"But, Violet, you were the rational one, it was your ability to analyse that won through in the end."
Then do as I would, he almost heard her say. And he did. Lawrence pulled the bundle of papers towards him, devoting a page of his notebook to each of the girls. He read through, extracting any information that gave him pause for thought and worked systematically until seven pages were full.
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Reading about Annie West, Elizabeth Skinner and Mary Jane Voller, was exhausting. Images of Lily lingered as he analysed every terrible word. It was as if Lily was the victim and he the grieving parent. Lawrence felt a deep and visceral pain at the loss of innocent lives and the agony of their families. And thoughts of Lily always provoked memories of Catherine. Especially as two of the girls died in a ditch. It reminded Lawrence of an old nursery rhyme that Catherine used to sing when coaxing Lily to sleep. He remembered it now as if no time had passed and he could almost see Catherine, kneeling by Lily's bed singing in a low whisper about Moss's missing mare. 'Dead in a ditch he found her, and glad to find her there.' Lawrence wondered in hindsight whether it was a fitting rhyme to sing to a young child, but Lily did not suffer from nightmares about dead horses or anything else.
Memories of the song distracted him from his work. It was hard enough to remember all the names and connections of the dead girls without nursery rhymes grinding in his head. At least the police had conceded that the same man was likely responsible for the Walthamstow murders. Each girl met her end in water. Two had died, and against the odds, one child survived.
Annie West was the first of the three to die. Her death almost passed unnoticed because of the judgemental coroner. Annie's mother was far from maternal and had thrown the child out in late December with no boots or hat. They'd argued and not for the first time. Rather than blame the killer, the coroner chastised Annie's mother, saying she had no proper feeling for her child. If the newspaper reports were accurate, Lawrence could see why. No matter what the justification, he could not imagine turning his child outside with no proper clothing. Tired and hungry, Annie had sought refuge from a friend who offered her room in the shed where they kept the dog, but Annie declined. The inquest could not determine how she found her way into the ditch, and she died of exposure, not drowning. That would have been the end of it but for an unexpected confession from a man recently released from a local lunatic asylum. Nobody believed him, and they forgot all about Annie West until the next crime occurred six months later. This time, it happened to Eliza Skinner.
Lawrence shifted position on the bed as he re-read the articles, comparing them to his notes. He was going to have to use the dressing table as a writing desk. Lounging on the bed was giving him back pain and cramp. He rubbed his eyes and read on.
Eliza Skinner's parents had left their house one night at about nine o'clock. Their elder son Thomas, a responsible fourteen-year-old, had charge of the baby. Having no duties of her own, Eliza went out to play in the street while her brother minded the child. Later, Thomas went outside to check on his sister and found her in the company of a stranger. The man had asked her for directions and rather than explain, Eliza showed him the way. Thomas dutifully watched as they walked across the fields, suspecting nothing untoward. But when Mr and Mrs Skinner returned to their house and Thomas told them what happened, they immediately feared the worst. They set off in swift pursuit, but it was too late. Neighbours had already found Eliza in Paddy's field, legs bound, and her mouth stuffed with weeds and mud. The man had foully outraged Eliza, and after he had his way, tossed her into a dirty ditch and left her to die. But Eliza was a fighter. Barely alive, rescuers carried her to an aunt's house, and the doctor attended her, holding out no hope for recovery. Though Eliza was too unwell to talk, her brother remembered every detail of the man's appearance. He wore a cheese cutter cap, blue serge suit and black whiskers. Lawrence sighed as he underlined the word 'whiskers'. If the description was accurate, the assault could be a random act by a disturbed man. But if Higgins was right, and the killer was prolific, and had operated for a long time, then he was probably in disguise. The black whiskers were a ploy, and the man could be clean-shaven. Lawrence had used a false beard and moustache many times, and nobody had ever guessed. No, he could not set any stock by this description. More worrying was the audacity of a man who attacked in broad daylight in front of witnesses. His reckless disregard for anonymity implied he would take any risk to get what he wanted. No girl was safe from such depravity. Eliza was a much-loved daughter, unlike poor Annie West. But not content to defile the poor girl, the stranger had tossed her aside as if her life meant nothing.
The report was hard reading, and Lawrence paused for a moment, trying to put thoughts of the child, bound and despairing in the ditch, from his mind. His only consolation from the grim report was the comparison with Amelia Jeffs' murder. Both girls were violated, which, together with other similarities highlighted by the press, gave ammunition to support the single killer theory. If Lawrence failed to do anything else, he would hand this information to the police and insist that they listened. They had seen it all before, and it hadn't resulted in any meaningful action. But that was no reason to stop trying.
By the time Lawrence finished reading the account of Mary Jane Voller's death in January 1899, he felt sickened by man's inhumanity. The little girl, only five and a half years old, had taken a thrupenny piece to the grocer's shop to buy some linseed oil for her father. When she didn't return, Henry Voller went straight to the shop and asked if they had seen his daughter. He raised the alarm as soon as the manager said she had not arrived. Voller went straight to the police station but couldn't stand idly by waiting for them to act. He borrowed a lantern and started searching empty houses in the district accompanied by his father. They walked into nearby Barking Lane and noticed a shed by a ditch. A split second before their lantern blew out, Voller saw something floating on the water. With no more oil or matches, the men worked in darkness. Henry Voller felt around in the freezing pond before his hands settled on the cold dead corpse of his daughter. Wounds covered little Mary's body, and an autopsy later showed that she died from asphyxia. She was probably dead before entering the water, but she hadn't been violated. There being no clues or suspects, the inquest returned a verdict against a person or persons unknown.
Lawrence shook his head as he pencilled the details into his notebook, and regarded his handiwork. At the end of the book, he'd written a list containing the names of seven girls beginning with Eliza Carter in 1881 and ending with little Bertha Russ. Each entry contained the dates and locations of their deaths and how they expired. But two names stood out. Bertha Russ and Amelia Jeffs. Bertha's death troubled him enormously, but she was so young that his feelings were inevitable. He wasn't sure what bothered him about Amelia. Perhaps seeing the place where she'd died made her death more personal. Either way, Lawrence felt they mattered. He snapped his notebook shut. No. He knew why. It was because they'd found the girls in cupboards in empty houses – an unlikely and statistically improbable event. Lawrence glanced at his fob watch on the side table and raised an eyebrow as he noticed the time. He had been reading for hours, and it must be close to suppertime. His stomach growled as if on cue and Lawrence opened the door listening for sounds of the family. A delicious aroma wafted across the landing, and Lawrence heard Agnes singing quietly to herself while the children played. Lawrence must have been concentrating so hard that he hadn't heard them return. He was hungry now and eager to eat. A little nutrition might fortify him for later. He put his notebook away and took his coat and hat downstairs to prepare for what he intended to do after supper.
CHAPTER 13
A Gypsy Curse
Thursday, February 23, 1899
Dear Michael
I have made some progress at last in my quest to discover more about the Morse family. It is good to have a purpose again though it does not bring the same satisfaction as successful detective work. Everything concerning Ella is tainted with
the supernatural and things that cannot be real on this earth. Even moving from my home to my place of work has become a trial, and I grow ever more fearful of a sinister force that I cannot name. But I must put these thoughts aside so I can tell you about the unexpected letter I received today.
Elsie was as good as her word and wrote to Margaret Morse, as she had promised. I don't know what she said, but it elucidated a response from Miss Morse, who wrote a second letter apologising for the first. The letter offered useful information about the family, and Margaret told me a little about herself. I can't remember if I mentioned it, but she lives in a small cottage in the Lake District, which she shares with a close friend called Hannah. They have lived together for over forty years and Hannah, some ten years older than Margaret, is a calming influence upon her friend. Elsie thinks Hannah might have caused this change of heart. Whether it was Elsie's letter or Hannah's kindness is immaterial, the result is the same. But it leaves me uneasy, for it has produced yet another set of unlikely circumstances.
Not only did Margaret send a list of her siblings, their birth and death dates, all of which match our findings, but she told me something else. It turns out that the information she gave is common knowledge around the town, and I am only surprised that I did not learn of it sooner. It is a verse, a piece of doggerel directly relating to the Morse family and arising from an incident that happened to Ann Morse many years ago. Ann, you will remember, was the matriarch of the Morse family. One day, in the summer of 1830, Ann was walking through Swaffham with some of her children, one of whom was Philip Morse, a child of tender years. The boy escaped from Ann and ran into the path of a pony and trap driven by an elderly gipsy. Philip bumped into the horse which reared up, but the gipsy woman kept firm control, and neither child nor horse came to harm. The little boy lay crying on the floor, and the gipsy paused her journey to check on him. She left the cart and approached him holding something behind her back. Ann Morse, in a state of panic and confusion, thought the gipsy was about to strike Philip. Ann raised her hand intending to stop the gipsy in her tracks, but the gesture frightened the pony who took flight. It bolted across town trailing the cart in its wake and causing untold damage. Eventually, the poor thing tried to jump across a ditch, broke its leg, and a local farmer destroyed it.
Well, the gipsy was furious. Not only was the horse valuable, but she had formed a sentimental attachment to the beast. Ann Morse tried to offer compensation for the animal, but it wasn't enough. She asked her husband for more money, but he refused, and the gipsy retaliated with a curse.
I can see you now, Michael, rolling your eyes heavenward as you read my words. The idea of a gipsy curse is nonsense, of course. Yet if you consider the words of the rhyme, that they sing in the schoolyard to this day, they are curiously apposite considering the family's fate.
You will meet your God within a week,
And then your husband's death, I'll seek,
Beware the summer when I'll come,
And take your children one by one,
The first of these will die next year,
I'll take the youngest and most dear,
And none will ever reach fourscore,
Or lay in peace forevermore.
Ann died on the third of July 1830 and her husband John followed her to the grave within a few short weeks. The next year little Ann, her youngest child and namesake expired followed by Caroline and Philip. The longest-lived child died before sixty leaving Margaret the sole survivor of a family of thirteen. Margaret alone has beaten the curse. Or has she? Margaret will be eighty in 1901, only two years from now – if she lives that long. You would think that Margaret would live in fear, but she does not. Despite all that has come to pass, she says that she doesn't believe in the curse and the deaths of her siblings were part of God's plan. The Morse family were all religious, and none of them gave credence to the curse, yet many in the village believed it. The idea of a curse flies in the face of logic. It should not be possible, yet the sequence of events that followed lends weight to the gipsy's threat. Curiously, Margaret made a further comment which she failed to develop in any meaningful way. Her remark suggested that there was a discrepancy in Ella's will. Have you made any progress locating it? I would like to see a copy and have something tangible to distract my attention from moving stones and gipsy curses. Really, it is like one of my gothic horror stories.
Talking of which, I am not the only one who has become fanciful lately. Poor Elsie sees strange things too. It started when a man came into the tea shop last week. Elsie was alone – it must have been my day off, and he seemed a pleasant enough chap. He sat down and ordered a cup of tea, then stayed for several hours, as if he were waiting. She offered to fetch him another drink, but the stranger kept refusing. After two hours staring out of the window and twitching like a cat on hot bricks, he spied something outside. The man leapt from his chair as if he'd been scalded, spilling a salt cellar in his haste. He did not stop to pick it up, and Elsie wouldn't have thought further about it except that she has seen him twice since although he hasn't come in. I asked her to point him out to me, but so far, he hasn't been near the tea rooms when I am there. I teased Elsie and said that she must have imagined him, and she became quite cross. Then I suggested that he might be an admirer and when I said it, Elsie blushed to her roots so it must have crossed her mind too. At least we have found some levity in the events of the week.
As for the graveyard, I have avoided it since I last wrote and haven't passed through once since encountering Reverend Winter. I am not giving in to fear, nor will I refrain from crossing the churchyard indefinitely, but it is provoking irrational thoughts. I have, therefore, been kind to myself and avoided the unpleasantness. Since then, the nightmares have stopped, and I can concentrate again.
I have rattled on long enough. I hope you are safe and well, Michael, and I will write again soon.
Your friend
Violet
CHAPTER 14
Under Attack
Streams of unlikely coincidences flooded through Lawrence's mind, as he donned his greatcoat and set out into the wintry night. Though early March, the weather was far from springlike. He mounted the bike, tempted to return indoors and spend the rest of the evening reading a book. But the coincidences spurred him on. There were too many similarities between the deaths, ages, and locations of the murders, not to mention the methods. Now, to top it all, he, Lawrence Harpham, was heading towards number seventy Lawrence Avenue when most people were settling down for the night.
From the moment Lawrence mounted the bicycle, an embarrassing squeak screeched through the night air. Lawrence grimaced, wishing he had taken Gil Cooper up on his suggestion to oil the gears. The noise hadn't been so noticeable when travelling in daylight. But in the still evening, he might as well announce his arrival with a foghorn, so obtrusive was his chosen means of travel. And given that Lawrence intended to break into a property within the next half hour, he was going to have to do something about it.
Lawrence ploughed on down Buxton Road and into Forest Lane, taking an almost straight route onto Church Road. He stopped and dismounted, hoping that the noise would lessen if he pushed the cycle instead. To his relief, the absence of his weight all but eliminated the annoying sound, and he could finally hear himself think.
Though only eight o'clock, Church Road was empty and unsettlingly quiet. Stars dotted the cloudless sky, and the hedges bore traces of a delicate frost. Now that he was pushing the cycle, Lawrence could hear the smallest sound – a rustle of leaves, the low whistle of the wind. A dog barked a few roads beyond before the gruff bark turned into a shrieking howl, then a whimper, and silence. As Lawrence pushed his cycle towards Lawrence Avenue, his footsteps echoed in the empty street. But the echo had an echo of its own, and he felt a hidden presence nearby. Lawrence stopped and turned, but the road was empty. He took a few more steps and turned again – still nothing. He felt foolish. How could anyone be following? He hadn't said a word about where h
e was going or what he was doing. Not to the Wards, not even to Samuel Higgins. His imagination was running riot, and he steeled himself to get on with it. Lawrence gritted his teeth and proceeded silently up the avenue, searching for number seventy. But as he came close to his destination, he saw an immediate impediment to his plan. Pacing up and down the pathway was a disgruntled-looking policeman.
Lawrence was already too close to risk doubling back. It would look more suspicious than continuing. He elected instead to cycle past the policeman while eyeing the property to check for rear access and soon found it was too dark to see clearly. Lawrence continued to the other end of the street and turned, hoping to find an alleyway to the rear. But the properties directly backed onto those in the next road. The best he could hope for was to go through the opposite garden and hop over the fence. On closer scrutiny, even that wouldn't work. There was no easy access to the rear gardens in the neighbouring road, and it was impossible to tell which property adjoined number seventy. The whole idea had been a complete waste of time. Lawrence remounted his bike and returned up the road, almost running into the police constable he had just passed. The policeman strode purposefully across the street towards a fellow constable walking his beat on the other side. Lawrence grinned, feeling sure that the man was breaking the boredom of his duty by indulging in some gossip. It would distract him for a little while.
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