The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Mother found him in the garden when she was feeding the chickens. He had not gone to the Guild Hall as he said he would. Instead, he’d tied a rope to the old oak tree at the bottom of our land and hung himself while we were inside. He’d dangled there swinging until she found him, and we knew nothing of it until she rushed into the house, white-faced, and trembling. She took our hands and led us to the Guild Hal without a word. In her shock, she had not known what to do or how to cut him down and sought help from his merchant partners. They returned with her, leaving us at the Hall, then cut him down and left him laid out on the table.

  Worse followed. Father had died in debt, insolvent and in shame. He must have known what was looming, for within days of his death, the bailiffs arrived. Mother watched helplessly as they carried furniture and silver from our house. I could not contain myself when they tried to take my father's silver tankard. I snatched it back, but they wrenched it from my grasp, and I scratched the bailiff's man until he struck me across the face. I reeled from the shock and fell beside the doorway, staring at them, willing their lives away. I would have given anything to punish them at that moment. Mother picked me from the floor and gathered her younger children in her arms while the men continued with their task as if they hadn’t a care. My sister, Patience, rocked back and forth by the fireplace moaning pitifully at the disruption to her routine.

  When they finished, and the house was devoid of anything of value, they left. We waited together, wondering what would happen next. It was not the end of the invasion. A sharp rap at the door proceeded the portly form of Mr Fiske who stuttered awkwardly as he informed my mother that the rent was in arrears. He said she must clear the outstanding balance immediately, and she told him that she wished she could but did not have the means to do so. He said that he was sorry and gave her four days to arrange matters, then he left the premises.

  Mother asked me to mind the younger children then walked the four miles to my aunt's house in Thorpe Morieux. She begged my aunt for help, imploring her to take us in, and later told me that my aunt was sympathetic, but my uncle was not. He wasn’t prepared to sacrifice the comfort of his own family and told her to find another means of help. My aunt muttered her apologies before pressing a few farthings into Mother's hand and shut the door on her leaving Mother with no choice but to trudge back to Lavenham. She arrived as dusk fell.

  The next day, Mother visited every one of her friends and acquaintances. There was no lack of kindness from them. Indeed, many of her friends were similarly troubled by their own decline in fortunes. They donated food, clothes, and coins but none could offer us a home. By the end of the day, it was evident that we must leave Lavenham or risk ending up in the House of Correction. Then, Mother remembered that she had an elderly aunt still living in Suffolk, upon whom she might be able to prevail.

  We left town at dusk the next day, our scant possessions piled into a cart that Mother had hired with some of the donated coins. Little remained after the bailiff's visit and everything we owned fitted snugly into a single cart. The bailiffs had overlooked some pewter and two rolls of cloth which had been stored in the outhouse, and we managed to retrieve them. When the cart was full, we climbed aboard, sitting next to four chickens and an old house cat, and a well-meaning friend thrust a basket of food into mother's hands for the journey ahead. She stammered her thanks, eyes misty with tears. As we moved away, I watched the timbered house fade into the distance. The cart rumbled through the street towards Fressingfield and we travelled in silence contemplating our new lives. As the town disappeared and day turned to night, my thoughts turned darker. All I could see in my mind's eye was the vision of my father's body swinging from the tree.

  Chapter 8

  A Sensible Woman

  "We meet again. So soon," cried Loveday, "what a lovely surprise."

  Lawrence flinched. Having recently left William in the churchyard, he was still engrossed with thoughts of decaying crows and the credulity of men and had thought himself entirely alone.

  "Did I startle you?" asked Loveday. "I didn’t mean to, but I saw you ahead and thought I would catch you up." Her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathless with exertion.

  "Hello, Loveday," he said, thinking how much he would rather be alone. Since the tragedy, he needed silence to process his thoughts. It took an act of supreme concentration to weed the bearable from the relentless negativity that had consumed him in the earlier days. This business about the crows unnerved him. He was unsettled, anxious; the mantle of gloom threatening to overwhelm him again. He wondered if he should have accepted the investigation in the first place. Still, social conventions warranted a reply. "Where is Emily?" he asked, by way of conversation.

  "I gave her the slip," she smiled. "Honestly, Lawrence. There are only so many books a girl can read and only so many dull conversations she can have without becoming a dullard herself."

  "That is no way to speak of a friend," said Lawrence.

  "Don't scold me," complained Loveday. "Emily is a dear girl, and I am fond of her, but we have been thrown together so much that she begins to irritate. I have removed myself from her presence for the sake of our friendship."

  "How noble of you," smiled Lawrence. "And where are you removing yourself to?"

  "I thought I would call into the haberdashery. They are expecting some new textiles and I need more dresses before I go back to India. Will you walk with me?"

  "If it pleases you," murmured Lawrence.

  "It pleases me very much," she laughed, "but am I taking you away from your intended route?"

  "Not at all, though you are very inquisitive, Loveday," he said. "To tell the truth, I don’t know where I am going until I find out certain addresses. I dare say the local shop keepers will know."

  "Or you could ask me," she said.

  "I thought you’d only recently arrived here," said Lawrence.

  "I’ve been around long enough to familiarise myself with the local people and I am very good at making friends."

  "Very well, then. Where does Elijah Scoggins reside?"

  "I don't know. Is he a shopkeeper?"

  "No. He's the Parish Clerk."

  "Well, you can't expect me to know where he lives," she frowned. "Try another."

  "Mrs Hannah Roper?"

  "That's better. I can tell you that," Loveday exclaimed. "You see. I’m helpful after all, am I not?"

  "I can't say until you tell me what you know."

  Loveday put her hand on his arm. "I’ll tell you where she lives if you do something for me."

  Lawrence sighed. "What do you want, Loveday?"

  "Walk to Wingfield with me tomorrow. An old family friend lives there and I promised to look her up. Emily doesn’t know her and will not join me."

  Lawrence turned to face her. "Loveday, we have been acquainted for less than four hours. Why do you want me to come with you? It is hardly appropriate."

  "I told you, I care nothing for social conventions."

  "Well, you should."

  "I will go, with or without you," cajoled Loveday. "I could be set upon travelling alone, and you would be guilt-ridden for the rest of your life. It would be much better if you walked with me. You can tell me all about yourself. It might be fun."

  Lawrence laughed. It was impossible to be angry with her, despite his reservations about her maturity. She was refreshingly honest, captivatingly frank and with an enticing spark of danger. But she was young, and there was over twenty years between them. An image of Catherine flashed into his mind, unbidden but not unwelcome. Catherine. Three years was not enough time for her influence to have waned. Would she approve, or think him an old fool? It gave him pause enough to give a considered response.

  "I don’t think so," he said.

  Loveday's face fell. "You would have me murdered on the roads?" she asked mournfully.

  "I have a better idea," he said. "But I need to speak to Michael first. Promise me that you won’t go walking to Wingfield alone in the meantime."


  She sighed. "I can only promise that I’ll wait twenty-four hours for your reply. That is all."

  "It will do for now," he replied. "Now tell me, where I can find Mrs Roper?"

  "She’s probably in her rooms at the Post Office,” replied Loveday. "She’s lodging with the family and helps behind the counter."

  "And where is the Post Office?" he asked.

  "There," said Loveday, pointing directly ahead. "Next door to the drapers."

  They walked towards the terrace of red brick buildings, then Lawrence tipped his hat and murmured goodbye. Loveday barely noticed him leave and stared distractedly at the fabric-clad mannequin in the drapery window.

  The bell jangled as Lawrence entered the Post Office. To his right, a mahogany counter ran down the entire length of the room. Directly opposite was a smaller counter containing a large metallic till, above which tiny wooden drawers filled the wall. A variety of jars and bottles were stacked above the cabinets, and an overpowering smell of mothballs emanated from the drawers. Lawrence glanced to the left-hand counter where a man perched on a stool while spooning white powder into the shallow bowl of a set of scales. A tiny weight had been placed on the opposite bowl, and he watched studiously as the scales re-balanced.

  The man looked up as Lawrence entered. "Potion or post?" he asked.

  "I am sorry?" Lawrence replied.

  "No, I am sorry," said the man, good-humouredly. "Only my little joke. Do you need the services of the Chemist or the Postmaster? It is Hobson's choice, either way for I am both."

  "Neither actually," said Lawrence, "I was hoping to speak with Mrs Roper."

  "Of course, she is around somewhere. Please wait a moment, and I will fetch her."

  The shop keeper disappeared through the door at the end of the room and emerged a few moments later, accompanied by a matronly woman wearing a dark dress of indeterminate colour. Her greying auburn hair was swept tidily under a small lace bonnet.

  "Your visitor," said the Chemist, gesturing towards Lawrence.

  Mrs Roper wiped her hands on a tea cloth. "Do I know you?" she asked.

  "Not at all," said Lawrence.

  "Then, how can I help?"

  "Forgive me if this seems insensitive after such short a short period of mourning, but I’d like to ask your opinion on the late Mrs Mary Corbyn."

  Hannah Roper looked towards the floor, her lip trembling. "She was my friend," she said.

  "I know," said Lawrence gently. "That is why I would like to talk to you."

  "About what?" she asked. "There has been so much talk about Mary there is little left to say. Who sent you?"

  Lawrence scanned the room. Mr Lait had returned to the other side of the counter and was decanting pills from a bottle into a paper envelope. He whistled as he worked.

  Lawrence lowered his voice. "I am here on behalf of the Vicar," he said. There are a lot of rumours about Mary, and I need to know more about her character..." His voice trailed away as he struggled to think of a single reason why the woman standing before him should feel any obligation to help.

  "You mean all that talk of witchcraft, I suppose," she said. Her accent was strong - a deep, rich Suffolk twang with long, languorous vowels, gentle and soft. He prepared himself for another barrage of superstitious ignorance.

  "I don’t believe a word of it," she said. "it is all nonsense."

  Lawrence smiled as he studied her face. It was plump and plain, no-nonsense, and sensible. A rational woman. Good.

  "You appear to be alone in that view," said Lawrence. "It would be refreshing to hear an account of Mary untarnished by talk of witches. What can you tell me about her?"

  Hannah nodded. "Come into the parlour, and we can talk."

  Lawrence followed her through the door and into a warm room containing a large range covered in pots and pans which bubbled productively. A square table full of empty jam jars occupied the middle part of the room. Hannah lifted a heavy kettle from the range. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked.

  Lawrence nodded, watching as she dispensed hot water over the tea strainer and into the pot. She put two cups and saucers on the table and poured the steaming brew. Then, sat on a wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. She gestured towards the facing chair. "What exactly do you want to know?" she asked.

  "Why was Mary disliked by so many people," asked Lawrence. "Gossip and rumours are commonplace in villages, but they don’t usually stick. Why do people believe all this talk of witchcraft?"

  "I see," replied Hannah. "there are no easy answers to your questions. Mary has always attracted gossip, almost from the first day that she arrived in the village."

  "Why?" asked Lawrence.

  "Because she was so involved with everyone. She cared for them and looked after them."

  "That’s not much of a reason to be disliked. Quite the contrary."

  "It was the manner of it," Hannah replied. "You are well-dressed, and probably do not want for money. When you suffer an ailment, do you seek the services of a doctor?"

  "Naturally," said Lawrence."

  "It is natural for you," said Hannah, but it is not always an option for poor people. When times are difficult, they must decide between health, heat and hunger."

  "I suppose they must," agreed Lawrence, "but what has this to do with Mary Ann Corbyn?"

  "She knew a little of medical matters and treated ailments with herbs and poultices and the like. If a young girl got into trouble, she went to Mary."

  "Then she was performing a useful service," said Lawrence, “which doesn’t explain the animosity towards her."

  "No, but her behaviour altered after a while - after her first husband died, in fact. I suppose you could say both our lives changed, for my dear Harry died the same year."

  "I am sorry to hear that," murmured Lawrence.

  "Thank you," said Hannah, clenching her jaw, in an apparent attempt to control her emotions. It failed, and tears pricked her eyes. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the dark circles beneath.

  She took a deep breath, composed herself and continued. "Mary and I grew closer," she said, "united in grief as we were, helping and consoling each other through our loss. Mary kept busy dispensing her potions and powders, and I began working at the Post Office. But over time she became less interested in medicine and more involved in scrying."

  "Scrying?" asked Lawrence.

  "Fortune-telling," said Hannah. "Helping silly young girls to find husbands by making charms and reading cards. All nonsense, of course, but she came to believe she had a gift for such things."

  "And did everyone believe in this gift?"

  "Not at first," said Hannah. "But the second year after the death of her husband, she predicted Harriet Corbyn would die, and so it came to pass."

  "Harriet Corbyn died?"

  "Yes. She was over seventy years old and suffered from heart problems so there was no reason to suppose it was anything more than a fortunate guess. But Mary spoke of it with such satisfaction that people began to wonder. They disliked her manner and thought she may have wished the death upon Harriet rather than predicted it."

  "Who would think such a silly thing?"

  "George Corbyn's family," said Hannah. "None of them liked Mary, particularly his daughter Sarah. Mary could not understand their resentment. It saddened her to begin with, then she provoked it. She was not a good judge of character and did not appreciate that her behaviour was inappropriate. I cautioned her to be more understanding and she tried at first but to no avail. Then, to everyone's astonishment, George Corbyn married her."

  "That must have come as a shock to Sarah," said Lawrence.

  "It did," agreed Hannah. "She could never have envisaged it. I was fortunate that Mary confided in me before they wed, so I was in the know, but Sarah was not. She disliked Mary enough before the marriage, but afterwards, she detested her."

  "Did the rest of the family feel the same?"

  "They tried to like her. George's brother
William did not mind her so much as the others. He was kind to her when they were not and was the only one who did not actively dislike her in the end."

  "Mary sounds a little odd," said Lawrence, "but I haven’t heard anything to think she was wicked and certainly not a witch. The hostility seems far greater than the crime."

  "As I said, her behaviour changed and grew increasingly more provocative," said Hannah. "When she married George Corbyn, men would mock him, telling him that he had been bewitched. It was a bit of fun, to begin with, but his family hated the ridicule. The harder Mary tried to fit in, the less the family liked her which was difficult as they all lived under one roof. Then not long after they married, one of the farm worker's wives sought Mary's help with a sore on her leg that would not heal. Mary gave her a salve, but within days her leg had swollen, and the wound began to suppurate. By the end of the week, her leg had turned black, the flesh rotten."

  Lawrence shuddered. "What became of her?"

  "She died," said Hannah, "died in agony. Her leg should have come off, but she would not see a doctor. Her husband blamed Mary. He said it was her filthy potion that had caused his wife's death, but Mary was unsympathetic. She told him that if his wife had kept the wound clean, the salve would have worked very well."

  "No doubt that was true," said Lawrence, "but not tactful."

  "No," replied Hannah. "The husband was beside himself with grief and rage. He called her a witch and told everyone who listened that she had done it on purpose."

  "Poor Mary," said Lawrence, "it sounds as if she was only trying to help."

  "Not entirely," said Hannah. "Her services were not free, which was another reason the husband was angry. They were a poor family who could ill-afford medical care, even the small amount Mary charged. "He asked Mary to return the money that his wife had paid, but Mary refused. When Sarah came to hear of it, she would not have Mary back in the house. It took many months for her to relent, but by then her relationship with Mary was ruined beyond repair."