"That is to say, I won't have to worry about your safety when you are away from this snake pit," he said hurriedly.
"I know what you meant," she said. "My feelings weren't hurt – I was just thinking."
"About what?"
"About what we ought to do next. There isn't enough evidence to bring the matter to the attention of the police force. I expect they would laugh at us."
"My thoughts exactly," said Lawrence. "The time for subtlety is over. I'm going to set the cat among the pigeons."
"How?"
"By making our suspicions public."
"And where are you going to do that?"
"I'm not sure yet," he admitted. "But it's one of the reasons why I would like you well out of the way."
They had walked briskly and taken a more direct route leading past the railway station.
"It's a pity we didn't think to send your bag on, " said Lawrence over the rattle of a passing train. He watched the brightly painted engine chug into the distance, steam billowing from its funnel. His heart sank at the thought of Violet leaving, but he knew it was for the best.
"We should talk about suspects," said Violet. "Have you any thoughts?"
"Not really," said Lawrence. "It's reasonable to suppose the involvement of the Oddfellows, but it may not be direct. I'm not suggesting it was one of them, but at the least, they must know the perpetrator. This person is probably a male, but not a young man. He would have to be in his forties."
"But more likely in his fifties, if he was an admirer of Amy Sullivan."
"We should have hung onto that note," said Lawrence. "Someone may have recognised the handwriting."
"Not after almost twenty years," said Violet. "And the writing was terrible. But the fact that it exists at all rules out the illiterate."
"And the crime itself involves a low cunning, more likely found in someone with a good education," said Lawrence.
"Let's assume that it was an Oddfellow," said Violet. "There was a jewel in Amy's possessions which could connect to the note. Now, the Oddfellows meet at The Crown every Sunday."
"This evening?"
"Yes, every Sunday evening. So why not make a public declaration there? Even if the Oddfellows are not involved, there will be enough of them to hear and repeat what you have to say. It will be around the whole town by tomorrow."
"Good. Yes, that could work well. In that case, let's go back to The Crown and pack your bag," Lawrence said, looking at his pocket watch. "You can be in Bury by five o'clock."
"Or Overstrand," said Violet.
"Why on earth would you go back to Overstrand?"
"Because I've had a fascinating thought."
"Go on."
"You didn't find the Scole confession in Redhill Street, did you?"
"No."
"And neither did William Miller."
"You know he didn't. Where is this leading?"
"You didn't find it, because it wasn't there. It had already gone by then."
"Gone where?"
"It could have gone anywhere, but I am hoping against hope that it went to Overstrand."
"You mean, that it was in Edward Bowden's Bible? I didn't see it."
"Did you open every page?"
"No, but it was in my possession for the best part of a day. I think I would have noticed."
"Not necessarily."
"And Bowden was fond of the Bible. If it had been there, he would have found it."
They had reached The Crown by now and Lawrence held the door open as Violet entered.
"That's all true," said Violet, walking past the empty lounge and towards the stairs. "But I still intend to check."
"I thought you wanted to go home."
"I do, desperately," she said, climbing the first stair. "But I can't sit idly by while you place yourself in danger." She clung to the newel post as she turned and spoke. Lawrence gazed up at her in admiration. She was plucky and spirited, and he had mistreated her. Never again.
"It's not worth it," he said. "Go home, and I will return as soon as I have announced the presence of a murderer in their midst."
"No." She shook her head. "I will find somewhere to stay overnight and send you a telegram tomorrow. I will be back in Bury in no time. By then, your plan may have come to fruition."
Lawrence smiled. "As you wish," he said, before following her upstairs to help with her packing. Neither one of them heard the rustle of a newspaper coming from the lounge, which had not been as empty as it first appeared. The sole occupant of the room glowered and lowered a copy of the Diss Express. Once again, their luck had held. Once again, there was a problem, but a resolvable one. They folded the newspaper, rose, and walked towards the chemist on Market Hill.
Lawrence tapped his fingers across an empty table in the lounge and stared across the hallway for signs of life. He'd adopted a strategic position near the door, taking advantage of the view into the market room where the evening's gathering would take place. Lawrence had checked the meeting arrangements with Minnie Panks earlier, and she'd dispensed the information without asking any questions. Violet had been right. Minnie lacked natural curiosity in the same way that Lawrence lacked patience. The wait for seven o'clock seemed interminable, and Lawrence glanced at his watch. It was approaching ten minutes to the hour. He might have reasonably expected some signs of life by now, but he was still the only person downstairs. Lawrence began to wonder if there had been a cancellation.
His eyes grew heavy and unfocused as he waited. Boredom set in and he leaned on the table with his chin propped up on his hand trying to remain alert. Then, without warning, the front door swung open, and a group of men milled towards the market room, their voices gruff and low. Lawrence recognised some of the men from previous evenings at The Crown. Their faces were solemn and bore none of the jollity of the crowd of young men from the previous night. They filed into the market room and sat upon the wooden chairs waiting, in virtual silence, for the meeting to begin.
Lawrence remained seated, hoping that they would not shut the door, but after the last man entered it swung back muffling the sound of the speakers. He got to his feet and picked up a discarded newspaper which he pretended to read while loitering in the hall. When the coast was clear, he pushed the door open an extra inch, creating a partial view of the room without revealing his position. Lawrence leaned nonchalantly against the wall in case anyone else arrived and wondered what he was doing.
After a few moments, Harry Aldrich made his way to the front of the room and coughed. He was wearing a black sash, and a similar black-edged apron to the one Lawrence had seen in the cupboard the previous night. Aldrich made a sign that Lawrence didn't understand and gestured for quiet before pulling a piece of paper from his apron pocket.
"Bow your heads for Robert Moore," he said. "Brothers. Will you join me in recognising the dedicated and zealous service of our friend Robert Moore – a dear friend cut down in his prime in a wanton act of murder. Brother Moore rendered valuable assistance with fundraising in his capacity as deputy treasurer. He has been a loyal and faithful member of this lodge and is held by his brethren in high esteem. We, his friends, lament his loss. Amen."
A murmured 'Amen' followed from the seated men.
Harry Aldrich continued. "It is our sad duty to assign his position to another, and in these circumstances, we may accept proposals outside of an annual general meeting. Yes, George?"
George Fairweather, who had been sitting ramrod straight, stood up. "I have a proposal," he growled.
"Go on?"
"I propose we find the filthy cur who killed him and string them up in the market place."
Harry sighed. "It's neither the time nor place to have this conversation," he said.
"But what are they doing about it?" demanded another man at the back of the room. He rose to his feet to make the point and glared at his friend on the right-hand side who reluctantly joined him. One by one, every man stood.
Harry turned towards Arthur Thomps
on, who was sitting with Joseph Pope in the first row. "What's the latest news, Arthur?" he asked.
Arthur Thompson joined Harry and faced the hostile crowd. "There was an examination of Brother Moore's body as you know, and there will be an inquest here on Tuesday afternoon. There is no doubt that he drowned..."
"He didn't drown, someone murdered him," said the man at the back.
"As I was about to confirm before you interrupted," said Arthur. "Though there is room for doubt, both the surgeon and coroner report bruises and cuts to Robert Moore's head. More specifically, there were finger marks to the side of his neck; marks that may have been caused if someone held his head beneath the water."
There was a shocked silence, followed by a shuffle of chair legs as the men returned to their seats. Arthur continued. "Though Robert's death is common knowledge, I appreciate that the details are new and I'm sorry to give such a graphic description of his final hours. He did not deserve to die so horribly."
"He did not deserve to die at all. What are they doing to catch his killer?" George Fairweather was still standing in the middle of the room, eyes blazing with fury.
Harry and Arthur exchanged glances. "The authorities are conducting a thorough investigation. They are doing the best they can."
"Which isn't much from what I've seen," muttered Joseph Pope. He was sitting, legs apart, hunched over his ample belly with a rare frown across his face.
"No," agreed Arthur. "So far, there has been little progress. I would have hoped for more."
"Someone is going to get away with murder," said George Fairweather pulling off his sash. He hurled it to the floor. "I won't mourn him until they've caught his killer," he snarled.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Lawrence had already spotted what he suspected would be his best opportunity. He strode into the market room, past the stony-faced men and towards a startled Harry Aldrich. Turning to face the group, Lawrence held up his hand for silence. "Be careful what you wish for," he said, dramatically. "For the murderer of Robert Moore is a member of your organisation."
"No!" Joseph Pope eased himself from his chair. "That cannot be. We are good men, charitable and kind. You have seen the work we do."
"Nevertheless, one of you is a killer, and he has killed more than once."
There was an explosion of angry voices as the men protested their innocence.
"Leave this meeting at once," said Harry Aldrich in a controlled voice, barely containing his fury. "How dare you come in here and insult the memory of our friend."
"I dare because whoever killed Robert Moore also killed a young girl. And not just her – there have been others, the names of which you will learn in due course. And make no mistake, I will find this killer. Consider my words tonight. Think about what happened to your friend. Then look around this room and ask how well you know your neighbour. Where was he on the night that Robert Moore died? Cast your mind back twenty years. Could he have killed Fanny Nunn?"
"Fanny Nunn killed herself." George Fairweather snapped out of the almost catatonic state into which he had fallen upon hearing Lawrence's words.
"How do you know?" asked a man at the back. "You didn't even live in Diss back then."
"Stop." Harry Aldrich snapped, his anger in full flow. "Don't entertain this fantasy. We are brothers. Do not cast suspicion upon each other." He turned to Lawrence. "Do as I say and leave."
"Yes. Get out." The man at the back stood and made his way towards Lawrence, his friend trailing in his wake.
"I'm going," said Lawrence lunging for the exit. He sidestepped the large man and grasped the door handle, then left, taking the stairs two at a time. He reached his room and sat on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. It had been a good night's work. He had undoubtedly lost some friends and a great deal of goodwill, but he had made an impact, and something was sure to come of it.
Five minutes later, he reached for his wallet and found it absent. He patted his jacket pocket and checked his coat, but to no avail. The wallet was missing. He wondered where it could be, and just as he began to panic, he remembered. The last place he'd used it was in the lounge. He'd been counting cash while killing time waiting for the Oddfellows to arrive. The wallet must still be on the table. Lawrence crept downstairs, and as he reached the bottom step, a low murmur emanated from beyond the closed door of the market room. To Lawrence's relief, he saw the familiar shape of his wallet on the table and grabbed it, turning back towards the stairs. But directly in his eyeline was the portly form of Joseph Pope hunched by the market room door and breathing laboriously.
"Can I help?" asked Lawrence, hoping that Pope wasn't as antagonistic as the other Oddfellows.
Joseph raised his head to reveal a florid face crowned by sweat-streaked hair. He uncurled himself and fanned his face with a chubby hand. "Quite well, thank you," he muttered. "It's just a combination of this damnable business and a touch of indigestion. I felt quite faint for a moment ."
"You should get some air," said Lawrence.
"Yes, I will." Joseph shuffled towards the front door and stumbled over the tattered doormat.
"I'll join you," said Lawrence, concerned. Pope's face was ashen, and he looked as if he was about to pass out.
A light breeze graced the April evening, and Joseph Pope raised his face towards the wind. "That's better," he said.
"I'm sorry about your friend," said Lawrence. "And I'm even sorrier to be the bearer of bad news regarding his connection to the Oddfellows."
"Robert was a fine man," said Pope. "I have known him all my life. It's hard to believe he has gone. And when you said it might be one of us..."
"Was that the moment you felt unwell?"
"Yes. It was. The thought of it. Those men are my brothers."
"Including Harry Aldrich?"
"Of course. Why ever not?"
"No reason," said Lawrence. "Except that he is in charge. Sometimes that distinction creates barriers to friendship."
"There are no barriers, I can assure you," said Pope. "We respect each other equally, and that applies regardless of our standing in the town."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, George is a blacksmith and works with his hands. I am a teller in the bank and Harry owns a thriving auctioneering business. Yet we are all close friends."
"Is it true that Aldrich takes on house clearances."
"Yes. A fair few."
"He must see some interesting things?"
"I daresay. And some dull ones too. Some of the furniture is in such poor condition that it's only fit for firewood."
"And personal possessions?"
"He takes them too and sorts them into items of value. Anything else ends up on the rubbish heap. He auctions all the valuable stuff."
"Including books?"
"I expect so. I don't know."
"And you believe him trustworthy."
"I would stake my life on it," said Pope, firmly. "I'm not sure what you are driving at, but you have picked the wrong man in Harry. He is a committed Methodist, and honourable in all his dealings. Now please excuse me. I feel better and will return to my friends now," he continued, emphasising the word 'friends' as he turned and re-entered the hotel.
Lawrence was about to follow him when thoughts of Violet stopped him in his tracks. He would give anything to discuss the events of the evening with her. She didn't need to comment to keep him on track. A nod of her head or an occasional word of sage advice was good enough, and his instinct would pick up from there. He missed her, and the thought of going back to an empty room was too depressing to contemplate. He decided, instead, to walk to Scole and prevail upon Michael for companionship and a bed for the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Testing for Arsenic
Monday, May 27, 1895
Once Michael overcame the surprise of Lawrence's unexpected visit, he greeted him warmly and welcomed him with a large glass of port and a good supper. Michael abandoned his plan to write to his brother that evening
. Instead, they sat talking into the small hours about the case, speculating whether Violet had arrived in Overstrand yet. Michael had already offered his spare room to a friend, but his sofa was available. Lawrence accepted it and slept surprisingly well, waking at daybreak. He joined Michael at the table, and they breakfasted on eggs and bacon before Lawrence returned to Diss. The sky was cloudless, and despite the early hour, the sun's rays were fierce. Lawrence was perspiring heavily by the time he returned to The Crown.
He strolled through the hallway, almost bumping into George Panks who shot him a withering look. Unabashed, Lawrence climbed the stairs removing his jacket as he went, relieved to be free of the heavy clothing. He poured a jug of water into the blue and white porcelain basin, splashed his face, and towelled it dry. The cold, refreshing water made him feel thirsty, and Lawrence reached for the smaller drinking vessel by his bedside table then poured himself a drink. He raised the scratched glass to his lips then stopped at the sight of a hair floating in the liquid above a fine layer of sediment. He fished out the offending object and wiped it on his trouser leg before stopping to consider the implications of what he had just seen. A hair in a glass was unfortunate, but the fine white sediment below it was something else again. He sniffed the water. It was odourless and colourless. But for the presence of the stray hair, he wouldn't have looked twice at the contents. He swirled the water around and rechecked it. The substance had very nearly dissolved. For a moment, the temptation to put his finger in the liquid and taste it was overwhelming, but common sense prevailed. Instead, he sat down on the bed, trying to organise his thoughts. Yesterday, he had deliberately and provocatively set out to display his suspicions publicly. Today, he had found a strange substance in his drinking water. The connection between the two things was unavoidable, and he wasn't about to take a chance.
He emptied the contents of his glass into the white ceramic jug and thrust the empty drinking vessel deep into the pocket of his trousers. Draping his coat over the water jug, he set off downstairs to find the helpfully insouciant Minnie Panks. Ten minutes later, he had gained enough information to know that Mr Gostling the chemist would be at his home in Linden House. Lawrence walked the length of Denmark Street and entered Gostling's driveway at a lick of speed.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 70
