The
Lawrence Harpham Mystery Series
By Jacqueline Beard
The Lawrence Harpham Mysteries are published by Dornica Press
The author can be contacted on her website https://jacquelinebeardwriter.com/
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The Lawrence Harpham Murder Mysteries:
The Fressingfield Witch
The Ripper Deception
The Scole Confession
ISBN: 1-91-605069-7
ISBN: 978-1-91-605069-3
The
Fressingfield Witch
Copyright © 2017 Jacqueline Beard
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Dornica Press except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Lawrence Harpham Mysteries are published by Dornica Press
First Printing 2017
Publishnation
Hudibras
“Hath not this present Parliament
A leiger to the Devil sent,
Fully empowered to treat about
Finding revolted witches out?
And has he not within a year
Hanged threescore of them in one shire?”
Samuel Butler
Prologue
Fressingfield, November 1884
He awoke to a whimper barely audible above the dawn chorus, then the child screamed, and Jonathan lurched to full consciousness from the safety of sleep. Watery rays from the early morning sun shed scant light on the tiny box room he rented from his sister.
He lifted the threadbare blanket from his chest and surveyed the room. It was unseasonably warm, he thought, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. Night terrors again, no doubt, though he could not remember. His recall had all but vanished since he found the first crow, replaced by a relentless dread that masked his memories.
The stairs creaked. Harriet was taking one of the children below. Jonathan did not attempt to sleep again; the room was too dark, the lighting too shadowy. Darkness bathed the corners of the room, and he could only imagine what lurked beneath. Better to be downstairs in company. How could children sleep soundly in this house, in this village of the damned, near the witch?
Jonathan laced his hobnail boots, buttoned a worsted jacket, and pulled a tattered smock over his head. It had been many years since he’d worked in the fields, but he never lost the habit of wearing a smock, regardless of the season. It reminded him of better times, of haymaking songs, company, and sunshine; poor days but happy, before he was widowed; before he was bewitched.
He trudged downstairs and into the parlour where Harriet poked the embers of a fire. A grubbily clad child lay resting in the crook of her arm.
"You look tired," she said. "Bad dreams again?"
"Every night, sister," he muttered. "The crows...." His voice trailed off, and he stared into the distance, lost in thought.
"Forget the blessed crows," sighed Harriet. It is all nonsense. A grown man should know better."
"What would you know, woman?" he snapped. "It is I who has fallen prey to the witch."
"There are no more witches, Jon Carter." Harriet shook her head and placed the child roughly on the floor by the fire. It reached a hand towards the embers.
"No," she barked, swiping the hand away. The child rested its chin on its knees and rocked backwards and forwards, staring balefully at the fire.
"You'll do yourself no good with that sort of talk," Harriet continued, lifting a black kettle onto the stove. "You are old enough to know better."
"Nothing else accounts for the crows." Jonathan raised his head. His milky blue eyes were bloodshot with lack of sleep.
"Now, now." Harriet positioned her bulky frame on the wooden bench & shuffled closer. She took his hand. "It was a shock, Jon, and a nasty way to scare a body. But it is mischief-making pure and simple, wrought by human hands."
"But why me, and why crows?" he murmured. "Crows mean death, and there's plenty of that in the village."
"Come now, Jon," replied Harriet. "There's been nought unexpected this year except little Polly Gable's scarlet fever and Harry Roper falling off his cart. All the other deaths are from age or long-standing illness; nothing sinister."
"All very easy for you to say, sister, but you are not troubled by the crows."
"How do you know that, Jon? The last ones were rotting on the doorstep of this very cottage. Someone might have set them there to frighten me."
"You know why," Jonathan said softly. "I was alone for the curse crow. It was in my resting place, waiting for me."
"There's more folk than you break their journey on that old tree stump by the brook, Jonathan Carter," replied Harriet. "Why do you think the crow was left there for you?"
"Because Elijah Scoggins says so," Jonathan replied. "The crow was for my namesake or me."
"And how do you know so long after you found it?"
"I took the note to Scoggins," replied Jonathan. "He can read and write and knows how to keep his mouth hushed."
"What note? You never mentioned a note?"
"There was a note in the top of the stick jutting out of the crow's breast. I kept it."
"Whatever for?"
"I could not read it and was ashamed to show anyone who could. Then after the second crow...." Jonathan lifted a trembling hand to his forehead. "... my pride was put to fright, so I took it to the parish clerk."
"What did it say?" Harriet asked, patting her brother's hand.
"It said," Jonathan swallowed, "It said, 'I curse you, Jonathan Carter. Death stalks you.' He stared into Harriet's eyes. "I am bewitched."
Harriet sighed as she rose from the bench and began poking the fire again. After a few moments, she spoke. "I do not doubt that some unkind person has taken against you, brother. But there are no witches now. Doubtful there ever were. You must stop thinking such nonsense and see it for the cruel trick that it is."
"It is no trick. I cannot sleep easy. I am hot, I am cold, and my heart beats so hard and irregular, I fear it will burst. I was well before the first crow, and now I am frail and frightened."
"Well, I am not," said Harriet. She snatched a broom from the corner of the room and began vigorously sweeping the floor. "You are older than I, Jon Carter. You should know better than to let an old busy body frighten you into believing myths. And you a big, tall man to boot. I would not be worried by a few rotting crows."
"Perhaps you would not," said Jon slowly, "but George fears the crows as much as I."
"George Corbyn? My husband?" Harriet stopped sweeping and wiped her hands on her apron. "George fears no-one." She clenched her jaw and raised an eyebrow, challenging her brother to disagree.
"He tells me differently," said Jonathan. "It was George who said crows are harbingers of death. His family told stories of witchcraft and rituals, magpies, demons, and the like. He said they were warnings passed down from his ancestors. Naturally, George believes in evil."
"We all believe in evil," said Harriet. "All good God-fearing folk do, but the rest of it is stuff and nonsense. I am not surprised to hear George has been talking twaddle. His kin were always a superstitious lot, but ours were not and neither should you be."
Jon placed a hand in the small of his back & rose to his feet, wincing at the effort. "Doubtless you are right, sister," he said. "I will walk to the village now for my weekly shave. I have no wish to offend the God-fearing folk of Fressingfield when I go to church tomorrow."
&nb
sp; Harriet smiled. "Away you go to the barber's shop," she said. "Undiscovered creatures will be found in your beard hair if you do not get it shaved off soon."
Jonathan was in his seventh decade, but he walked regularly. It was over a mile to the village centre, and the distance did not usually trouble him, despite occasional palpitations. Today, it was a chore. His heart was not in it. The lane towards the village was long and straight and stretched into the distance like an insurmountable obstacle. Head bowed, he trudged along with his hands deep in the pockets of his smock. There was not another soul in sight.
It was several hours past daybreak but the lane, bordered by trees and hedges, was poorly lit. Tall trees arched towards the pathway, threatening to obscure the sky. Jonathan shrugged off a feeling of melancholy as he surveyed the dismal route ahead. He continued his lonely walk watching treetops shimmer in the billowing wind. Jonathan shivered as he neared the end of the lane and felt the first drops of rain. The drizzle turned into a shower and started seeping into his clothes.
He turned towards the village centre. The pale chimney pots of The Vicarage stood in stark relief against the sombre black of the surrounding trees gleaming like beacons of hope in a shadowy, menacing gloom. Jonathan rubbed his chest, panting. His heart skipped a beat, righted itself, and skipped another. Though the cold numbed his fingers, a bead of sweat trickled down his sideburns. He thumped his chest, trying to quell the feeling of panic that accompanied the irregular heartbeats. Palpitations that increased in frequency whenever he thought of the crows.
He reached the wooden gate at the top of the churchyard and gazed towards the familiar timber-framed rear of the Fox & Goose Inn. The red-bricked building, with its moss-covered roof, was strangely comforting. There were quicker ways to the barber's shop, but Jonathan liked routine. His Saturday morning shave ritual always took the same route from the rear gate to the fore gate of the church. Once level with the Fox & Goose, it was not far to Church Street where the barber lived. He could sit there, rest his tired legs and will his heartbeat back to normal.
He picked his way through the churchyard along the stony path, and past the graves of his ancestors. The square-towered flint church stood solidly to his left. The November sky was indigo blue and covered in dark clouds, heavy with the threat of storms. He could not remember seeing such a black sky this early in the day. The irregular gravestones seemed to ripple as he walked by and he gazed upon them through tired eyes amidst ever-increasing winds.
Once past the church, head bowed against the driving rain, Jonathan turned towards the Fox and Goose. An intricately carved figure nestled in a corner post. He touched it for luck when he was a small boy and wondered whether he should touch it now. Luck might break the curse, but his musings went no further.
A sudden noise ripped through the stillness of the churchyard. Startled, Jonathan stared towards the porch. Nobody was there. The churchyard was empty. Another shriek pierced the air and this time he recognised it - the shrill caw of a crow. He picked up his pace and hastened towards the church gate. It was only a short distance away. Across the road, he watched a woman in a black bonnet scuttle down Church Street. Only a few minutes more and he would be safe in her presence.
As he stumbled towards the gate, he noticed a puddle of black mud on the stone path, and moved closer, trying not to look as a cold dread clawed at his chest. It could not be - not in the Lord's churchyard. Pray God, no. But there was no doubt. The dark mass was all that remained of a trio of crows, fetid, stinking, and crawling with worms. Jonathan clutched his heart as he fell towards a slanted, moss-covered tombstone, and lay prone, feeling his heartbeat ebb away. The last thing he ever saw was a crow impaled upon a sharpened stick, as it tumbled to the ground by the side of his head.
Chapter 1
An Unusual Case
“Good to see you, Francis.” The tall, dark-haired man reached out to his smartly attired friend, resplendent in a top hat and woollen coat. They shook hands warmly.
“My pleasure,” said his companion. “Good of you to come under the circumstances, Lawrence.”
“Yes, it has been a long time since I’ve seen anyone from the force. I’m sure you understand,” said Lawrence.
“Naturally,” murmured Francis. “I wish I could have done more, but…” His words trailed away. “Shall we go in?” he asked.
The men were in Chequer Square in the historic town of Bury Saint Edmunds having arranged to meet by the obelisk in the centre. The structure dominated the square, but the once decorative stone panels at the foot of the obelisk, were eroded, the detail forever lost to time. Francis pointed to a square red-bricked building to the side of the Saint James tower gateway ahead. “I thought you might like to see the new Masonic Lodge before it opens,” he said.
“Yes, I would,” said Lawrence, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a lodge. My membership has lapsed, you know. Strictly speaking I shouldn’t be on the premises.”
“Ordinarily yes,” said Francis, “but I have been tasked with organising the decoration, and it’s almost finished. My men have little left to do, which is fortunate as the opening ceremony is only a few weeks away. Besides, it is quite empty today. And that is the reason I wanted to meet you there.”
The two men crossed the square and stepped up to the centrally positioned door. A semi-circular fanlight with radial bars was set above the six-panelled door. Francis reached into his pocket for a set of keys and inserted the larger key in the lock. They walked into a passageway and were met with the aroma of fresh paint. Francis opened a set of double doors and waved Lawrence into a bright room decorated in full masonic regalia.
“Very smart,” said Lawrence as he crossed the black and white square tiled room. A range of oblong windows allowed light to stream into what would otherwise have been a dark space. Above the fireplace, opposite the windows, rested a large ornate gold mirror, which reflected daylight around the room. White painted walls were adorned with the flags and banners of the masonic movement. Sumptuous cloth-covered tables contained candlesticks, goblets, and other masonic paraphernalia. Dark mahogany padded chairs stood at intervals around the room which seethed with opulence.
“I can’t see what else you need to do,” said Lawrence, striding to the top of the room. He stopped and stroked his hand over the smooth surface of one of the two spherical-topped stone carved columns. “It appears quite complete”, he continued. “The Lodge has evidently not suffered by the loss of my subscription fee”. He gestured towards several tall, intricately carved floor lights as he spoke. They were topped with expensive silver fittings and vast candles.
Francis smiled. “We do not want for members or funds,” he admitted. “Indeed, there is quite a waiting list at present, but you have already been initiated and will be welcome back whenever you choose.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” said Lawrence. “Perhaps in the future, but not yet.”
Francis did not push the point. He gestured to a chair by the window. “Sit down,” he said. “Drink?”
Lawrence nodded, and Francis uncovered a cloth from one of the cabinets. He opened the right-hand carved door and reached for a decanter and two glasses, then poured a small quantity of liquor and passed the glass to Lawrence before sitting beside him. Francis placed his hat and walking stick beneath the chair. The gold overlaid handle with an embossed square and compasses, glistened in the light.
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 led an interesting life,” murmured Lawrence, rubbing his scar through his gloved left hand, 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 such an extent that 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 don’t need a private detective,” said Lawrence, bemused. “Unless you want an opinion on your findings?”
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