The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "But that did not last?"

  "No. There's only so many times one can fool an insurance company. In any case, sickness is unreliable. Illness does not always lead to death, and when it does, the timing may not work. As it happened, a solution arrived courtesy of Amy, who had been speaking to Hannah Rampling again. Hannah had too many children to feed and wasn't attached to any of them. I asked Amy to suggest to her that the demise of one might be to the advantage of the rest. At first, Amy baulked at the scheme, so I withdrew my affections. Within a week, she'd come crawling back, prepared to do my bidding. Amy agreed to act as my agent in the strictest confidence, never revealing my involvement. And under my guidance, she encouraged Hannah to invest a little money into the burial club. Nine months later, she had paid enough to guarantee death benefits, and we set to work on the second part of the plan."

  "Which was?"

  "The death of one of her children, of course. She chose one of her sons. He was not a pleasant child, though it would not have mattered if he was. But Billy Rampling was particularly obnoxious. He was rude, foul-mouthed and the sort of boy who pulled wings of flies for fun. His mother sent him down to the river on Amy's instructions, and I killed him there. His death was the first at my hands since Mother, and the most satisfying. Nothing has ever compared to the thrill of holding him under the water and watching the air bubbles disperse. The shudder of his final breath, the moment that life became extinct. The power of it, Harpham. The sheer, unadulterated power."

  "Steady on," said Lawrence, sarcastically.

  Pope frowned at the interruption to his recollections. "You will soon find out what it's like to be on the other end of that power," he snapped. "Now, where was I? Oh yes. The Rampling child. I left him in the river, and they found him later that day. The surgeon examined him and declared him drowned. His mother had the burial club money, as planned, with a bit for me and a bit for Amy. And that's how it began. A combination of insurance and burial club frauds. Sometimes with the cooperation of the parent or the spouse, and sometimes on my own initiative. It has been very lucrative, Harpham."

  "And nobody ever knew?"

  "No. Amy was a nurse with easy access to the weak and vulnerable, none of whom knew about me. Well, not until that interfering creature Fanny Nunn stuck her nose in."

  "So, she was blackmailing you." Had he not been in fear of his life, Lawrence would have relished the thought. He and Violet had guessed as much.

  "I was discussing a proposition with Amy one day, which Fanny Nunn overheard," said Joseph. "Fortunately, I was standing in the lea of the building, and she could not see me. She heard the conversation and saw Amy but didn't understand the consequences of what she had witnessed at the time. Later, they found old man Goode in the hay barn with his head smashed in, and she remembered the conversation and understood our intentions."

  "His death was not an accident, then?"

  "Quite the contrary. I fully intended to smother Goode, but he fell from the hayloft and hit his head on the stone step. It looked exactly like an accident to anyone except Fanny Nunn, who had heard us discussing Goode earlier. Luckily, she was greedy and resorted to blackmail instead of telling the authorities. She visited Amy and asked for thirty pounds. We could easily have spared it, but she would have always been there, waiting for another opportunity to make money. She had to go. Amy summoned her to the staithe to collect her ill-gotten gains, and I tossed her into the mere, knowing that she could not swim."

  "Nobody saw you?"

  "Not a soul. It has always been that way. Nobody knew of my involvement – nobody even guessed that the deaths were anything other than natural. I am just Joseph, large and jovial, a friend to all. Even if the good people of Diss knew there was a murderer in their midst, I am the last person they would suspect. Which is why I won't get caught when I kill you."

  "What makes you think I haven't told someone where to find me?"

  "I made you wait, didn't I? There was a reason for that. Passing with Fairweather and Thompson allowed me to watch you. Of course, I didn't expect you to leave your position under the willow. I picked it precisely to hide you from view. And the quick chat established that nobody else was nearby. I caught up with Fairweather, waited for Thompson and entered my house while they watched, before doubling back. All in ten minutes and leaving me with an excellent alibi."

  "Tell me about Moyse," said Lawrence, ignoring the glee in Joseph Pope's voice.

  "Ah, yes. A far greater problem than Fanny Nunn, it turned out, but providence has always smiled upon me. Moyse had a secret. A secret that did not endear him to his brother-in-law. I don't even know what it was, but it didn't matter. William Jackson was intolerant of anything that Moyse had to say. He received a letter about Amy's blasted confession to which he cannot have attached any credence. I know this because he screwed it up in a ball which fortuitously dropped to the floor of The Crown Hotel as I was passing. I shudder to think what would have happened if it had fallen into the wrong hands. I needed to act quickly."

  "And you went to Liverpool."

  "I did. But not on impulse. I pondered the matter overnight, weighing up the risk and considering if there was an alternative course of action. There was none. The man was a danger and disposal of the confession was essential."

  "So, you went to Liverpool in disguise?"

  "As you found out. It was quite a shock when I realised that you knew."

  "I don't recall talking about it."

  "You didn't. I found a journal in your room. I was always going to introduce arsenic into your water. But the act gave me even greater pleasure once I read through your notes and realised the extent of your knowledge. You had accumulated an alarming amount of information, including reference to my disguise."

  "How did you do it?"

  "Do what?"

  "Doctor my water with arsenic. It's necessary to sign a poison register and even then, chemists colour the poison. There was the barest trace of sediment in the glass. I nearly missed it."

  "The arsenic came from an old tin of rat poison," said Joseph Pope. "It has been in my possession for many years and is as effective now as it ever was. I use it sparingly, though," he continued. "Varied murders are less likely to look suspicious."

  "Returning to Moyse," said Lawrence. "I don't understand why he died."

  "Neither do I, to be frank. In hindsight, it was the perfect solution to my problem, but I did not set off to harm Moyse. There was no danger to me without Amy's confession. Nobody knew who had written it. It was clear that she had not named me, and if she had signed it, it would have been evident in the letter that Jackson received. But I did not know if there were any other means of identification within the confession. And if Moyse returned to Diss one day with the letter, there was a chance that someone might recognise the handwriting. My sole intention was to locate the letter and destroy it, and I employed Miller for that purpose. How he made such a meal of it, I cannot imagine."

  "Frustration and panic," said Lawrence. "He could not locate the confession, nor the Bible in which it lay."

  "He didn't look hard enough. Moyse kept his book stock at his dwelling. I questioned one of his boys."

  "You overlooked one thing, though."

  "What?"

  "He ran a bookstall, the sole purpose of which was to make money."

  "And?"

  "He'd sold the Bible. It wasn't there to find."

  "I don't believe it." Joseph Pope spluttered with incredulity. "Why would he sell the very book that contained the confession he was so disturbed about finding."

  "I doubt very much that he did. Books littered his house, and he employed several assistants at the bookstall, all of whom had access. He may not have even been aware that it was missing."

  "How do you know?" Joseph spat the words angrily. Lawrence considered his reply. Joseph Pope was a cold-blooded, conscienceless killer from whom he would be lucky to escape. If he said too much, it might implicate Violet. And if he saw the telegram in his
pocket, it would cement her fate.

  "You'll never know," he said coldly, with a recalcitrant expression on his face.

  "Tell me." Pope knelt behind Lawrence and pulled his head back by his hair, tracing the blade of his knife down Lawrence's thorax.

  Lawrence clenched his fists, trying to prevent his body from shaking too hard. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temples. He was starting to panic about his weak position and vulnerability to the whims of a multiple murderer.

  "I said tell me," hissed Pope. "Or I will cut you." He moved the knife up to Lawrence's face and placed the tip at the top of his cheek. "An eye or your tongue?" he asked. "Choose."

  Lawrence slowly unclenched his right fist as another drop of sweat trickled from his brow. His hand moved undetected towards his coat pocket.

  "Eye or tongue, eye or tongue," said Pope in a sing-song voice as he moved the knife from cheek to lip all the time pulling Lawrence's hair tighter with his free hand.

  "Oops, slipped," said Pope, as the knife cut the skin between Lawrence's lip and nose. A trickle of blood seeped into his mouth. Lawrence licked his lips, feeling sick at the metallic taste. But it focused his mind. Joseph Pope was going to kill him, and if he didn't act soon, it would be too late.

  In one swift move, he plunged his hand into his coat pocket, grabbed the rock he had collected earlier and thrust his hand behind his shoulder, connecting with Pope's jawbone. Pope howled in pain and dropped the knife. Lawrence rolled to one side, searching for Pope in the shadows as he scrambled to his feet. Daylight was long gone, but he could see the dim outline of Pope a few yards ahead of him. The portly killer was on one knee clutching his head. A twig snapped as Lawrence moved forward and Pope jerked his head up, piggy eyes meeting Lawrence's stare. He snatched at something on the ground before him, and Lawrence held back realising that Pope had located the fallen knife. Joseph Pope got unsteadily to his feet, holding the blade in front. He waved it towards Lawrence.

  "Don't be a fool," snarled Lawrence. "I can outrun you. Put the knife down."

  "Alright," said Pope, placing the knife on the ground directly in front.

  "Step away," commanded Lawrence.

  Pope took one pace backwards and waited. Lawrence moved forwards uncertainly, suspicious at the speed of Pope's capitulation. But Pope was a safe distance away and Lawrence knew he had time to swoop for the knife even if the killer came at him. But as Lawrence knelt and reached out, he felt a crack against his temple and dropped to his knees. The last thing he saw before the world went black, was the same bloodied rock he'd used on Pope a few minutes before.

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  Submerged

  Lawrence woke to the sound of grunting as a noise like a truffle pig disturbed his slumber. His face was wet and cold and a searing pain shot through his head. He shivered, wondering whether he was in the grip of a nightmare. Then the grunting started again, and he felt something brush against his face – something like grass. He inhaled a mossy smell and realised that he was close to the ground and his body was moving. Rough hands clutched his ankles, dragging him onto a muddy path, as his arms followed uselessly behind. He coughed and inhaled a mouthful of dirt then twisted his head to orientate himself. A pale moon hung high in the sky illuminating a body of water to the front. It was the mere. He was inches from the riverbank. The grunting stopped, and his feet were released as a shape loomed ahead, kicking him over to face the night sky. Joseph Pope stood above him, brandishing the knife.

  "Ah. You're awake. Good," said Pope, a cruel smile etched across his face. "I would hate you to miss your death."

  Lawrence planted his hands behind him and tried to heave himself up.

  "No, you don't," hissed Pope. "Not this time." He took the knife and plunged it into Lawrence's forearm. Lawrence felt strangely detached from the scream that exploded from his chest, piercing the silent night. Pulling himself together, he sat up and lunged towards Pope with his uninjured arm.

  Pope grimaced then aimed a boot at Lawrence connecting with his stomach. Lawrence flailed, trying to catch his breath, but it wouldn't come. Gasping like a landed trout, he gulped at the air, but it was futile. Lawrence lay winded, the air kicked from his lungs as Pope grabbed his ankles again, pulling him towards the water. As they reached the edge of the mere, Pope stepped to one side, kicked Lawrence until he lay horizontally along the bank, then rolled him into the water. As Lawrence felt the freezing liquid seep through his suit, he raised his head in shock and took a deep breath, finally inflating his lungs. But Pope was waiting. Standing on the edge , he raised his boot and slammed it onto Lawrence's skull. Lawrence thrashed beneath the water as Pope ground his face into the gravelly bottom. Sediment streamed down his throat and into his eyes, and his lungs screamed for air. He shook his head, but the water sapped his strength, and he could not escape Pope's hobnailed boot. He felt a bubble escape from his lips, then another. It was all over. He couldn't hang on. Just as the blackness began to overwhelm him, his head seemed to float weightlessly to the surface. The boot was gone. A pair of arms pulled him from the mere and dragged him to safety.

  "Hold on, Harpham," said a voice. Lawrence stared through blurry eyes. Suddenly, multiple lanterns illuminated the edge of the mere.

  "Out of the way," another man continued, pushing him to a seated position and slapping his back. He coughed as a lungful of water sloshed from his mouth.

  "Here," said a man he didn't recognise, covering him with a blanket.

  "What happened?" Lawrence croaked, recovering his faculties.

  "I heard you cry out," said a familiar voice. "I wasn't about to let you suffer the same fate as Fanny Nunn."

  Lawrence looked up into the concerned eyes of Harry Aldrich.

  "They've let you go?"

  Aldrich nodded.

  "Pope left evidence in your shop, I suppose?"

  "I expect so."

  "Where is he?" Lawrence looked around in alarm.

  "There." Harry Aldrich pointed to an object in the mere that looked like a floating log.

  "Is he dead?"

  Aldrich nodded. "I heard you cry out, opened my window and saw you in the mere, just like I saw Fanny all those years ago. But I wasn't going to let the same thing happen again. I roused my neighbours, and we ran down to the water. Pope was standing there with a maniacal expression on his face. We pulled him off, but he ran towards Muskett's staithe. The steps were rotten. He fell and hit his head on a post. Pope is dead, Mr Harpham. Drowned. It is all over."

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  No Reprieve

  Tuesday, June 4, 1895

  A clock ticked loudly in the premises of Harpham and Smith Private Investigators in Bury Saint Edmunds. The occupants of the room stared wordlessly at the timepiece, barely breathing. They watched as the second hand circumvented the clock face twice and both jumped when the clock chimed the hour.

  "That's it, then," said Lawrence Harpham, turning towards his companion who occupied the desk to his side.

  Violet nodded. "I thought William Miller might get reprieved."

  "I didn't," said Lawrence. "Uncle Fred sent a telegram yesterday. He was not expecting leniency."

  "Do you think Miller saw his family before he died?"

  "I should think so," said Lawrence, looking at the clock again. "It's usually the way."

  Lawrence and Violet were in their office half an hour earlier than usual. Each had decided, without conferring, that they would mark the hour of William Miller's execution at their desks. On any less sombre occasion, seeing Violet for a few extra minutes would have pleased Lawrence no end. She had not been herself lately, disappearing at odd hours and looking sickly and pale. On several occasions, she had started to say something and stopped herself mid-flow. Recently, they had spoken of little other than work-related matters, and he was beginning to think that he might have offended her. Yet Violet was still a source of considerable strength to him. Especially the day before when another anonymous envelope had arrived. They both
saw it at the same time, but Violet had snatched it from the doormat and set light to it, dropping the burning remains in the empty fireplace. Lawrence had protested, desperate to know what was under the sealed flap, but Violet had gently told him that it was the only way to save his sanity. And she'd been right. The letter had not blackened his mood nor opened tender wounds. Catherine occupied a more modest part of his feelings, commensurate with her absence from his life. Violet, on the other hand, was beginning to take up an increasing number of his thoughts. His concern over her recent demeanour and insularity had caused him to request that she join him in the abbey grounds at lunchtime. It was time he acknowledged her importance and showed her how much he cared. Perhaps then, she would feel able to confide in him.

  "Did you get the letters," he asked, breaking from his reverie.

  Violet nodded. "They arrived last night. Please thank your uncle."

  "I will. Did you find anything worthwhile?"

  "Oh, yes. Take a look at this."

  Violet handed Lawrence a long blue envelope affixed with a New Zealand postage stamp. Uncle Fred, an avid reader of the Liverpool Mercury, had seen notice of an auction to sell the effects of the late Edward Moyse. His nephew had kept most of his personal items, but Uncle Fred had purchased a small cabinet, inside which was a bundle of letters tied with string.

  "I've seen this before," said Lawrence, slipping one of the letters from the envelope. "I recognise the name." He pointed to the neat signature at the bottom of the document.

  "James Dunleavey wrote the majority of the letters," said Violet. "They confirm what I suspected."

  Lawrence reread the message and felt none the wiser by the time he reached the end. "He says he has had a successful trip and will return home within the month," said Lawrence. "He trusts that Moyse is well and hopes that he is not lonely. The content is trivial."