The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  “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 that I would like you to investigate. You may be able to prevent this sorry affair causing any more distress.”

  “I’m intrigued,” said Lawrence. “What happened in Michael’s parish that has disturbed you to this degree?”

  “Witchcraft,” said Francis solemnly.

  “Oh, really,” spluttered Lawrence. “This is 1890, not the 1600’s. You can’t 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 don’t believe in the presence of demons and spirits.”

  “I wouldn’t 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 can’t 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 were only a matter of persuasion, the Reverend could manage the problem 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 occurring years before have attracted similar speculation."

  “Those deaths are no doubt distressing,” said Lawrence. “But you haven’t told me 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 wasn’t for the result of the inquest, the rumours would have dissipated long ago.”

  Lawrence rose, walked towards the mirror and adjusted his tie. “What inquest?” he asked.

  Francis reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and 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 don’t accept the case? What then?”

  “We will look for another man who will. 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 grimaced and gazed through the window, towards the obelisk in Chequer Square. “I have stayed in Bury on the anniversary these last three years and it brings no peace. Perhaps it is time…”

  Francis jumped to his feet, 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 overpowering 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. Rubber tyres covered the wheels and tempered the inevitable jolting.

  Most pleasing was being able 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’d encouraged him to participate in gatherings, which had been tolerable when she was by his side. Now she was gone, he had withdrawn again, and 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 while 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, “for a very pleasant journey."

  The cab driver smiled. "Glad to hear it, sir. Enjoy your stay."

  Lawrence strolled towards the front of The Vicarage where an elderly woman lay in a wicker bath chair on the lawn. Her companion was kneeling on the ground in front while wrapping a red and green checked tartan blanket over the woman’s 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 appeared to be a companion of sorts and perhaps felt her position was too lowly to warrant an introduction. The woman 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 pinned into an untidy pile on her head. Thick eyebrows dominated her face, and her jawline was unfemininely square. How old was she? Thirty? Forty? It was impossible to tell.

  Presently, they arrived outside a door. The woman 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 and bookshelves covered the two windowless walls 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 document.

  "Mr Harpham, I presume," said the Reverend Raven, jumping to his feet and offering 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 haven’t 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 and 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 people 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 without intervention."

  "Do particular individuals need convincing?" asked Lawrence.

  "Yes," 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 got hold of it, the village has become a laughing-stock. Worse still, people are losing respect for the church, representatives of which have asked me to intervene."

  "Who?" asked Lawrence.

  The door opened before the Reverend had the opportunity to reply and a young servant girl carried a silver tray towards the desk. The Reverend cleared a space, and she placed 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 shouldn’t 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, which should be easily achievable in a short time with minimal 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 and 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 expired, Lawrence, so much as the plague of crows in the weeks leading up to his death."

  Lawrence raised his eyebrows. "He was attacked by crows?"

  "No. The poor man had evidently upset someone, and this person left dead, decaying crows for him to find. He thought he had been cursed."

  "But he died from natural causes?"

  "Entirely. The inquest found the cause of death was sudden heart failure, but there was talk of finding dead crows near his body."

  "Surely a coincidence, and nothing more."

  "Perhaps. Harriet King found him, and it may be worthwhile questioning her if you can."

  "There’s no reason to, at this point. The presence of crows is irrelevant if he died naturally. 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, and 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 mentioned, there would be no reason to connect the deaths."

  "There may not be a reason but talk of witchcraft began with the death of Jonathan Carter and has escalated with every subsequent death. I am not suggesting that they were killed, but I will sleep more easily when I’m certain that there was no foul play. I don’t doubt that the mischief-making with crows contributed to Carter's death. The poor man was beside himself with terror."

  "So, it is not only a matter of convincing the villagers. You want me to make a proper investigation?" asked Lawrence.

  "I do," said the Reverend, "but regardless, the outcome mus
t be that all supernatural rumours are quashed. How you achieve it is up to you."

  "I’ll make enquiries at once and report back to you daily."

  "That won’t be necessary," said the Reverend turning to Michael who had been silent throughout the discussion. "Please deliver your reports to Michael. He will be on hand to assist you with anything you need. I am busy at present, and Michael's presence at The Vicarage has been invaluable. Any more distractions and I will miss the deadline for my research paper. I promised The Suffolk Institute of Archaeology that it would be ready this month. On top of that, I need to write the final chapters of The Church Bells of Suffolk." He waved towards a large pile of papers forming a disorganised heap in the corner of the room. "Time is precious."

  "Then I will leave you in peace," said Lawrence rising from his chair.

  "I am grateful," replied the Reverend. "Michael will show you to your quarters and introduce you to the rest of the household."

  Michael and Lawrence exited the room leaving the Reverend Raven pouring over his papers. As the door closed, the Reverend gazed uneasily across the garden, then walked towards the window and looked outside. The sun was peppered with grey clouds. Shadows from the rookery dappled the lawn, striped by a silhouette from the old gas lamp. The trees, crowned by bulging rooks' nests, seemed almost too slender to bear their weight. A crow cawed angrily from above, and the Reverend frowned. His hands tightened over his crucifix as he stared silently into the distance.

  Chapter 3

  Nemesis

  The hatred churned and burned within me, clutching at my heart with talons that seared through my flesh. Once it lay dormant but never vanished; never lost its power; always growing, festering, biding its time. It was my birth right, after all.

  I was the guardian of the hatred. It was mine to stoke, to burn bright, and when it flickered and fell away, it was my duty to remember what they did, remember her; and fulfil the promise of revenge.