The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Roslyn D’Onston leaned over the edge of the pier watching the waves lap gently against the side. It was mid-afternoon, and he had used all the self-discipline he could muster to drag himself away from the Cricketer’s Inn. He had endured yet another night of broken sleep, and seldom slept any other way. Last night was an interminable struggle as his restless mind dominated his exhausted body until dawn. If only he had a way to turn off his thoughts. He wondered how other people seemed to fall asleep so quickly. What trickery allowed them to rest on a pillow and drop off to order? His eyes had finally closed long after daybreak, and he’d remained in bed until the best part of the morning had passed. This lapse in routine would inevitably result in another bout of insomnia, and so it would go on. He would much rather read the daily newspaper or work on another article to sell to the Pall Mall Gazette once he returned to London. But he decided to go for a walk instead. And it would be a good long walk, as far as he could manage, given his frail health.

  He had trudged around the town for about four or five miles, circumnavigating the centre and was now at the furthest end of the pier, enjoying the soporific effects of the sea swell and the remoteness of the location. His reverie was soon disturbed when two young women arrived and plonked themselves on the bench behind him. Two boisterous young women, one of whom was bordering on hysteria. He sighed and turned to move away when the more animated of the two said something interesting enough to make it worth remaining.

  “But I called him lazybones, Nora, and all the time he was lying there dead.”

  “There, there, Milly. You weren’t to know. It’s not every day that one of your guests dies.”

  “Thank goodness,” Millicent replied. “I’ve worked at The Albion for two years, and I’ve never seen a body or even an injured guest in all that time. Miss Crosby says she has witnessed a few deaths and Mr Gilbert seemed to know what to do about it, but I don't. I dread to think what my mother will have to say. It’s not respectable working in a hotel where such things happen.”

  “How did the poor man die?”

  “Mr Gilbert says it was suicide, but Miss Crosby says not to second-guess before the inquest.”

  “Inquest?”

  “There will have to be an inquest, they say. When someone dies unexpectedly, the authorities need to know why.”

  “Was he travelling alone?”

  “Quite alone,” said Millicent, “but he works in London. Miss Crosby found a letter, and now they know how to contact his friends. It's just as well. The poor man forgot to sign the register, and we didn’t know who he was until the letter turned up.”

  “So, he has a family then? They will be sad.”

  “I don’t know about a family. But he works for an organisation.” Millicent closed her eyes as she tried to visualise the address on the letter. “SPR,” she said. “Society for something or other research. I can’t quite remember, but it doesn’t matter. The fact remains that he is dead, and it is very upsetting.”

  Millicent continued to complain about her harrowing experience, but D’Onston was no longer listening. It would be too much of a coincidence to suppose that more than one member of the SPR was staying at The Albion on the same night. So, it followed that he knew the deceased. Edmund Gurney, who D’Onston had only seen a few short hours before, was dead. And whatever the contents of the letter held by the manageress of the Hotel was nothing compared to the document D’Onston had in his possession. The beginnings of a plan began to form in his mind. For the first time in days, Roslyn D’Onston smiled.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Inquest

  Tuesday 10th Feb 1891

  Lawrence stifled a yawn as he listened to the butcher giving evidence in the same monotonous tone that he remembered from the day of the incident. It was like hearing someone reading a list. The butcher's voice neither rose nor fell, remaining dull like the drone of wasp, and a boring wasp at that.

  Lawrence had given his evidence at the beginning of the trial. He was only the second person sworn in by the Borough Coroner who had asked him to remain close at hand in case they needed him again.

  It was pure bad luck that Lawrence was in Ipswich on the day of the accident at all. He would have been in Bury had it not been such a slow day at the office which he now shared with Violet Smith. After the initial surge of interest in their newly acquired shop, all went quiet. The new signage, promoting not only Harpham Private Investigators but Smith as well, did nothing to improve matters. Enquiries ceased, and the door remained steadfastly shut. Violet busied herself promoting their services taking on several jobs that were frankly beneath them, the missing fox terrier being the worst. Lawrence, never one to confront a problem head-on, began feeling the effects of the black dog again. His self-awareness had improved over the years, and he recognised the signs before they overwhelmed him. In the early days, he would start to feel low, before becoming irritable and dissatisfied. Then, he would succumb to a crushing depression that weighed so heavily upon him that he doubted it would ever stop. If he let things get that far, he became numb, introspective and would start wallowing in self-pity. His thoughts would turn, as always, to the night Catherine died and he would agonise about whether he could have saved Lily if he had tried harder. He would re-live the night of the fire, smell the acrid smoke, and hear the dreadful crackle of the life-snatching flames. Nausea would overcome him as he wondered whether little Lily had suffered as she cried for her Daddy.

  Over the years he had learned to cope. Now when he began to feel more irritable than usual, he would do something physical. Something that required him to be active. Something that would counteract the voice inside that tormented him for daring to live. It was the reason that he had left an unimpressed Violet back in Bury Saint Edmunds to attend The Primrose League. She was, going under protest, to lunch with ladies she did not particularly like for the sake of their business. Meanwhile, Lawrence boarded a carriage bound for Ipswich where he intended to buy a new coat.

  He had dismounted at the Ipswich Buttermarket, consulted with his tailor, and was preparing to find somewhere to eat lunch when he’d heard a distant rumble. A horseless cart thundered down the street and headed straight towards him at a lick of speed. He had jumped to one side and out of harm's way, but the elderly gentleman behind him never stood a chance. The cart hit him straight on, bowling him over and running across most of his body. Lawrence rushed to the man’s aid as soon as he had recovered his wits, but to no avail. The man, it transpired, had never enjoyed good health and was dead before he hit the ground.

  Weeks later, and Lawrence was now giving evidence about the incident. The coroner had called him to the stand at exactly twenty-two minutes past nine. A rapid-fire question and answer session ensued even though Lawrence had seen little of the accident. He had gleaned most of the facts from the butcher on the day. The butcher was a talker, and Lawrence had been a captive audience. Lawrence had rushed over to the victim and tried to make him comfortable in case he was still somehow clinging to life. The butcher took the opportunity to follow Lawrence and unburden himself, giving a blow by blow account of the events leading up to the accident. It started with an accusation about spoiled meat. A long-standing customer complained that his lamp chops were rotten. The butcher, who was the owner of the cart, denied it. Things soon turned nasty. The purchaser spread the word, blackening the butcher's good name. The butcher lost money and reported him to the police. After months of hostility, the accuser passed the shop and could not resist the opportunity to give the cart a good hard shove. Fortunately, the pony was unharnessed, or the situation could have been even worse. Lawrence had listened to the story trying and failing to feign interest. The man could make a stage play sound dull.

  Eventually, Lawrence had drifted into a reverie only regaining concentration when Police Constable Claude Shalders arrived and took his statement. The part Lawrence had played was small, and he did not expect to hear any more about it. Weeks later, a letter arrived asking him to give evidence at the
inquest. He came, as requested, to the Woodhouse Street schoolroom where the Coroner habitually held court. Lawrence considered it a shocking waste of a day until he thought of a silver lining. The Coroner's court was close to Ipswich Police Station, and he was keen to visit an old friend, Inspector Fernleigh. It had been years since they had seen one another, and PC Shalders was one of Fernleigh's men. Lawrence decided to walk back to the Station with Shalders once the tedium of the Coroner’s court had ended.

  It was half-past twelve when the Coroner finally concluded matters. His verdict resulted in a gaol sentence for one man and a severe reprimand for the butcher. Lawrence, by then, was fighting to keep his eyes open, despite the draft in the old schoolroom. He had only managed to stay awake by exchanging knowing glances with PC Shalders who appeared to be suffering from boredom too. Lawrence had caught him raising his eyes heavenwards several times while the butcher was speaking. He had smiled his support knowing he should avoid over-familiarity with a junior police officer. But Shalders was almost the same age, and a partner in crime was essential if he wasn’t going to disgrace himself by falling asleep in court.

  The Coroner thanked them for their attendance and permitted them to leave. Lawrence rose, buttoned his coat, and left the court immediately. He found a pleasant spot under a tree and waited for PC Shalders to emerge.

  Shalders soon arrived. “Are you still coming back to the station, Sir?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” said Lawrence. “That was hard going. I need to walk off the boredom.”

  PC Shalders grinned. “I’m sure Inspector Fernleigh will give you something to take the edge off it,” he said.

  Lawrence nodded. “I can assure you that my visit to Fernleigh is not just because of his exceedingly good taste in port. I wouldn’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

  They traversed Woodhouse Street and passed The John Barleycorn Public House. PC Shalders raised a hand, and a middle-aged woman waved back.

  “Do you come from around here?” asked Lawrence.

  “No, not me,” said PC Shalders. “I’m from Norwich. Can’t you tell by the accent?”

  “Sorry,” Lawrence replied. “You seemed to know the landlady. I thought you might live nearby.”

  “It’s part of my old beat,” said Shalders. “But they moved me on six months ago. Being back is nice. They’re good folk around here.”

  They had reached Rope Walk and were strolling towards the town centre. PC Shalders chattered amiably, displaying great enthusiasm for the area.

  “You might think that this street is called Rope Walk because of the gaol,” he said. “On account of the fact that there were gallows inside, but that's not the reason. It was once called Rope Lane and, as you might expect, there was a rope yard here too. Then the potteries arrived, and Rope Walk pottery became popular. I'm not sure why. It was remarkably ugly. My aunt kept a few brown earthenware pots with some sort of glaze on top. Not my cup of tea at all. There was a factory here until a few decades ago.” Shalders beamed, delighted to be able to share his knowledge of the local history. They passed another bystander, and Shalders waved for the third time. PC Shalders was a warm, friendly man popular in the little community he had served until recently. A good policeman, Lawrence thought, and warmed to him.

  “Almost here, sir,” said Shalders as Lawrence spotted the familiar door of the Ipswich Police Station. Lawrence had entered that door many times while serving in the force. Though stationed in Bury Saint Edmunds, there had been many reasons to visit Ipswich. He still knew officers in the Suffolk Police force and had travelled extensively during his time in uniform. But that was before Catherine had died when he was open to the idea of sharing ideas and experiences with his fellow policeman. At one time he had a vast range of police colleagues to call upon for advice, from as far as Liverpool in the north to Exeter in the south-west, and good old Henry Moore in London. He had even collaborated with the Isle of Man constabulary on one notable occasion. But he had known Tom Fernleigh better than any of them although it had been a long time since the two had met. Too long. Lawrence’s fault. Fernleigh, like many others, had been at Catherine’s funeral and had tried hard to keep the friendship going afterwards. But Lawrence could not bear his grief, much less the pitying glances of friends. He had avoided their invitations, their offers of help, their visits even, opting instead for a self-imposed exile. That was over three years ago, and it was time to start re-building old friendships. Fernleigh would be the first. Lawrence smiled to himself as he followed Shalders into the Police Station.

  The Police Station in Princes Street was comfortingly familiar, but the smell hanging in the air by the front desk was not. Lawrence glanced at PC Shalders with an air of puzzlement.

  Shalders nodded to the Constable standing behind the reception desk. “Old Morris been in again?” he said, more in the form of a statement than a question.

  Benjamin Chenery raised his hand in acknowledgement and nodded. “Yes, the poor old boy’s a bit ripe today. I gave him a shilling for a bath, but I don’t suppose he’ll bother.”

  Shalders sighed. “The usual problem?”

  “As ever.”

  Shalders opened the door to an inner corridor, explaining as he ushered Lawrence through. “Poor old boy’s not the full ticket,” he said in his mellow Norfolk accent. “He has two grown children, smashing girls both of them. They would have him live with them in a heartbeat, but he won’t hear of it. He sleeps in a run-down old shack at the back of the railway line and walks the town all day searching for his wife. From time to time, he turns up here asking if we have found her yet.”

  “Poor chap,” Lawrence murmured. “I hope she turns up soon.”

  “She isn’t missing,” said Shalders. “She’s dead. He can't accept it.”

  They walked up the corridor towards Fernleigh’s office. Shalders continued to chat, but Lawrence was silent and deep in thought. Old Morris was wasting his life, unable to move on from the great tragedy that had befallen him. If Lawrence carried on ostrich-like for much longer, he was likely to end up the same way. He needed to stop immersing himself in solitary pursuits and start accepting invitations again.

  Shalders reached a door on his right and rapped smartly against the inset glass window.

  “Come,” a voice boomed, and Shalders waved Lawrence through before retreating to the front desk.

  “Lawrence Harpham, well, well." Inspector Fernleigh leapt from his desk and grasped Lawrence’s right hand, shaking it for far longer than necessary. “How are you, old man? It’s been a long time, a very long time. I am glad to see you. How have you been?” Fernleigh’s voice trailed off as he realised that he was beginning to repeat himself.

  “I am well,” said Lawrence, “and sorry it has taken so long to find my way here. Some things take a while to get used to.” Now it was Lawrence’s turn to run out of words.

  Fernleigh broke the silence and returned to his desk. He opened the bottom left drawer and pulled out a large bottle of port and two glasses liberally covered in scratch marks.

  “Have a drink,” he said, filling the glasses to the top. He carelessly pushed one towards Lawrence. A red ring appeared around the bottom of the glass joining many similar ring marks on the wooden desk.

  Lawrence smiled and drank a mouthful of Port. It was good, and he took another.

  “What have you been doing for the last three years?” asked Fernleigh.

  “I left the force,” said Lawrence.

  “I heard.”

  “I’m still in the business. I have an office in Bury. I’m a Private investigator.”

  “Are you now?” said Fernleigh. “That’s news to me. Good for you.”

  Lawrence was about to tell Fernleigh that he had a business partner, and a female one at that, when there was a loud knock at the door. It opened to reveal Constable Chenery.

  “There’s a report of a dead body in Lower Brook Street,” said Chenery. “It doesn’t seem to be a crime, but nobody knows who the woman
is, so you might want to attend.”

  Fernleigh considered the matter. “I do,” he said. “Do you want to join us, Lawrence? You can tell me the rest of your news on the way.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Rolling Stone

  Tuesday 10th Feb 1891

  The route between the Police Station and 45 Lower Brook Street took Lawrence past several pubs. Each one reminded him that he had recently abandoned the best part of a glass of smooth, full-bodied port. His mouth watered at the thought.

  Lawrence didn't have much appetite for dealing with the dead body. Under normal circumstances, he would have bypassed the opportunity, made his apologies and gone home. But the earlier conversation about Old Morris had shaken him. He did not want to end up like the old man and wanted to start making more of his life. It would have been useful to catch the earlier train to Bury, but the opportunity to spend more time with his old friend Fernleigh was too good to miss. He would join them in their investigation and make the best of it.

  45 Lower Brook Street was a terraced house like any other in the neighbourhood. Not too shabby, not too tidy and it came as no surprise when Lawrence learned it was a boarding house. The three men stopped outside and surveyed the building. A curtain twitched in one of the upstairs rooms. “This one’s yours,” said Inspector Fernleigh. Police Constable Shalders acknowledged his superior, strode ahead and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman who announced herself as Mrs Welton opened the door straight away. Barely a moment had passed between Shalders knock and her appearance in the doorway. She had evidently been waiting in the hall.

  “Thank goodness you are here,” she said, “I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  “Is there somewhere we can sit?” asked Inspector Fernleigh. He watched the woman with a concerned expression on his face. She was ashen, with tear-stained cheeks. She pointed towards a kitchen table at the rear with a trembling hand.

  PC Shalders guided her towards the chair, and she sat hugging her shoulders. A young child, clad in a dirty beige skirt and stockings peppered with holes, perched beside her. Shalders pulled out a wooden chair and sat with them. He patted the girl’s hand and smiled. There was only one chair left, so Lawrence and Fernleigh remained standing.