled, his usual mild manner replaced with an impatient snarl.
"Steady," said Joseph, patting him on the arm.
"What's happened?" asked Violet, wondering at the change in the two men. Harry was furious, and Joseph looked as if he was about to cry.
"He's dead," said Joseph.
"Who?"
"Robert Moore. They dragged his body from the mere earlier. The surgeon's there now, and he's asked for the coroner."
"The coroner?"
Joseph took a deep breath before continuing. "Yes. He's checked the body. It wasn't an accident. Robert was murdered."
Violet was nursing a mug of tea in the market room of The Crown Hotel when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, nerves still frayed from the events of the last few days.
"You're looking well," said a familiar voice.
She glanced up to see the tall figure of Lawrence Harpham smiling down at her.
"You think I look well!" she exclaimed, raising her bandaged hands.
The smile fell from his face.
"Good Lord, Violet. What happened?"
"Never mind what happened. Where on earth have you been?"
Lawrence sighed and pulled a wooden chair from the table opposite. He turned it towards her, sat down and reached for her hand.
"No." Violet snatched her arm away and glared at him.
"Don't be angry, Violet."
"Well, I am. You could have been dead in a ditch for all I knew."
"I wasn't."
"Then where did you go and why did you take so long? I couldn't even reach you by telegram."
"It was wrong of me. I should have made contact."
"Then, why didn't you?"
Lawrence shifted uncomfortably in his seat. There were two reasons why he hadn't been in touch with Violet. One was Catherine and the other, Loveday. He could explain the former, but even he did not understand his compulsion to keep Loveday company for the best part of a week. And now that he was back in Norfolk, she did not occupy his thoughts at all. He felt ashamed of his treatment of Violet and relieved that Loveday would be going back to India when she left Cheltenham. He decided there was no need to mention her to Violet and cleared his throat.
"I found out a little more about Catherine," he said.
Violet's face softened. "What did you learn?"
"That there was clear evidence of arson, but it disappeared. And without the proof, there was no case to answer. That is the reason William Clarke kept it from me."
"Poor Lawrence. What evidence?"
"Spent matches. They were there one day and not the next."
"Were there many?"
"Enough to be sure."
"What will you do?"
"Nothing. What can I do?"
Violet shook her head. "So, you went to Liverpool?"
"Yes. I saw Miller. He told me what he did to Moyse."
Violet leaned forward and put her bandaged hands on her knees. "What did he say?"
"What on earth happened to you?" Lawrence leaned forward and picked up her
hand. This time, she let it rest in his.
"There was a fire."
Lawrence stared at her, eyes wide. The colour drained from his face.
"Don't worry," she said sympathetically. She had always understood Lawrence's fear of fire and the depth of loss he had suffered from it. "I was never in any real danger."
"I should have been here," he said. "Tell me about it."
She gave him a sanitised version – one where she was unafraid, and escape had been easy. He gazed at her with soft blue eyes, brows knitted in concern. He did not look convinced.
"I've let you down," he said, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her fingertips.
She shook her head. "You weren't to know. How could you?"
"Do you know who set the fire?"
"No, but there's one person it couldn't have been?"
Lawrence tilted his head and looked at her quizzically.
"Haven't you heard?"
"I came straight from the station and haven't spoken to anyone."
"They pulled Robert Moore from the mere this morning."
Lawrence whistled. "An accident?"
"Apparently not."
"Do I know him."
Violet glared. "You spent half an hour with him in this hotel on the first day you arrived."
"Ah, yes. With Aldrich and Pope. He seemed like a nice fellow."
"He was. And now he's dead. Violet shuddered. "Death by drowning – a horrible way to go."
"It must be an accident, though?"
"Not according to the coroner, and he should know with all the other recent drownings."
"Other drownings?" Lawrence raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," said Violet, rummaging for her notebook. "I copied down the burial records for St Mary's and noted any unnatural deaths. There have been eight drownings since 1874."
"That's not a particularly high number over two decades," said Lawrence.
"It is when you consider that it's only relative to women of a certain age who died in St Mary's parish."
"I see. In that case, we ought to check every death record. It's an important detail. Well done, Violet."
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 66
