“How well did you know Mary Corbyn?” The question was out before Lawrence considered the consequences. He was supposed to be investigating Violet’s disappearance and had strict instructions not to interfere with Draper’s case.
“I knew her a little,” said Caroline. “I attended some of Sarah’s births. In fact, I attended the birth of little Edith, the girl who died. Mary was there when Edith was born.”
“What was she like?” asked Lawrence.
“A rather silly woman, I thought,” said Caroline. “She was full of her own self-importance and convinced that she had supernatural powers. It was hardly surprising considering she was strongly encouraged in that regard.”
“I understood the opposite, “said Lawrence. “I thought people were generally cynical to start with.”
“No, they believed her claims all along. They thought she had the power to make bad things happen and Hannah Roper took more pains than any to encourage her nonsense.”
“Hannah was her friend,” said Lawrence. “She freely admits she did not discourage Mary to avoid giving offence, but neither did she persuade her.”
“If that is what you want to believe,” said Caroline rubbing her hands together. “I must be off now, it is getting cold and I need to call on Mary Edwards. Her baby is due any day.”
She bustled off, leaving Lawrence to contemplate her words. He stood outside the Chemist deep in thought. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed. “Surely not.”
Lawrence strode towards the Vicarage, knowing exactly what to do next. A jigsaw of pieces had formed in his mind. One piece, central to the puzzle, was out of kilter with the rest. He needed to check the genealogy of Faith Mills. He rushed to his room to search for the notes he had made before leaving for London. They were on his dressing table together with the will. He scanned the notes quickly. The family tree was only partly completed. It was intact from Thomas Fayers to Sarah, but the detail he wanted, the name above Thomas was missing. And it was because Violet had compiled the chart. She had all the relevant notes.
He ran upstairs to her bedroom taking the stairs two at a time. Though he had searched her room that morning, he could not recall seeing her notebook. He needed to check again. He pulled drawers and cupboards open, searching in vain, but the notes were not there. In a final attempt to locate them, he went to the morning room where they had conducted their initial research. There was little furniture except for the table and sideboards which were set ready for breakfast next day. He searched every drawer and cupboard but to no avail. There was only one thing for it. He would have to visit the basement room.
Dusk had fallen and he could hear a buzz of conversation from the dining room. The family must be inside preparing for supper. He should be with them, but it was not yet seven o'clock and he ought to be able to do what he needed to in the fifteen minutes that remained. The idea of visiting the basement alone made him sick to his stomach but he was not prepared to disrupt the family gathering and seek Michael’s help. Instead, he made his way to the orangery and collected the gas lamp and matches.
He put on his coat and braced himself for the ordeal. It was still light outside, but dusk was starting to fall. He held the lamp high as he traversed the garden watching the bulbous rook’s nests distort the slender trees. The lamp cast crooked shadows across the grass. He heard raspy breathing and realised it was his own. Lawrence reached the store room and made to unlatch the door but it was padlocked. Latched and padlocked. He had left it open, he was sure. Yes, when he returned the registers, he distinctly remembered leaving the door ajar and the window on the furthest latch. He sighed. The Reverend must have visited the room in the meantime, realised the registers were insecure and purchased a padlock. He would not gain access tonight.
He crept to the rear of the building in the hope that the window had not been secured, but it was firmly shut. He held the lamp high and peered inside. The lamp cast faint rays across the room, enough for him to notice that the table had been overturned. Ink and candles were scattered over the floor. Something was wrong. Without further thought, he ran to the side and located the large stone he had used to prop the door open last visit.
He rapped it against the window and the ancient glass exploded, casting shards into the room. He reached inside for the latch and opened the window to its fullest extent. There was no doubt. The table had been upended and the room left in disarray. And there was a faint trail as if something had been dragged through the dust.
Lawrence reached into the room as far as he could and set the lamp on the floor. Then he squeezed through the aperture, landing in an undignified heap. He dusted himself down and collected the lamp with trembling fingers. He had been too caught up in the moment to consider the consequences, but now he was inside the dark, lonely building, a mantle of dread descended. Terror paralysed him and it was not until he began shivering with cold that time moved again. The lamp juddered in his shaking hand sweeping irregular beams into the blackness below. Lawrence willed himself to move taking pigeon steps towards the stairs. As he grew closer, the light caught a dark shape at the foot of the stone steps. He gasped. Something was down there and it was not books or papers. He steeled himself to look again and saw a body.
Lawrence placed the lamp at the top of the stairs and descended at a pace. As he neared the bottom, he realised that the still form was Violet Smith. She lay prone on the floor, a gaping, blood-stained wound on her temple, skin pallid, almost blue. Lawrence crouched beside her and felt for a pulse. There was the barest flicker of a beat. It was weak, but she was alive.
He shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Violet,” he called. “Wake up.”
She moaned but did not speak. He held her marble-cold hand and wondered how long she had been in the dark cellar. Though springtime and warm in the day, the temperature in the basement must be near freezing in the dead of night. Violet bore all the signs of hypothermia. He removed his coat and placed it over her, before rubbing her ice-cold hands.
“Wake up,” he urged. “We have to get out of here.”
Her eyes flickered open.
“You are back, good girl, Violet, good girl.”
She rubbed her temple, “my head,” she whispered. “It hurts.”
“Do not worry,” he said. “I am here. I will fetch help.”
“No, do not leave me,” she implored.
“I must, you are badly injured.”
“No.” She squeezed his hand with shaking fingers. “I am so cold,” she continued.
“How long have you been here? Do you know?”
“No, a long time, I think,” she replied, “but it was dark. Black, empty, silent. It was like I was in a dream. She held me and I could walk, but not on my own. She guided me, stopped me falling. I could not think straight. My mind...” She paused and gathered her thoughts.
“It was hazy,” she continued. “My actions not my own, and then she brought me here and pushed me down the stairs and I cannot remember after that.”
“It sounds like you were drugged,” said Lawrence. His lips were pursed and his jaw clenched. Fear had been replaced with anger. “Can you walk?” he continued.
“I do not know.” She put a hand to the floor and attempted to rise.
“No,” she whispered.
“Let me help,” said Lawrence. He took her hand, but she stopped him.
“What is that smell?” she asked.
Lawrence heard a sound like crunching gravel, coming from the top of the stairs. He wrinkled his nose. Paraffin. Gazing upwards, beyond the lamp, he saw a bright glow where no light should have been. Flames flickered across the upended table.
“My God,” yelled Lawrence. “Fire!”
He ran up the steps, towards the light, recoiling as he reached the flames. The hairs on his neck stood on end. Fire, more terrifying than a thousand disembodied crows. He tried to push past the flames but his body rebelled, stymied by the memory of life-snatching fire. No. He had already l
ost his family to one unstoppable conflagration. He could still smell the acrid, pungent smoke, still feel the cliff-edge despair at their loss. Snatched memories of his futile attempt to reach them, pervaded his thoughts. The bitter anger of being restrained by well-meaning neighbours clawed at his heart. He would rather have died trying to save them than lived knowing that he had not. Now he had an opportunity to push through the inferno, but he could not fight, could not save himself.
Violet whimpered at the foot of the stairs. He might lack the will to protect his own life, but by God, he would not let her perish. With renewed vigour, he pushed past the oil lamp and towards the blazing table but the flames had taken hold and the smell of fuel was all around him. The man-made fire was all-consuming. Caustic soot clouds masked screaming hot flames that licked against the door and windows. He could not pass through and had no means to extinguish the fire. They were trapped.
With an overwhelming feeling of resignation, he returned to the basement and cradled Violet in his arms. She leaned into him shivering, gazing fearfully as the fire raged above. He watched with her, no longer afraid. It was his destiny. He should have known. He observed the flames with quiet acceptance, as thick plumes of smoke descended into the basement. They started choking, gasping for air and he held onto Violet as she succumbed to the smoke. Catherine appeared, before darkness finally descended, and he reached out to her.
Chapter 37
Arrest
He was choking again; coughing, retching. The smell of ammonia pervaded his nostrils. He coughed one more time, opened his eyes and looked around. He was in bed in his room at the Vicarage. Next to him stood Doctor Taylor. He was screwing the lid on a bottle.
“Sorry, old man,” he said. “Smelling salts. I would have preferred you to come around naturally, but you were taking your time about it.”
“The fire, Violet…” said Lawrence.
“Violet is alive,” said Doctor Taylor. “They got to you in time.”
“Thank goodness,” said Lawrence. “I thought she was dead.”
“She was suffering from smoke inhalation,” said the Doctor, “as you were.”
“How did we get out of there?” asked Lawrence.
“All in good time,” said Andrew Taylor.
“Tell me,” Lawrence demanded. “We are still in danger. I must speak to Violet.”
“She is still very weak,” said Doctor Taylor.
“Please,” begged Lawrence. “I must see her.”
“Very well,” said Doctor Taylor. “But no more than five minutes. Before you do, the hero of the hour is keen to see if you are still alive.”
“Hero? Who?” asked Lawrence.
“Michael,” replied the Doctor. “He was in the garden and saw flames coming from the store room. He managed to force the door open in the nick of time. I dread to think what would have happened, if he had not shown the presence of mind to tip the water barrel over and extinguish the fire.”
Doctor Taylor opened Lawrence’s door and beckoned Michael in.
“I owe you my life, it seems,” said Lawrence. “Thanking you does not seem enough.”
The tips of Michael’s ears turned pink. “It was nothing,” he said.
“Have you seen Violet?”
“Yes, she is in good shape considering how close she came to not being here at all.”
“It wasn’t an accident, Michael. Do you know who tried to kill us?”
“I will let Violet tell you that,” said Michael, “but there is nothing to fear. Inspector Draper has made an arrest.”
The door swung open and Doctor Taylor reappeared, pushing Violet in a bath chair. It looked suspiciously like the one belonging to Mrs Harris.
“Ten minutes and not a moment longer,” he commanded.
Violet was pale. She was much thinner than he remembered. Her eyes were red-rimmed and it was obvious that she had been crying.
“Are you up to this?” asked Lawrence, gently.
“I want to talk about it,” she said, “but it is difficult. There has been another victim, unintended I am sure, but another sad and unsettling death.”
“Who?” asked Lawrence.
Violet bit her lip. She tried to control herself, but a tear tracked down her cheek. “Mrs Harris died alone in the drawing room, while they were rescuing us,” she said. “Doctor Taylor thinks she suffered a heart attack.”
Lawrence took her hand. “I am so very sorry,” he said. “Here.” He produced a handkerchief which Violet used to dab her eyes.
He waited while she composed herself. Eventually, she looked up and spoke. “I suppose you are wondering where I went?” she asked.
“I think I know,” said Lawrence. “You returned the shawl.”
She nodded. “I knew I could not help with any of the research but I could find a few minutes to run the shawl back, so I did. Hannah was not in her parlour so I took the shawl to her room, and there was the parish register, lying open on her dressing table. I did not know it was missing at that stage and could not understand why she would have it at all. Then, when I went back downstairs, I saw an embroidery of a family tree upon the wall, and it all became clear.”
“I saw it too,” said Lawrence, “but I hardly noticed it and only read the names, Charles and Christian. It was not until I left, that I realised I had seen those names before. That is why I ended up in the basement. I was looking for the old Parish Register because I could not find your notes.”
Violet nodded. “I examined it more closely because the embroidery was exquisite and I admired it. I read the whole of the tree. We were only missing one small piece of information, in the end, which you may have known by then, but I did not. It was the marriage of Sarah Fayers to John Chittock. They had a daughter and that daughter had an illegitimate daughter of her own; Hannah Chittock. She became Hannah Roper by marriage. Faith Mills was at the top of the tree and Hannah at the bottom. Hannah was directly descended from the Fressingfield Witch through her daughter Honor.”
“I should have known,” exclaimed Lawrence. “I call myself a detective but I am an utter fool. I watched her lay flowers in the churchyard and read the inscription on the gravestone. Even then, I had the strangest feeling that I had seen the name Chittock before and of course I had.”
“At least you are both safe,” Michael interjected.
“Thanks to you,” said Violet. “We have both made silly mistakes. Lawrence should have known better than to visit the basement alone and I should not have gone to Hannah’s room without telling somebody. I expect I would have been safe if I had stayed in the parlour, but Hannah returned unexpectedly and caught me reading the tree,” she continued. “She must have hit me on the head, for I remember nothing until much later. I have a vague recollection of walking the streets of Fressingfield with her clutching my arm and telling me I was cursed. I could not stand straight and I cannot describe how woolly my head was. I could not get away from her.”
“She must have drugged you,” said Lawrence. “Your condition sounds much worse than a concussion.”
“She worked in the right place to do it,” Violet replied.
The door opened. “Your ten minutes are up,” said Doctor Taylor.
“But we have hardly started,” Lawrence complained.
“Too bad. That is the end of it for today. You both need bed rest. Besides, Inspector Draper is here to see you, which takes up another ten minutes of your time. Violet, you must go back to your room and rest.”
Michael wheeled Violet from the room and Inspector Draper took her place. He sat on Lawrence’s bed.
“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” he said amiably.
“I tried to,” said Lawrence. “I was only looking for Violet.”
“You should have come to me,” said the Inspector. “I could have helped.”
“In hindsight, I wish I had,” Lawrence admitted. “I very nearly died from fire for the second time in my life.”
“Well, you are safe now,” said the
Inspector. “But I would appreciate some help from you. Damned if I understand what has happened here, or why. Would you care to fill me in?”
“I can help with some of it,” said Lawrence, “it is a matter of lineage, but why it has all come to a head now, escapes me too.”
“I was afraid you would say that,” said the Inspector. “I can get nothing out of Mrs Roper. Her mind has gone. She has been raving about witches and crows and rapes and murders. It is all very nasty. Dr Taylor has examined her and is likely to recommend committal to an asylum, at least in the short term. He wants to act quickly and I need to tie up this case which could be tricky if she is protected from questioning because of her condition.”
“Let me speak to her,” said Lawrence. “I know her ancestry. It has something to do with her forebears. I may be able to get her to talk about them.”
“A somewhat irregular approach,” said the Inspector, “but I have never been one for playing by the rules. Can we do it now?”
“I am not allowed out by doctor’s orders,” said Lawrence, “But I am not one for playing by the rules either. Watch the door and I will get dressed.”
Inspector Draper left the room, watching for signs of the Doctor. He gave Lawrence five minutes to dress then tapped at the door to indicate that the coast was clear. The two men descended the stairs and slipped out into the hallway. Michael watched from the morning room in full view. Inspector Draper raised his finger to his lips and winked. Michael smiled and turned away.
Lawrence accompanied the Inspector to the Police House. Hannah was held there in the custody of Police Constable Allen Chapman who greeted them warmly. He shook Lawrence’s hand. Lawrence’s grip was clammy and he was perspiring after the short walk. He felt odd and hoped he would not pass out. Constable Chapman noticed his pallor and offered a glass of water which Lawrence readily accepted.
“Ready, then?” asked the Inspector. Lawrence nodded and followed Chapman towards a securely padlocked room. The policeman inserted the key and drew the bolt. When the door opened, Hannah was perched on the edge of an unmade bed. She was talking to herself.
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