The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Opposite the window, stairs descended into darkness. Though moderately mild outside, the storeroom was cold, and the closer Lawrence moved towards the steps, the colder it became. He peered into the blackness, but without illumination, it was impossible to see beyond the upper steps. Lawrence returned to the desk and reached for the bundle of candles, blowing more dust away, and flinched as the powdery particles settled on his skin.

  Lawrence shone the candle over the top of the steps. Its meagre light was barely enough to detect where the shallow flight of steps ended before petering away into inky blackness. He took a further step down and shivered, listening to his faltering breath. It was the only sound he could hear. The silence from below was deafening. An irrational fear gripped hold of him, and he stood at the top of the steps, rooted to the spot. He closed his eyes and prepared to move, then the latched doorway creaked, and his heart lurched. He turned his head slowly towards the sound to see Violet Smith. Relief coursed through his body.

  "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

  "Following, you," said Violet, ignoring his tone. She carried an oil lamp in her hand.

  "How did you know I was here?"

  "I watched you from the dining room," she said, “and saw you walk towards the storeroom. When you did not return, I assumed you had gone to the basement, and I thought it might be helpful if I brought you a light."

  She handed him the oil lamp. He set the candle on the stairs and reached for it.

  "The Reverend used this room when he first arrived in the parish," said Violet. “It is rarely used now, but when he was writing his first book, he came here often."

  Lawrence smiled. His heartbeat was beginning to return to normal, and he was relieved to be in company."

  "Did I startle you?" she asked.

  "A little," said Lawrence, "but I am grateful that you brought me the lamp. It’s unnaturally dark in the basement room. Have you ever been there?"

  "No," said Violet, "I have never needed to and cannot imagine ever choosing to."

  "Too dark?" asked Lawrence.

  "No, too poorly built," replied Violet pointing to the crumbling stone walls by the side of the top two steps.

  "I didn’t notice the damage," said Lawrence. "It was the darkness that bothered me, but now you are here, and I have a proper source of light, I will have another go. You are welcome to join me."

  He held the oil lamp aloft, relieved to see that it provided a greater arc of light than the candle, and he descended the steps with confidence. The short stairway led to a compact cellar with an arched roof in which he could not stand without bowing his head. Not only were the stairs in a bad state of repair, but bricks were crumbling at the lower part of the roof and towards the back wall. The structure seemed to be the remains of a wine cellar or icehouse. It was damp, and Lawrence recoiled at the smell of mould. "How on earth do any papers survive here," he asked.

  The parish chest was squashed against the back wall only feet away from where he stood by the steps. "I won’t come any further," said Violet. "This tiny room will not easily accommodate two people at once."

  "Can you hold the lamp?" asked Lawrence passing it to her. He knelt before the long oak chest, wiping dust away with his hands. Three iron hasps were set upon the ancient box, punctuating the wood at intervals. Further ornate ironwork decorated the lid.

  "This box is very old," said Lawrence, and exquisitely crafted. It’s too handsome to be languishing down here in the dark. Why isn’t it kept in the church?"

  "I don't know," said Violet, "but there's a newer chest in the vestry. Perhaps it replaced this one?”

  "Perhaps," agreed Lawrence unhooking the hasps from their iron counterparts. They unlatched with a satisfying crunch. "No padlocks," he said, heaving the lid open. "It's very heavy".

  He braced himself for another onslaught of damp and mildew, but the smell inside reminded him of the aroma of his old school library. He brushed his fingers across the lumpy leaden lined lid and looked at the perfectly preserved contents. Books, papers, and parchments littered the floor of the chest in no discernible order. He reached for a burgundy leather-bound ledger and flicked the pages open. Spidery writing recorded parish births, deaths, and banns until the late 1600s. "These are very old indeed," he said.

  "Why do you want them?" asked Violet shifting the lamp from one hand to another to redistribute the weight.

  "A name has cropped up during my investigation," said Lawrence. "I am hoping to find mention of her in some of these papers."

  "That will take some time," said Violet gazing at the mound of documents within the chest. "Which records do you need."

  "I have no idea," said Lawrence. "The Reverend did not tell me which books to use. I suppose I’ll have to look through each of them a few at a time, but not here. I think it’s safe to assume the Reverend's tacit consent to read them anywhere. They can come into The Vicarage where I can deal with them in more comfortable surroundings."

  Lawrence shivered. He was emboldened now that Violet was close by with an effective means of light. Even so, the underground room with its hidden chest felt secretive and menacing.

  "Will you be much longer?" asked Violet, adjusting her shawl over her shoulders with her free hand. "I didn’t expect to be away for so long. Mrs Harris may need me."

  "No, I am leaving now," he said, "give me one more moment."

  Lawrence picked through the contents of the chest, and selected two small leather-bound books, a pile of papers and several scrolls of parchment. Clasping them to his chest, he followed Violet upstairs.

  She turned the wick of the lamp to its lowest setting, then cupping her hand around the glass, she extinguished the flame. "I will leave this in the orangery in case you need it again," she said.

  "Thank you," replied Lawrence as they left the storeroom and walked towards the rear of The Vicarage. "I hope I have chosen well with these records. I am not in any hurry to return to this basement if it’s avoidable."

  "And you can’t return tomorrow until we have been to Wingfield," said Violet.

  "Ah, Michael has spoken to you?" asked Lawrence, fidgeting with the papers. He felt discomforted by the prospect of travelling in the same confined space as Loveday and Violet Smith. Loveday was frank, disarming, and beautiful; Violet Smith a plain Jane, reserved and practical. She would not approve of Loveday, he was sure. Did her approval, or lack of it, matter?

  "Yes," she said, "Michael has arranged the carriage for two o'clock. Meet us outside the front of The Vicarage and don’t be late." She disappeared through the morning room doors.

  Lawrence returned to his room and spread the registers and papers over his dressing table. He unfurled one of the scrolls and cast an eye over the entries relating to the resettlement of poor people from the parish. A second scroll dated 1632 was entitled 'Bastardy Bonds'. A third was inscribed in Latin. Lawrence deciphered a few words using schoolboy Latin, but his knowledge was insufficient to translate the whole document, and he gave up.

  He found the first mention of her name in a small, brown book, which was noticeably more modern than the parchments and scrolls. The ink was darker, fresher, the paper newer, pages almost pristine beneath the heavy cover. He read the front page. 'An account of the desecration of local Suffolk churches by William Dowsing'.

  He read on, fascinated. Lawrence's father had been a historian, not by qualification but by inclination. Lawrence had been greedy for his accounts of English history when he was a boy. He remembered something of William Dowsing, who was not admired by his father. Dowsing was a Puritan soldier appointed to remove items of superstition and idolatry from Cambridgeshire and Suffolk churches. Lawrence remembered a heated discussion with his father many years before when Mr Harpham senior expressed his disgust at the desecration. It was not because he was a religious man, but because the idea of destroying irreplaceable historical items was abhorrent.

  The brown book was a journal set out in two parts, with the first part containing a transc
ript of William Dowsing's account of those churches he defiled. Lawrence read a few pages detailing the defacement of crosses in Offton with more of the same to follow including the removal of a font in Flowton and the ruin of superstitious pictures in Barking. The account continued in the same vein, bearing cold, factual reports. Items removed from each church were recorded, including details of and how and where they had been destroyed.

  A single blank page in the middle of the book broke Dowsing's account. The following page was thicker with a heavy parchment attached containing a statement by Thomas Eley, churchwarden of Wetheringsett. Eley lamented the dreadful damage caused to their church, writing in detail of his attempts to right the damage, referencing the costs required to make repairs.

  It was a dull account, and Lawrence turned several pages at once and read on. The next chapter covered the destruction to Laxfield parish church. Reverend Adamson was the rector there and his recollection, like Eley's, was pasted into the journal. But Adamson's account was personal, capturing his fears for the church and congregation. It must have been written soon after he received notice that soldiers would be arriving within twenty days. Adamson had recorded his thoughts about the intended desecration. He had been warned that all crosses, brasses, and superstitious paintings would be destroyed, but he still prayed for leniency. Laxfield was William Dowsing's place of birth, and the Reverend Adamson hoped he might spare the church out of sentimentality. The journal recorded his prayers for restraint and his fervent wishes that Laxfield would fare better than the other churches.

  When ten days passed and the soldiers had not arrived, the Reverend thought his prayers had been answered, and that Dowsing had relented. But on the eleventh day, they came while he was absent from the church and ravaged the holy place in an orgy of destruction. The remains of the paintings and statues were dumped in the graveyard, too ruined for restoration. But it was the last paragraph of Adamson's account that caught Lawrence's notice. The Vicar had recorded his return in detail, writing of a woman he encountered praying in the graveyard on her hands and knees. She was sobbing over the damaged items and had borne witness to the defilement. Her name was Faith Mills, and she dwelt in the parish of Fressingfield.

  Lawrence closed the book. Fressingfield had a perfectly good church of its own. Why had Faith Mills worshipped in Laxfield?

  Chapter 12

  Nemesis

  So, there is one in the village come to spy on us. I have heard talk of him from several sources. He is indiscrete, his futile intentions all too clear. He wants to know what cannot be known and pry into matters that do not concern him. How dare he try to intervene in our plans.

  The Church is behind this, of course - always interfering in our lives, telling us what to do. But where were they when we needed comfort? They judged us and could not soothe the pain. They can never heal the gaping wound of loss.

  I remembered her this morning; a rare occurrence for it is the one who bore new life who intrudes into my thoughts most often. It was she who lived and fanned the flames of hatred the rest of her earthly life. And his. Her hatred lived on through her son.

  And so, it was passed to me through the generations. I can recite the lineage as well as my mother and her mother and all the ancestors who came before us. Faith, Honor, Charles, Thomas, Thomas, and so it goes on ten generations back. Ten generations who nurtured the tale and conveyed their bittersweet odium to the next.

  It was the rope that pre-empted the memory, and not for the first time. I was attending to my duties when I saw it and stood transfixed as the Carter grunted and laboured while moving his wares. He untied a hemp sack, bound with a heavy rope that dangled from a pulley on his cart. My hands flew instinctively to my neck as I imagined the feel of the rope against my skin, choking me as rough fibres tore into my flesh. How did it feel, Faith, when it happened to you? Were you bathed in the force of the hatred that burnt in the heart of your offspring as she watched you die?

  This stranger, this intruder who moves unwanted among us, knows nothing, less than nothing of what he thinks he seeks. He cannot thwart us and will never understand what drives us. The means to find our secrets do not exist, except within my soul; and I will not tell him. Things will calm down, and he will go away. It will be as if he never existed. We have already destroyed our enemies. There is no cause to expose our presence again. Life can continue as it ever did, bound in hatred to the ancestors, but with no call to action, only an obligation to remember as I do every day. My daily mantra, Faith, Honor, Charles, Thomas, Thomas, James, Ann...

  Chapter 13

  Honor - Accused

  I begged her not to do it, but she was unmoved, her desire for justice too fierce to quell. I knew no good would come of it. Who were we, after all? Incomers to a village duty-bound to take us by accident of my mother's birth. We had no history here, and they knew us only from our aunt and ancient memories. They owed us no loyalty by kinship or acquaintance.

  She would not let me rise that morning and bade me remain in the truckle bed at rest. She awoke and dressed before the cock crowed, her usually passive face thin-lipped with anger and she slammed the door as she left. I cannot say how long she was gone for my mind, dark with a vengeance, slipped between fretful sleep and torpor. She returned mid-morning, red-faced and shaking with anger. As the door opened, I pulled a threadbare blanket over my shoulders and sat next to my Aunt Bennett in the parlour waiting for Mother to speak. Aunt Bennett reached for my hand and drew me close. She had not questioned me since my return the previous night, nor mentioned the bruises on my face, but somehow, she knew. She raised her head towards my mother and asked, "how did you fare?"

  I watched the look that passed between them and wondered how much my mother had told her. Mother was too angry for any attempt at discretion and answered, frankly.

  She told us that she’d arrived at the Page Farm and made straight for the kitchen, entering the door without knocking first. She confronted Mrs Page, who was toiling at the stove, near to Suki and the two youngest children. Suki took one look at the expression on my mother's face and fled from the room with the children in tow. Mother walked towards Mrs Page and stood so close that she could smell her sickly breath. "Where is your husband," she hissed.

  Mrs Page laughed in her face and accused her of birthing a harlot, screaming accusations about my behaviour, and claiming that I had seduced her husband. She said I’d bewitched him with magic, or he would never have touched me. My mother took a deep breath, narrowed her eyes, and said, very calmly, that Page was at fault and would pay for his sins. Her voice was quiet, menacing, and she trembled with anger. Martha Page cowered at the sight of her, transfixed by Mother’s controlled ire. Mother sensed her fear and stepped forward, raising her hand. Martha dropped to her knees, pale eyes bulging in fright. When she returned, Mother said that she’d been tempted as never before, longing to feel the satisfaction of administering a stinging slap to Martha's pasty skin. But she looked down at the pathetic woman before her and relented, feeling only pity. Living with her cruel, coward of a husband was punishment enough. Mother lowered her hand, shook her head, and turned away without another word. She’d left the farm and walked home.

  At first, Mother was buoyed with anger but as she approached the village, frustration gained the upper hand. Her lowly position in life had led us to this moment. If she was still a merchant's wife in Lavenham, I would not have been working for such people. Her position in society would have afforded us protection. She felt responsible for my condition and resolved to approach the magistrates and plead for justice.

  As she walked down Cratfield Road, she met a man riding along the highway ahead and recognised him as John Brame, a man influential within the parish. She’d thought his presence a good omen and decided to approach him and make her case. Before she drew level, his horse inexplicably took fright and unseated him, and he fell in an undignified heap on the road before her. She moved towards him, offering her hand to help him up, but he pushed it away
and dusted himself down, cursing at Mother for startling his ride. By the time she returned home, her anger was once more aflame.

  Aunt Bennett and I listened as she spoke remaining together in the parlour for several hours while Patience and the younger children played outside. Mother grew calmer as we talked, and we made plans to accommodate our new situation. Mother would not let me return to the Page farm or any other. She decided, instead, to seek work to support the family, at least until I recovered from the worst of my ordeal. I would stay at home for the next few weeks and attend to the needs of my aunt and siblings. The money my mother had realised from the sale of our few possessions had long since been spent. The younger children would need to play their part in supporting the household but could not return to the Page farm. Mother decided to take Alice and Walter to another nearby farm instead where they could still earn a little by picking stones in the field. Mother would also find farm work herself.

  The next day she applied to Bird's farm on the Laxfield Road. It was spring and the beginning of lambing season. Even with the threat of impending war, seasonal farm work was always available. They employed Mother the same day and for the first few weeks, the hard toil was bearable, and she earned enough for us to survive.

  Our good fortune did not last. The evil that dogged Mother to her death began abruptly, midway through the second month that she worked on the farm. It was a balmy spring day and Mother had been labouring in the fields during the morning, her face and neck glowing red from the lazy April sun. She was relieved of her field chores and sent to the dairy early in the afternoon but was roused from her task at the sound of a commotion in the yard. She ran outside and joined a small crowd of workers who watched as one of the farmhands ran from the top field bellowing for the farmer. He rushed to the yard, pallid and out of breath, hands and smock smeared with fresh blood. The farmer emerged from the side porch, demanding to know what was going on. The farmhand pointed to the top field with a trembling finger, and they set off together at a brisk pace, the other workers trailing behind. They reached the field as a cloud of flies rose above the side of the fence nearest to the farmhouse. Below the buzzing mass lay two sheep side by side; their innards splayed across their white fleeces. Blood pooled in the grass.