"There are too many gaps to be sure," said Lawrence. "Anyway, thank you for your time. You've been very helpful."
"Hang on," said the shopkeeper. "Do boys count?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Murdered boys. Do they count?"
"Are you suggesting there has been another murdered child?"
"Not suggesting. I'm telling you."
"Was he found in a ditch?"
"No."
"Or in West Ham or Walthamstow?"
"Neither."
"Then, I doubt it."
"Someone strangled the boy and left him near Upton Park Station."
Lawrence whistled. "That's in the right area, and the method of killing is consistent with Florrie and Amelia Jeffs. When did it happen?"
"I can't remember. I'd have to say late 1897 if you pressed me, but I can't be sure."
"What was his name?"
"Barratt. William Barratt. I can't give you any more detail than that."
"You've given me more than enough," said Lawrence. "Thank you."
He doffed his hat and left the shop, then considered the matter as he threaded the new lace into his shoe. The further information neatly plugged the gap in time between the death of Elizabeth Skinner in 1893 and Mary Jane Voller in 1898. But why hadn't Samuel told him about their murders? It was inconceivable that Higgins didn't know. He was a reporter, after all. Lawrence checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, and he still had enough time to get to Barking before the press office closed. He mounted the bicycle and ignoring the pain in his rear, pedalled swiftly southwards.
CHAPTER 19
Ill-gotten Gains
Wednesday, March 1, 1899
Dear Michael
Ella's will has turned out to be a damp squib. The big mystery behind it was nothing more exciting than trivial thievery. A few days ago, I visited Mathilda Brett to check whether she had been in the tea shop recently. That way, I'd know if she could have been responsible for the table marks. I took her a small posy to say thank you for her previous help, and she asked me in for a cup of tea. We chatted for a while, and she mentioned a recent visit to her sister in Kings Lynn. So, without asking, I immediately knew that she couldn't have damaged the table and somebody else must have carved Ella's name. While at Mathilda's house, I threw caution to the wind and asked other questions about the Morse family. I didn't hold back and talked openly about the will. Unusually, for Mathilda, she couldn't add any more to the subject, but when I asked if she knew Edward and Anna Halls, her face lit up. 'Yes, I do,' she said and what did I want to know about them? I didn't need to lead the conversation any further, as once she started talking, she couldn't stop. She said Edward Halls had sold all his personal effects not long before Ella Morse died. The poor chap went bankrupt owing to some unsuccessful business venture. Since then, Edward Halls had passed away, and Anna is now a widow, still living here in Swaffham and not far from my cottage. I thanked Mathilda and having half an hour free before going to Norma's, I hastened straight there.
Anna answered the door, listened to my questions, and was not interested and refused to speak to me. But I was firm with her, and put my foot in the door, preventing her from slamming it and sending me away. Seeing the determination in my face, she capitulated. Her shoulders slumped, and her head bowed as she waved me through. Her cottage, if I could call it that, stood on one level. The front room was bare with only a mattress and a wooden chair in front of an unlit grate. A door led to another even smaller back room where she slept. I stood, for there was nowhere else to sit apart from a chair. But I couldn't use that because she'd left her supper on it. And a poor meal it was too of a crust of bread and a small bowl of dripping.
"Don't let me stop you from eating," I said, and she grunted, put her hands on her hips and asked me what I wanted.
So, I told her, Michael. Just like that, with no softness in my manner. Tiredness had overwhelmed me, both physically and mentally, and I grew fearful that the Morse mystery would cost me my sanity. I inwardly cringe when I remember how I spoke to that poor woman, hectoring her in her own home. "Did you tamper with Ella's will?" I asked.
She was equally succinct. "Yes, I did," she said. "And what of it?"
I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of her subterfuge, and she countered it by telling me not to make so much of it. Her attitude towards the deception surprised me, and I asked where she kept her conscience. At first, she laughed, and then her forehead scrunched into a frown. "I am not a wicked woman," she said. "And the sum of money involved was nothing to Miss Morse and everything to me. It kept me from the workhouse." Her words left me feeling distinctly uncharitable, and I asked her to elaborate, feeling it my Christian duty to give her the benefit of the doubt. And she told me her story.
Anna Hall, it transpired, was a domestic servant, employed by Arthur and Ella Morse, not long before Ella died. One day, she saw one of the other servants witness a copy of Ella Morse's last will and was curious about what it contained. Anna found the document laid out on the desk and noticed that Miss Morse had left legacies to the other servants. Even though she had only lately joined the household, Anna was jealous and resentful. For reasons Anna didn't understand, Miss Morse had written parts of the will in pencil although the majority was in ink. Over the following weeks, Anna kept a close eye on the will, hoping that Ella Morse would include her name, but it never appeared. And, in due course, she noticed that Ella had overwritten some pencilled sections using her pen. By the time of Ella's death, only a few uninked words remained. And by happy coincidence one referred to Elizabeth wife of William Balls.
While the other servants mourned the passing of their mistress, Anna hastened straight to the desk to check the condition of her will. To her relief, the pencilled words were still there. Knowing that her husband's business was in dire straits, and they were about to lose everything, Anna altered the names. She changed them to read Elizabeth Ann wife of Edward Halls and, deciding not to risk a mismatch of ink, she re-wrote it in pencil. Although Ella's brothers challenged the timing of the alteration, it never occurred to them to question the content. Anna presented herself as Elizabeth Anna Halls and claimed the money intended for Elizabeth Balls. I can only presume that Elizabeth didn't challenge it, because she didn't realise, she was due a legacy.
Nobody knows about this, and I'm not going to tell them. The legacy only amounted to a mere five pounds. While this was enough to stave off grievous hardship for Anna Halls, it is a paltry sum in the scheme of things. And it doesn't explain Ella's unwillingness to lie silently in her grave. Not that I am suggesting for one moment that she is the phantom seen in the churchyard. But had the fraud been substantial and spirits existed, it might have been a reason. What am I saying, Michael? I don't believe in ghosts and speculation about churchyard phantoms is ridiculous. But so many disturbing events have happened to me in recent weeks, that Ella Morse seeking her revenge from beyond the grave would come as a relief. So, the mystery is over, and hopefully, these disquieting feelings of dread will disappear too. Next time I write, it will be with jolly news, I promise.
In the meantime, take care.
Yours most sincerely
Violet
CHAPTER 20
More Victims
Lawrence hurled the bicycle against the red brick press office and stormed inside, not waiting to see if it stayed upright. It did not, and the bike slid down the wall, before settling on the path with its wheels spinning. Marching into the lobby, Lawrence strode towards the press room door, hand outstretched.
"Oi, don't go in there," yelled Stanley, from his position behind the counter. "Come back."
But it was too late. Lawrence had already flung the door open and stepped inside, coming face to face with a sight that left him squirming with embarrassment. An elderly woman was sitting next to Samuel Higgin's desk; her eyes screwed tight in concentration as she sewed a pair of trousers. Stanley Higgins stood beside her dressed in long cotton drawers.
Higgins sighed. "Meet my aunt," he said awkwardly. "Aunt Lavinia, this is Mr Lawrence Harpham."
Lawrence opened his eyes, extended his hand and shook it. "Pleased to meet you," he mumbled. "I'll wait outside."
Back in the hallway, Stanley greeted him with a knowing smile. "I told you," he crowed. "You should have listened."
Lawrence resisted the urge to clip him round the ear and paced the lobby waiting for Samuel to finish. Ten minutes later, the door opened, and Lavinia emerged.
"You can go in now," she said haughtily.
Lawrence flashed a weak smile before returning to the press room where Samuel was standing with his back to the door, gazing out of the window.
"What's got your dander up?" he asked amiably.
Lawrence, whose original intention had been to confront Higgins and demand an explanation, was wrong-footed again.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Yes, you do. I know a spot of unbridled rage when I see it. What's the problem?"
Lawrence opened his notebook, turned to the list and placed it firmly on the desk.
"They are," he said.
"Ah," said Higgins, turning the page to face him. "Good. Tell me all about it."
"Do you recognise those names?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then why didn't you tell me about them?"
"Why should I?"
"Because they were both murdered."
"Should I have told you about every murder that has taken place in the last decade?"
"Obviously not all of them," said Lawrence, scowling in frustration.
"Then, why these two?"
"You don't think they're relevant?"
"I didn't say that," Higgins replied. "Tell me why you think I should have mentioned them. You must have noticed that one victim is male."
"Of course," said Lawrence. "Surely you can see how Florrie Rolph's death fits into the pattern. She died in Walthamstow, and someone lured her to the rectory gardens where they outraged and murdered her. The circumstances of her death were almost the same as Amelia Jeffs, including dying from strangulation."
Higgins nodded. "And the boy?"
"I must confess that I know little about him, but I hear that they found his body near Upton Park railway station. And the reason that I think his death is significant is that he died from strangulation."
"Excellent," said Higgins. "I hoped you would say that."
"What do you mean?"
"When we first met, I told you I would only give you a certain amount of information. I have a theory, but that is all it is. The Metropolitan Police do not share my views. I needed to know that you would come to the same conclusion entirely through your own investigations. And you have, which strengthens my opinion that these crimes were all carried out by the same person."
"So, you knew about Florrie Rolph and the boy?"
"Of course. But I was less sure about those two murders than the others. There are patterns, but also discrepancies, not least the small matter of gender, in Barratt's case."
"The dates clinched it for me," said Lawrence. "Factoring in Florrie and William's deaths means a killing occurred at least every two years, or more since 1890."
"Exactly," said Higgins. "Follow me,"
He led Lawrence into his research room, ignited the wall lamp and pulled a box from the top of the desk. "Here it is," he said, lifting a folded page closer to his eyes. "They found six-year-old William Barratt in September 1897, lying on an open piece of ground given over to a builder. He was alive when found but died soon after. The boy lived in St Leonard's Road, Bromley by Bow, some four miles from Upton Park. William was well-nourished and loved by his family. So, the coroner came to the inescapable conclusion that his murderer decoyed him from the vicinity of his home."
"But why?"
"Therein lies the question," sighed Higgins. "As you know, young Barratt met his death by strangulation, but that is not all. The killer removed the boy's shoes and socks, then beat him on the chest with his bare fists. Whether he died from strangulation or the bruise on his heart was impossible to tell."
"So, he killed him for the thrill of it," said Lawrence. "I take it he was not..."
"The killer only removed his footwear," said Higgins, sparing Lawrence an awkward question. "But whether the murderer gained sexual gratification from the act, is another matter."
"There are enough similarities, don't you think?"
"Yes."
"But what we can do about it?"
"We need to look for commonalities between the dead children," said Higgins. "I am down to my last dozen newspapers," he added, nodding towards the much-reduced pile. "I'll finish them tonight. Then we'll know we have accounted for all potential victims."
"Wouldn't you know that by now?"
"You'd be surprised how many children were harmed during this decade," said Higgins. "I take nothing for granted."
"Where to start?" mused Lawrence, staring at the map on the wall.
"West Road," said Higgins with certainty.
"I've already been there, and I don't much like the look of one of the estate agents."
"We should consider anyone connected to the building trade."
"Or someone dwelling in West Road," said Lawrence. "But how can I find out who was living there when the girls died?"
"It will be on the census records," said Higgins.
"Yes. But I won't be able to look at them. You'd need to be in government."
"Or the local council."
A glance passed between them, and Lawrence smiled in satisfaction. "Isabel Smith," they both said in unison.
CHAPTER 21
A Murder of Crows
Thursday, March 2, 1899
Dear Michael
I am struggling to write this letter, for the trembling in my hands – a movement so uncontrollable that I can barely hold the pen. My home, my refuge is now my prison. I am fearful of venturing outside, at least not while it is dark. I hope I can face it in the morning. Thank goodness that Daisy is with Norma or I would have no choice. And the thought of setting foot outside these four walls is more than I can bear. My head is swimming, and I feel as if I am watching myself from afar. The room is blurry, unclear. It must be the shock of tonight.
You will remember reading of my encounter with Reverend Winter in the graveyard, and I told you I had found a key in the disturbed earth by Ella's grave. Well, tonight I learned its purpose.
Today should have been a good day. I arrived home from Norma's in good spirits, eager to attend a rare evening of bridge at The George Hotel. I was getting ready when I heard an almighty clatter of metal as if someone was banging pans together. I looked out of the window, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. So, I went downstairs to check if something had fallen over in the kitchen. Everything was as expected, and I carried on getting ready. No sooner did I set foot on the stairs than the noise began again. This time, there was no doubt about where it was coming from – it was right outside my back door. I hastened towards the kitchen, and from there went outside into the yard. By now, it was a little after seven o'clock, and though dark, I could see the outline of an unfamiliar shape a few feet from the house. An eerie silence replaced the banging sound, and I gazed at the shape with trepidation wondering what it was and why it was in my garden. As I took a tentative step closer, a yowling shriek pierced the chilly night, and a cat sprang from the fence and darted towards the gate. I clutched my heart, terror coursing through me, and in a rush of nerves, I fled for the rear door to find a source of light. I lit the largest lantern with a shaking hand, and steeling myself, raised it aloft and retraced my steps.
As I approached the object, my fear vanished, replaced by idle curiosity. For the item lying upon the hard earth, was a small tin trunk about a foot and a half long, inlaid with circles and swirls and with a large clasp lock on the side. I set the lantern on the
floor and tried to pick it up. The trunk lifted easily, and I tucked it under my arm and carried it inside, holding the lantern in my other hand. Intrigued by the strange discovery, I placed it on my kitchen table and examined it. On closer inspection, the swirls and circles turned out to be scrolls and skulls. I lifted the hasp to reveal a lock beneath, and I tugged it, but it would not open. I soon realised that, in the absence of a hand axe, I would only find out what was inside with the aid of a key.
I sat there for five minutes, Michael, staring at the box. Then I lifted it again and shook it slightly. Something soft bumped against the side. Though no longer frightened, the unsolicited gift troubled me. It had not been there that morning, of that I was sure, but when was it delivered? It must have been late as I had used the front door that evening. But why leave a locked box without a note, and how was I supposed to get into it?
I stopped to make myself a cup of tea and collect my thoughts. Ten minutes later, and with a groggy head, I stared at the box again. By now, I had a headache, and the skulls started blurring together. Then, one came sharply into focus, bringing a sudden horrible sense of foreboding. I had seen a similar skull very recently. It had formed part of the key which I had found on Ella Morse's grave.
I slowly reached into my bag and located the key which had lain there since its discovery and I held it next to the lock, comparing the shape. It looked like a good fit. Ignoring the goosebumps crawling across my skin, and the panicky thud of my heart, I slid the key into the lock where it nestled, daring me onwards. I licked my lips, closed my eyes and turned the key. The lock opened with a satisfying click. All I had to do was open it. Pandora's box – a box from which no good could possibly come. For a moment, I contemplated putting it out with the rubbish. It would only take moments, and I would never know what was inside. But I am nothing if not curious, and I knew that I would always wonder if I didn't look. So, taking a deep breath, I flung the lid open and peered inside.
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