He turned towards Lawrence. “Are you busy at present?” he enquired.
“Tolerably,” Lawrence replied. “I have recently concluded the larger of my cases and only have a few smaller matters to attend to. Why do you ask?”
“Do you remember my brother Michael?” asked Francis.
“I do.”
“Then you will remember that he took holy orders.”
Lawrence nodded.
“He graduated from Cambridge some time ago,” said Francis. “Then he spent two years as a missionary in South America, before returning to Ridley Hall for further training. Several months ago, he left again and will soon be given a parish of his own. In the interim, he has been assigned to a parish in Suffolk to assist the incumbent vicar.”
“He has lead an interesting life,” murmured Lawrence, rubbing his scar through his gloved left hand. He was oblivious to the habit he had adopted since the fire.
“What I am about to tell you is confidential,” said Francis. “I am not at liberty to discuss this matter, but if you choose to assist then it will be worth breaking my word. If you cannot help, I trust you will not discuss it with anyone else.”
“Certainly not,” said Lawrence. “Any information given during a preliminary enquiry stays between the two of us."
Francis nodded. “I had to ask. I am sure you understand. Anyway, Michael is currently lodging at the vicarage in the village of Fressingfield. Do you know it?”
Lawrence nodded.
“He is living with the Reverend Raven, his family and their servants. Last week he travelled to Bury to see me and not merely for a social visit. He asked for my advice and guidance, as head of the family.”
“Naturally,” said Lawrence, “you have a decade on young Michael. I am sure he values your opinion more than ever since the demise of your father.”
“He does,” agreed Francis. “Though he rarely troubles me with his problems. His wish to consult with me came as something of a surprise and I was frankly astounded by the nature of his difficulty. To be honest, Lawrence, I was sceptical to the extent I felt moved to check into his account of the problem. I have investigated and there is no doubt that what he says is true.”
“If you have already investigated, you do not need a private detective,” said Lawrence, bemused. “Unless you wish me to give an opinion on your findings?”
“No,” said Francis. “The checks I made were to establish that the event had occurred in the way he described. It is the matter itself, I would like you to investigate. You may be able to prevent this sorry affair causing any more distress.”
“I am intrigued,” said Lawrence. “What happened in Michael’s parish that disturbed you to this degree?”
“Witchcraft,” said Francis solemnly.
“Oh, really,” spluttered Lawrence. “This is 1890, not the 1600’s. You cannot be serious.”
“I wish I was not,” said Francis. “The very idea of witchcraft is as ridiculous as it is abhorrent. Neither Michael nor Reverend Raven attach any credence to the suggestion, though rumour and speculation are rife. The allegations must be investigated and proved false.”
“It is inconceivable that any sane person would entertain such a notion,” said Lawrence. “We are fortunate to live in enlightened times. Even the most ill-educated men do not believe in the presence of demons and spirits.”
“I would not believe it either,” said Francis, “except that it is already widely reported in the press. The locals speak of nothing but the witch, and the village is in uproar. Accounts of bewitching, curses and the like abound. It is as if the inhabitants have been transported back to the days of the witch trials. Reverend Canon is at his wits end. He wants the rumours quashed but they spread further with each passing day. I thought of you as soon as Michael mentioned his concerns. I have always trusted your judgement, Lawrence.”
“I appreciate your confidence, but I cannot imagine what you expect me to do. There is no such thing as witchcraft, Francis, so what can I investigate? It is all in the mind and I am not a psychiatrist. The parish priest is better suited to spiritual matters. If he cannot prevail against such ignorance, how am I supposed to?”
“I agree. If it was only a matter of persuasion, the Reverend could manage himself, but it is more than that.” said Francis. “There is a matter worthy of investigation amongst this gossip. It was not only the most recent deaths that were linked to witchcraft. Other unexplained deaths occurred years before and they attracted similar speculation."
“Those deaths are no doubt distressing,” said Lawrence. “But you have given no reason why witchcraft is suspected."
Francis shook his head. “There is no basis for a connection between the two, except by the most gullible” he conceded. “If it were not for the result of the inquest, the rumours would have dissipated long ago.”
Lawrence rose and walked towards the mirror. He adjusted his tie. “What inquest?” he asked.
Francis reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He withdrew a cutting from the Sunday Times. Read this,” he said, thrusting it towards Lawrence.
Lawrence returned to his seat and unfolded a newspaper report.
“Sunday Times, April 13th, 1890.
An inquest was held at Fressingfield on a baby girl who had died suddenly. The medical evidence showed that death was due to shock caused by the external use of some powerful irritant, though what this was, and why or by whom it was applied, was not determined. The parents both swore that their child had been over-looked by her step-grandmother, Mrs Corbyn, who died on the same day and had told them on her deathbed that the baby would not long survive her. A few hours afterwards they took the child out in her perambulator and were suddenly startled by the sight of smoke issuing from it. As soon as they reached home again, she died. George Corbyn told the jury that he had always believed his wife was a witch, and consequently he had always tried to do whatever she wanted and to avoid offending her at all costs.”
“I am surprised this report was taken seriously,” Lawrence said after a long silence. “Even if the suspicion of witchcraft gained some traction, the woman is dead. Why has the speculation not died with her?”
“Because the inquest was inconclusive and the post-mortem did not show a cause of death. The villagers think the child’s injuries were caused by the application of brimstone. The post-mortem has not proved otherwise so they continue to believe the child was cursed. The endless rumours have reached senior figures in the Church of England. They disapprove of the amount of coverage in the popular press and are impatient for the subject to pass. Instead it grows ever more newsworthy. There is public appetite for this story, Lawrence. Reverend Raven has been asked to deal with the matter before it undermines the authority of the Church.”
“I understand,” said Lawrence, “but I am not sure what you think I can do about it.”
“It is a simple matter of psychology,” said Francis. “Go to the village, talk to the family, the medical men and the villagers. Then produce a conclusive report attributing the death to an irritant substance. You can say it was administered by the child’s grandmother while in a state of temporary insanity. Hard facts, Harpham. That ought to do the trick.”
“It might,” agreed Lawrence. “Who would I be working for? More to the point, who would pay my fee?”
“The church will pay your fee. It is in their interests to have the matter concluded at the earliest opportunity. You will lodge at the vicarage with Michael and the Reverend’s family, if you agree to take the case.”
“And if I do not accept the case? What then?”
“We will look for another man who can. This must be settled quickly or I fear the talk of witches will never subside. I would much prefer to see you carry out the investigation than hire another man I know nothing about. But I will not press you to attend as a favour. I know you choose your cases carefully, and I am all too aware that you may not want to leave Bury this close to May Day.”
Lawrence g
rimaced. He gazed through the window, towards the obelisk in Chequer Square. “I have remained in Bury on the anniversary these last three years and it brings no peace. Perhaps it is time…”
Francis jumped to his feet. He grasped the decanter from the top of the cabinet and re-filled their glasses. He raised his drink towards Lawrence. “I will take that as your acceptance,” he said.
Chapter 2
Fressingfield
Lawrence woke with a start. He had nodded off through the journey. Rhythmic hoofbeats had overpowered the discomforting jerks from the springing carriage. He rubbed his eyes and gazed through the window. They should be nearing the village now.
It had been a comfortable journey as carriage rides go, much improved by the quality of transport. Francis had generously loaned his recently purchased double Brougham. Clad in Moroccan leather upholstery, it smelled musky and the comforting warmth was soporific. The wheels were covered in rubber tyres which tempered the inevitable jolting.
Most pleasant of all, was the ability to travel in silence without having to engage in small talk with fellow passengers. Lawrence was a solitary man by nature and not inclined to waste words. He gained more satisfaction from a good book, or a considered debate than a social gathering where he might be required to mingle. Catherine had been better at the social niceties. She had encouraged him to participate in gatherings, which had been tolerable when she was by his side. Now she was gone, he had withdrawn again. It suited him to be alone with his thoughts.
Hoofbeats slowed then stopped as the carriage drew to a halt on the Cratfield Road. To his left, the Georgian Vicarage stood amidst tall trees covered in new leaf growth. The sun cast gentle rays against the pale stone through clear blue skies.
The carriage driver alighted and opened the wooden door of the Brougham. “Here we are sir,” he said. “I’ll take your bags.”
“Thank you,” replied Lawrence. “A most pleasant journey.”
The cab driver smiled. “Glad to hear it sir. Enjoy your stay.”
Lawrence strolled towards the front of the Vicarage. An elderly woman occupied a wicker bath chair on the lawn. Her companion knelt on the ground in front as she wrapped a red and green checked tartan blanket over her lap.
“Good day,” said Lawrence.
The younger woman stood. “Hello,” she smiled. “You must be Mr Harpham.” She did not wait for confirmation. “This is Mrs Harris.” She gestured towards her elderly charge. “Reverend Raven is in his study. Let me show you in.”
She leaned towards the old lady, “I will only be a moment,” she whispered.
Lawrence followed her, wondering why she had not introduced herself. She was evidently a companion of sorts. Perhaps she felt her position was lowly and did not warrant an introduction. She bustled through the front door and into a bright hallway. “Down here,” she gestured.
Lawrence walked through a passageway towards the rear of the house. The woman he followed was a head shorter and remarkably plain. Her figure was slight and her light brown hair was piled in a jumble on her head. Thick eyebrows dominated her face and her jaw line was unusually square. How old was she? Thirty? Forty? It was impossible to tell.
Presently, they arrived outside a door. She knocked twice and a voice from within bade them enter.
“Thank you,” said Lawrence. The companion nodded and returned down the passage.
Lawrence opened the door and found himself in a large, square study. A sturdy oak desk stood centrally in front of him with a smaller writing desk on the right-hand side, the two making an L-shape. Dual aspect windows provided glorious views across the gardens. The two windowless walls were covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Piles of journals perched precariously on the side of the oak desk and parchments and manuscripts littered every surface. The Reverend Canon Raven sat behind the desk. A younger man, who Lawrence recognised as Michael Farrow, leaned over him pointing to a paper.
“Mr Harpham, I presume,” said the Reverend Raven, jumping to his feet. He offered his hand. Lawrence shook it, murmured his thanks, then greeted Michael Farrow. “Good to see you again. It has been a long time.”
“Delighted,” said Michael. “Too long. I trust you had a good journey?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lawrence. “Your brother’s carriage was extremely comfortable.”
Michael smiled. “I have not yet had the opportunity to ride in her,” he said. “But Francis talks of little else but the new Brougham and his renewed Masonic Lodge, so I dare say I will become better acquainted with both before long. How was my brother?”
“In good health, but concerned about matters here,” said Lawrence, getting straight to the point.
The Reverend nodded. “We were discussing the very same thing,” he said. “Sit down Mr Harpham.” He pulled a carved chair from the front of the desk.
Lawrence sat opposite. “Call me Lawrence, if you wish,” he said.
“Mr Harpham, Lawrence. Thank you for coming.” The Reverend steepled his hands and rested them against his chin. “Francis Farrow has no doubt apprised you of the situation.”
Lawrence nodded. “He has. I am broadly familiar with the case and what you hope to achieve.”
“Good,” said the Reverend. “First things first, Michael – please ring for some tea.” Michael pulled a blue and red striped cord in the corner of the room. A bell rang faintly in the distance. Moments later a young woman entered the room and Michael whispered instructions.
The Reverend continued. “I am sure you understand that in any village some parishioners are more troublesome than others. In the short time that I have served here, some have become known to me for their eccentric and ill-informed views. It is these few that provoke talk of witchcraft, the subject of which has not abated and I fear will not abate without intervention.”
“Are there particular individuals who need convincing?” asked Lawrence.
“There are,” replied the Reverend. “Specifically, George Corbyn and his daughter Sarah Hammond. They are, without doubt, great influencers of the other villagers. It was bad enough when talk was contained within Fressingfield, but since the papers have hold of it, the village has become a laughing stock. Worse still, people are losing respect for the church. I have been asked to intervene.”
“By whom?” asked Lawrence.
The door opened before the Reverend had the opportunity to reply. A young servant girl in her teens carried a silver tray towards the desk. The Reverend cleared a space and she put down the weighty tray. “Thank you, Anna,” he said.
Michael poured from the silver teapot while the Reverend spoke.
“I would rather not go into detail,” he replied, “suffice it to say that swift resolution is more of an instruction than a request.”
“The matter should not warrant much investigating,” said Lawrence. “Francis intimated that a token enquiry would be good enough. If the outcome is made public it ought to deter any further speculation. This should be easily achievable in a short time with very little effort on my part.”
“A short investigation is exactly what we hope for,” said the Reverend, “although it may not be as straight-forward as you think.” He glanced towards Michael. They exchanged looks.
“Why not?” asked Lawrence.
“There have been other deaths,” said the Reverend. “All explicable, nothing unexpected, but perhaps a little too convenient.”
Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a notebook. “Please elaborate,” he asked.
“The year before I arrived in the parish, a labourer called Jonathan Carter died in the churchyard.” The Reverend gestured vaguely towards the front of the Vicarage. “He was old and suffered from a congenital heart defect so it was not surprising that he died suddenly. But it was the manner of his demise that was unusual.”
Lawrence raised his head. “How did he meet his death?”
“It was not how he actually expired, Lawrence, but in the weeks leading up to his death,
he was plagued by crows.”
Lawrence raised his eyebrows. “Attacked by crows?”
“No. The man had evidently upset someone and this person left dead, decaying crows for him to find. He claimed he had been cursed.”
“But he died from natural causes?”
“Entirely. The inquest found he died of sudden heart failure, but there was talk that dead crows were placed near his body.”
“Surely a coincidence, and nothing more.”
“Perhaps. He was found by Harriet King so it may be worthwhile questioning her if you can.”
“At this point, I see no reason to. The presence of crows is irrelevant. Is there more?”
“Two years later, Jonathan's sister Harriet died. She was George Corbyn’s first wife.”
“George Corbyn being the primary perpetrator of the witchcraft rumours?”
“The very one,” replied the Reverend. “Harriet Corbyn also died of heart failure. By the end of the year, Corbyn had married Mary Ann Riches, the woman he claimed was a witch.”
“A quick marriage,” muttered Lawrence.
“It was, but widowed men often marry in haste to provide a mother for their children or a keeper for their house.”
“Not all men,” said Lawrence pointedly. Michael looked towards his feet, embarrassed.
“I dare say,” continued the Reverend. “Regardless, he married Mary Ann Corbyn and three weeks ago, she died. She cursed her step-grandchild on her death bed, claiming the girl would not long outlive her; and she did not. Both died the same day.”
“How did Mary Ann Corbyn die?” asked Lawrence.
“Her death was also attributed to a form of heart disease,” said Reverend Raven. “She was old, like the others, so it could be true, but I cannot pretend not to be a little concerned.”
“It is hardly unusual for three elderly people to die of heart disease,” said Lawrence. “If crows or curses had not been prevalent, there would be no reason to connect the deaths.”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 2