The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Lawrence collected his light source and settled, cross-legged beside the books. He pulled one out and tilted it towards the candle, squinting at the untidy handwriting. Inside, was a register of Oddfellows members dated 1883 and of little use. He tried another and another until he opened the fourth register which turned out to be a ledger full of accounting records. Gritting his teeth, he turned the pages and peered at the entries. The writing was clear and easily readable. The Oddfellows treasurer must have been methodical. Each page recorded the month and year of the starting transaction and the book contained about twelve years' worth of records. The accounts were in two parts, the first being general expenses, and the second a history of fund payments for burials and sickness. Lawrence scanned the pages. On first glance, everything seemed in order. There were instances of multiple payments to the same family member. That might have been suspicious, but it was a sad fact of life that death was commonplace, especially when caused by disease. The amounts involved were not vast, though they could have been tempting if money was in short supply.

  But all in all, there didn't seem anything untoward in the records. Lawrence sighed, and returned to the front of the cash book, this time focusing on the description. The ruled columns recorded information about the deceased. They included their relationship to the claimant and a witness who was usually a doctor.

  Entries started in 1882 and the pages ran out in January 1894, at which point a new ledger began. Lawrence sighed. It was getting cold and he was sitting on a stone floor. He manoeuvred himself into a squatting position and took a final look at the register. As he considered the attraction of returning to his warm bed, a record caught his eye. The entry bore the witness signature of a woman, notable because the majority of the others were by men. The woman's name was Amy Sullivan. Lawrence flicked through the pages a second time searching for more records in her name. She featured on all the preceding pages, but entries petered out in 1891 with the last one early in 1892. Who was Amy Sullivan? And more importantly, where was she? Lawrence closed the book and returned it to the shelf, all the time wondering how old she was. The dates of her entries were significant, for no other reason than her disappearance from the records in the early 1890s. Could Amy Sullivan be the woman they were seeking?

  As Lawrence stood, his numb legs buckled and he tripped into one of the banners. It fell to the floor with a clatter. The candle tipped over splattering wax over the floor and across the spines of the registers. "Not again," he sighed as the cupboard plunged into darkness. He waited alone in the unlit closet while his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The outlines of the unfamiliar regalia took on monstrous proportions, and the metal jewels glinted like eyes. A headless mannikin wearing a Grand Master sash seemed to have moved ever so slightly from its original place. Lawrence gulped. His imagination was running wild. He would rather risk explaining himself than spend another moment where he was. He pushed open the cupboard and scanned the room. It was empty, and even the cat had disappeared. Encouraged, he tiptoed into the rear lobby and then into the entrance hall. With a sigh of relief, he alighted the stairs, before feeling ice-cold metal shoved against the nape of his neck. A low voice growled, "One move and I'll shoot."

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Seeking Amy

  Sunday, May 26, 1895

  Lawrence was rarely embarrassed and considered it a wasted emotion. Once a thing had happened, there was no reversing it and no point in worrying what people thought. But today was an exception. He had crept into the dining room behind Violet and sat in the furthest corner in a futile attempt to avoid bumping into George Panks.

  "What's wrong?" Violet had asked, and Lawrence shrugged as if it was unimportant. "You seem like a cat on hot coals," she continued. "Anyway, how did you get on last night."

  "I found out something interesting," he said, neglecting to mention his encounter with their host in the early hours of the morning. Lawrence could still feel the cold barrel of the shotgun in the nape of his neck. He squirmed at the thought of the awkward moment when he'd had to explain why he was prowling downstairs with a large bunch of keys in his hand. Unable to think of anything more convincing, he had told George Panks that he was hungry and looking for something to eat. Panks had lowered his gun and, in deeply sarcastic tones, had offered to fetch him some pie. Lawrence had no choice but to accept and suffered the further humiliation of George Panks serving him at a table in the dining room. His host sat opposite and watched silently across the table until he had finished every last crumb.

  "I've found a candidate for the Scole confessor," he said, quickly.

  "Have you?"

  "I think so. Her name frequently appears as a witness to the funeral payments."

  "Who is she, and what makes you think she might be the writer?"

  "Amy Sullivan. I'm only speculating about her involvement, but the entries she witnessed stopped suddenly, and I wondered if she'd died."

  "Or left the parish," said Violet.

  "It's worth a look." Lawrence protested.

  Violet agreed and returned to her room to collect the notebook in which she had written a list of burials at St Mary's.

  "It's no good," she said, closing the notebook. "She isn't here. I didn't think she would be. I would have remembered a name like that."

  "We can look elsewhere."

  "Don't forget that I'm leaving today."

  Lawrence sighed. "I hoped you'd have a change of heart."

  "Well, I haven't."

  "Why don't we try the Scole parish records?"

  "If you insist," said Violet." But, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack. We don't even know that she's dead."

  "I've got a strong feeling about this," said Lawrence as they left the hotel and took the Scole Road.

  "You always say that when you want me to do something that's against my better judgement," Violet complained.

  They arrived at Scole church to the peal of bells as the congregation departed from the Sunday morning service.

  "Good timing," muttered Lawrence.

  "We should have made an effort to get here earlier. I haven't been to church for weeks."

  "You don't go every Sunday in Bury."

  "And you only go on high days and holidays."

  The arrival of the vicar interrupted their bickering, and he greeted them like old friends.

  "Ah, there you are," he said. "Come in, come in."

  They exchanged puzzled glances and followed him into the porch.

  "Which one of you is Molly," said the Vicar, jovially. "Only joking," he continued, watching Lawrence's stern expression.

  "Neither one of us," said Violet.

  "Oh. You're not here to talk about marriage?"

  "No. We're here see your burial records."

  "I'm sorry. I thought you were Mrs Davenport's niece. Forgive me."

  "There's nothing to forgive," said Violet, pleasantly. "But may we see your parish register?"

  "Certainly," said the vicar. "Are you looking for anyone in particular?"

  "Yes," said Lawrence. "Amy Sullivan."

  "Oh, yes. Poor Amy. Death came quickly in the end."

  "You knew her?"

  "For many years. Amy's family came from Ireland and settled here while she was still a young child."

  "She died young?"

  "No. Amy must have been fifty or more. She lies in the churchyard now and has been there for at least three years."

  "How did she die?" asked Violet.

  "She died of cancer," said the vicar. "But she did not suffer for long."

  "How sad for her family."

  "You didn't know them then?"

  "Not at all."

  "Quite. Or you would have known that all of Amy's family predeceased her. Mother and father, as you would expect, but she was the last of her siblings. Even her niece died young, poor little mite."

  "She must have been lonely," said Violet.

  The vicar smiled. "Anything but," he said. "She was a nurse and before t
hat, a midwife. There was a good turnout for her funeral, though I expect Polly was responsible for that."

  "Polly?" Lawrence spoke for the first time, having been content up to then for Violet to take control.

  "Polly Grundy. Her best friend. They were thick as thieves at school and stayed close all their lives. Speak to Polly if you want to know more about her."

  "Where does she live?"

  "Ivy cottage. Come." He beckoned them from the church and strode in the direction of the Norwich Road. "There," he said, pointing to a small cottage in the distance. "You should find her at home. She only left church half an hour ago."

  Lawrence and Violet approached Ivy Cottage to see a stout woman clad in a brown dress with her face and hands hidden from view. One gloved arm held a woven skep, and the other grasped a smoker into which she was blowing assiduously. Bees buzzed lazily from an open hive as she peered inside. Lawrence leaned over the stone wall and coughed. She carried on, oblivious to his presence and he tried again, this time with more success. She walked towards him, lowering her veiled hat.

  "Yes?" she asked, cocking her head in a gesture of mild curiosity.

  "We've come about Amy Sullivan," said Violet.

  "Amy Sullivan," Polly echoed. "I haven't heard her name in a few years. What's she to you?"

  "A cousin of my mother's," said Violet without batting an eyelid. Her conscience had become less troublesome over the years, and she was fast becoming an accomplished liar.

  "Who was your mother?"

  "Bridie Smith." Another lie dripped from her lips without a moments delay.

  "She never mentioned her," said Polly suspiciously.

  "My mother's Irish," Violet replied.

  "Of course," said Polly. "Amy went back to Cork a few times. I never heard her mention a Smith."

  "That's my mother's married name."

  "Well, that explains it," said Polly, evidently satisfied. "You know that she died, don't you?"

  Violet shook her head sadly. "I know now," she said, "but not when I set off. My mother is frail, and when I told her I was visiting Diss, she asked me to call in and pay my respects on her behalf."

  "You will be returning with sad news, then," said Polly. "I wish it wasn't so. She was a good friend, and I still miss her."

  "Can you tell me anything about her? Mother hasn't seen her for over a decade. It will make the loss more bearable if she knows a little of how she fared."

  "Of course, my dear," said Polly. "Why don't you come inside and I'll make a pot of tea."

  They followed Polly up the path to the front door of her stone cottage, and Lawrence stooped as they entered the small porch. The cottage stood in stark contrast to the pretty, sunlit gardens. It was cold, dark and even smaller than it seemed on the outside. Polly opened the door into her tiny parlour and gestured to a pair of wooden chairs. "Sit there, my dears, and I'll fetch your drinks through."

  They sat in silence and admired the bucolic view beyond the garden, wishing Polly had chosen to talk outside. The door creaked, and Polly appeared bearing a wooden tray with three chipped cups and a pair of saucers. She stirred the tea, set the cups out and waited for it to brew.

  "What do you want to know?" she asked, a smile flickering across her weather-beaten face. Violet tried to guess her age. She'd likely be close in age to Amy and therefore in her early fifties. But if her appearance was anything to go by, she'd had a hard life. Her eyebrows were grey and sparse, and tiny hairs protruded from her chin. Deep grooves furrowed her brow, and the tendrils of hair beneath her white cap bore only a trace of chestnut brown. A patchwork of age spots covered her gnarled hands, and her knuckles looked red and painful.

  "Tell me anything," said Violet. "Anything about her recent life."

  "First and foremost, she was a nurse," said Polly. "Caring was in her nature and looking after people was all she wanted to do. She put their needs before her own and was kindness itself, especially at life's end. She had a particular horror of dying alone and would be there to hold a hand or provide comfort to those approaching their final hours."

  "Did she ever marry?"

  "Goodness, no. She might have, had she not been so cynical about men. An unrequited love early on, you see. It put her off for the rest of her life."

  "Who was he?"

  "I don't know," said Polly. "She would not say, and although I often asked, she refused to tell me. It was a source of shame to her because he did not love her back. Well, not enough to make an honest woman of her."

  "Perhaps he couldn't marry," said Lawrence, incautiously. "If he already had a wife."

  Polly raised an eyebrow. "I don't think that is likely," she said, lifting the lid of the teapot.

  "How long did this infatuation last?"

  "Decades for all I know." Polly picked up the teapot and poured. She pushed the cups with saucers towards her guests and took the one without. "He must have liked her somewhat," she continued. "She owned nice things that she could not have bought from a nurse's pay."

  "Does Amy have any living relatives?" asked Violet.

  Polly shook her head. "She was the last of the Sullivan line. There's nobody, except your mother and perhaps a few distant kin in Ireland."

  "That's a pity. I would have liked to have met Amy's family and asked for a memento for my mother. A likeness or a letter would mean a lot to her."

  "I can help with that," said Polly.

  "You have a picture of Amy?"

  "I might have. When Amy died, her furniture went to Aldrich's auction house, but she left me a box of personal items. Nothing expensive and only of sentimental value, but you are welcome to see them and choose something for your mother."

  Violet felt a momentary pang of guilt at her kindness, but it was too good an opportunity to waste. "Yes, please," she said, "and thank you so much."

  "Come this way."

  Polly guided them up a narrow flight of stairs to an even darker landing with a door on the right and two uneven steps up to another door in front. "Mind your head," she said as they trod on the spongy floorboards. "I won't come in. It's more of a box room than a bedroom, and it won't fit us all. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

  Lawrence squeezed into the room behind Violet and stood at the doorway with his head bowed. "Calling it a box room is a gross exaggeration," he complained. "I'll stay here otherwise I'll get in your way."

  Violet reached for the wooden crate which was the only box-shaped item in the room and presumably the one to which Polly Grundy had been referring. She blew a thick layer of dust from the top and sent the choking particles into the damp air of the room. Lawrence sneezed and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket.

  Polly's description had been accurate. The box contained trinkets of no discernible value. Amy seemed to have a penchant for carved wooden animals. A small collection of elephants, a tapir and a rhinoceros were gathering dust in a chipped glass fruit bowl. Violet removed them together with a bevelled hand mirror and placed them on the floorboards. An ugly vase, a brass ring and a hair comb soon joined them. Violet continued removing objects until the box was almost empty. Then she noticed something underneath a leather-bound notebook. Violet pulled the shiny object out and held it aloft. At first glance, it looked like a medallion, but when she took a closer look, it was an Oddfellows jewel.

  Lawrence whistled. "Where did she get that from?" He reached for the medallion and examined the back for identifying marks. There were none. Violet, in the meantime, had opened the notebook. She passed it to Lawrence without speaking.

  He licked his fingers and turned the pages. "Accounts," he said unnecessarily. "Records of money collected with dates by all the entries."

  "Her wages, perhaps?" asked Violet.

  "Or something more sinister? Hello, what's this?" He extracted a piece of folded paper from the back of the notebook. "A letter from an admirer," he said. "Listen to this."

  'My dearest Amy, you are the cleverest girl. Brains and beauty personified. I will act at onc
e upon your suggestion. The mere again, or is it too soon? Either way, there will be a bit for you and a bit for me, as always."

  "No, doubting it now," said Lawrence. "Amy was right in the thick of this business. The only question remaining is who was there with her?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Cat Among the Pigeons

  Lawrence and Violet walked towards Diss, both preoccupied with the exact nature of the crimes involving Amy Sullivan. She'd been colluding with somebody, probably male, and they'd conspired to obtain burial money for profit. "But," said Lawrence, stopping to emphasise his point, "it's not a great deal of money. The largest amount in the book was a hundred pounds. If Amy and the other party had shared the proceeds, after factoring in a funeral payment there would be barely any money left. A lot of risk for little benefit."

  "I know," said Violet. "I am not happy with the logic behind our theory. There must be something else that we are missing."

  "And someone else," said Lawrence.

  Violet shuddered. "It makes my skin crawl," she said, "to think that it could be somebody we know."

  "And we still have to determine what we are dealing with. We don't know how many deaths were natural and how many were criminal."

  "Or whether they were opportunistic or planned."

  "And if the latter, then it's cold-blooded murder for sure. Anyway, Violet, we must hurry along now. You have a train to catch."

  "I thought you didn't want me to go."

  "I will be a lot happier when you have left."

  Violet fell quiet, and they walked in silence as Lawrence considered his previous remark.