The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "What are you talking about."

  "The inscription in the Bible. There's a verse inside, and the bookseller has signed it. He's from Mann Island. I know that name, but I can't remember where it is."

  "Hmm," Violet half listened as she watched over the dead man, still reluctant to leave him.

  "That's it," exclaimed Lawrence, clicking his fingers. "I jolly well ought to know. Mann Island is in Liverpool. It's not far from my uncle. Are you listening, Violet?"

  "Yes," she snapped. "What does it matter. A man is lying dead, and all you can think about is the provenance of his Bible. Why are you so interested? And who is this other Edward?"

  "Who indeed?" said Lawrence. He paced for a few moments, then returned to the packing crate and opened the Bible again.

  "I knew it," he cried. "I must be getting old, Violet. Of course, the name is familiar. It's been all over the newspapers."

  "What has?"

  "The murder of Edward Moyse earlier this year in Liverpool."

  "It can't be that Edward Moyse?"

  "It must be. Moyse was a bookseller in Mann Island."

  Lawrence clutched his forehead. "Honestly, Violet. I'm losing my faculties."

  Two men rushed into the shed before Violet had time to respond.

  "George Riches," said the shorter man reaching out his hand. "I own the brickyard. Mr Bowden was one of my men. This gentleman is the coroner."

  "I am Lawrence Harpham, and this is Violet. We are very sorry for your loss."

  The coroner knelt and inspected the body. "I can confirm that life is extinct. He's probably been dead for a few hours. Did you find him?"

  "No, it was George Cotton – his son-in-law.

  "Thank you. There's nothing else you can do," said the coroner. "Leave us to it."

  Lawrence nodded and guided Violet towards the door, passing by the packing crate. He waited until both men were facing the body, then discreetly lifted the Bible and placed it in his breast pocket.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Bible

  "If you'd told me it would be this damp, I would have changed my shoes," said Violet, struggling to keep up with Lawrence's rangy pace.

  "Sorry, you should have said. I'll slow down so you can avoid the wet grass," Lawrence replied.

  "What's the rush, anyway?"

  "There isn't one. I'd just rather be doing something than nothing."

  Violet sighed. They had returned to the Battersea residence straight after their unfortunate encounter with what remained of Edward Bowden. By the time they reached the villa, Lady Battersea had left for an engagement at the Belfry school while Lord Battersea and the Farrow brothers had gone for a round of golf at the Cromer golf course.

  "He made a quick recovery," said Lawrence after the housemaid informed him that Francis was much improved.

  "There's not much that Doctor Morses' compound syrup doesn't fix," she'd replied. "Now, can I offer you tea or coffee?"

  Lawrence declined, opting to meet the men at the golf course instead. "It's not far," he had told Violet, and they set off at a brisk pace down Paul's Lane. They considered walking past the ruined church and along the main Cromer Road but settled for a walk across the cliffs.

  The grass was still damp from the early morning dew. As Violet's shoes grew wetter, she became more irritable and struggled to disguise it. Lawrence was eager to discuss the Bible that they had found near the hanging body, but Violet was reluctant. She always found death unsettling, but this time was worse than usual. Lawrence became increasingly concerned over her mood, as it veered between sadness and anger. The longer they walked, the more distressed Violet became. Eventually, she turned to Lawrence and asked him to make a solemn promise never to suffer in silence if he was feeling low. Understanding at once that her fears came from witnessing the suicide, he reached for her hand and brushed it against his lips.

  "You know I always seek you out if I am worried," he said. "Like I did last night."

  She smiled, expecting him to drop her hand, but he did not. They were still walking hand in hand when they approached the Royal Cromer Golf Club.

  "Look," said Violet, pointing to a group of men in the distance.

  "There they are," said Lawrence. "Michael is wearing his dog collar."

  Lawrence raised a hand as they approached while Lord Battersea stepped forward and removed a golfing iron from his bag. Lawrence placed his finger to his lips and whispered. "Wait." They stood in silence until Battersea had taken his shot which whistled down the course and onto the dogleg.

  "Well done," said his partner approvingly.

  "Hello. Good to see you've caught us up," said Francis Farrow, patting Lawrence on the back.

  "Who is Lord Battersea playing with?" asked Lawrence.

  "None other than the great Willie Aveston," said Francis.

  "Is that supposed to mean something?"

  "Not to a philistine like you, with no love for the noble game. He is a professional golfer and very well regarded," said Francis.

  Lawrence shrugged.

  "Shall we go, then?" asked Michael, watching Lord Battersea and Willie Aveston walking down the course to take their next shots.

  Lawrence put his hand out. "It feels like rain," he said.

  "Nonsense," said Francis Farrow, but within moments the heavens opened.

  "They're not going to stay out in this?" asked Michael striding towards the clubhouse.

  "I expect so," replied Francis. "Anyway, it will soon be over."

  They settled inside watching from the window. Michael and Violet cupped mugs of tea while Lawrence and Francis nursed brandies.

  "Where did you two go after I left you this morning?" asked Francis.

  Lawrence and Violet exchanged glances. "You tell him," said Lawrence as Violet recounted their experience.

  "But that's not all," said Lawrence, interrupting her as she described the mean little pile of coins and the handkerchief on the packing crate.

  "He left a Bible from a bookstall run by none other than Edward Moyse."

  "The murder victim?" asked Michael.

  "The very same."

  "Dashed odd," said Francis. "Still, there's a Bible seller in every town."

  "Fascinating, don't you think?" asked Lawrence.

  Francis grunted.

  "I've still got the Bible," said Lawrence. "I suppose I ought to take it back. I had better find out where the family live."

  "Who are they?" asked Michael.

  Lawrence screwed up his eyes in concentration. "The dead man is called Bowden, and his son-in-law is George Cotton."

  "Gunton Terrace, then," said Michael.

  "How the devil do you know that?"

  "Lady Battersea and I spoke at length about their charitable work yesterday," he replied. "Lord Battersea was unduly modest when he mentioned the Riseborough boy at dinner. He often takes gifts of fruit and food items to the poor and sick. The eldest Cotton lad broke his leg last year and was unable to walk for several months. Lord Battersea visited the family on several occasions."

  "Where is Gunton Terrace?"

  "Close to the villa, opposite the Water Gardens."

  "Excellent. We'll go now. Are you coming, Violet?"

  Violet sighed as she looked at her wet shoes before pushing her half-finished mug of tea away.

  "Yes, for all the good it will do," she muttered beneath her breath.

  Number four Gunton Terrace was a red brick house in a terrace of similar properties. Located opposite the flint wall surrounding the Battersea residence, it was a tidy property. Cheerful curtains adorned the front windows, and a pretty window box full of daffodils complemented the brickwork. Lawrence knocked on the door to be met by a slender young woman dressed head to toe in black. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and a young child squirmed in her arms.

  "What do you want?" she asked defensively.

  Lawrence hesitated.

  "We would like to give our condolences." Violet stepped in before Lawrence sa
id something insensitive. "We found Mr Bowden in the shed this morning."

  The woman's features softened. "My husband said there were other people there," she replied. "Thank you for trying to help him."

  "Who is it, Amelia." A quavering voice emanated from the back room of the property.

  "Visitors, Mother. They have come to pay their respects."

  "Show them through."

  Lawrence and Violet stepped into the hallway and through a door to the front parlour immediately on their right. Inside, were six wooden chairs arranged around a fireplace above which hung a large oil painting of a fishing boat. Heavy net curtains blocked the light bringing a sombre quality to the room.

  "Take a seat," said the young woman releasing the wriggling child from her arms. She left the room, and the child stood in the doorway, watching them balefully. Violet reached her hand towards the little girl, but she shrank away, then toddled down the hallway towards her mother. They sat in silence for a few moments until Amelia Cotton returned, accompanied by a stout, grey-haired woman, also dressed in black.

  "This is my mother," she said.

  Lawrence stood and bowed his head. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I wish it were under happier circumstances."

  "Thank you," she replied, offering her hand. "Do take a seat."

  Lawrence perched on the chair, wondering how to proceed, but Jane Bowden spoke again.

  "Amelia said that you tried to help my husband."

  "We attempted to, but he was beyond our aid."

  "I did not hear him leave the house this morning," she said, pausing as she tried to control the tremor in her voice. "I have been unwell, and he let me lie abed. Had I risen with him, he might not have..." Her voice broke, and a single tear slid down her soft cheek.

  Amelia Cotton knelt beside her mother and held her hand. "Please don't blame yourself," she whispered. "Father has not been right for a while."

  "Did he ail?" asked Violet.

  "Not physically. My father was sick in his head," Amelia replied.

  "Edward's spirits never recovered after he lost the foreman's job," said Jane Bowden.

  "He did not lose it." Amelia corrected her mother. "Times were hard, and there was not enough work for everyone. My father was a good man, unassuming and loyal, and couldn't bear to let his men down, but there was no choice. Circumstances forced him to let some of them go – men with families and mouths to feed. He never forgave himself and never recovered his spirits. He couldn't work for a long time, but Mr Riches was kind to him, more than most employers would be. He talked to my father, and they came to an arrangement. Mr Riches would replace him with a younger man who would become the new foreman and father could stay on at the yard. A lesser man than Mr Riches would not have cared, and we might have starved."

  "I have only met him once, but he struck me as a decent chap," said Lawrence.

  "The very best," agreed Jane Bowden, dabbing her cheeks with a black lace handkerchief.

  "How will you manage now?" asked Violet

  "We are lucky. Edward was a member of the Oddfellows. They will provide for us."

  "Oddfellows?"

  "A friendly society, I believe," said Lawrence.

  "Yes, a burial club. Edward paid tuppence a week to the Loyal Albion lodge in Cromer. They helped us when he couldn't work a few years ago, and they will pay out now that he has died." Mrs Bowden put her head in her hands and sobbed silently.

  Lawrence rubbed his chin, feeling uncomfortable at her distress, then remembered his reason for being there.

  "This belonged to your husband, I believe," he said, producing the Bible. He passed it to the grieving widow.

  She smiled through her tears. "Yes, this belongs to Edward. This little book was one of his few pleasures in the end."

  "I noticed the mark on the front," said Lawrence. "The Bible came from Liverpool."

  "It was a gift from his friends in the lodge," said Jane Bowden. She opened the book and pointed to an inscription.

  Lawrence read it aloud, "Do not call to mind the former things, or ponder things of the past. Isaiah 43:18."

  "Was that a favourite Bible verse?"

  "No," said Mrs Bowden, "but some of the Norfolk Oddfellows arranged a fraternity visit to Liverpool at the end of last year. It was a big event with many lodges talking part. Edward was too unwell to go and was very disappointed. His friends in the Loyal Albion visited the Albert Docks and passed a Bible stall on Mann Island. The English and Foreign Bible stall, I think. Anyway, John Dennis and a few of the other men saw the inscription in the Bible, thought of Edward and his troubles, and purchased it for him. It was a source of great comfort, and I am grateful for its return."

  Lawrence smiled weakly. His conscience was beginning to get the better of him at her gratitude for returning something he shouldn't have taken in the first place.

  "We should leave now," said Violet. "We have taken up enough of your time."

  Mrs Bowden smiled graciously, and Amelia showed them to the door.

  "Our condolences once again," said Lawrence, tipping his hat as they left.

  Violet chatted as they walked the short distance to the Battersea residence, but Lawrence was monosyllabic.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked while they walked up the driveway.

  "Odd business, this Liverpool killing," he said.

  "Not really. Hasn't the murderer been caught?"

  "Well, yes."

  "Then it's all over, bar the hanging."

  "Hmmm."

  "Lawrence. I know that look. There is nothing about this crime that requires our attention."

  "I know," he said. "I know." He retired to his room and settled on the end of the bed deep in thought, watching the gulls circle round the cliff. He was still watching them two hours later.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Last Dinner at The Cottage

  "I jolly nearly thrashed him," said Lord Battersea, carving a slice of beef from the magnificent joint taking pride of place on the dinner table. "A spot of bad luck at the last hole put the kybosh on it, but it was a close-run thing."

  "Well done, Cyril, old chap," said Francis tucking into his evening meal with relish, the earlier attack of dyspepsia a distant memory.

  "It was good practice ahead of my game with Lord Suffield at the weekend."

  "Does Suffield play well?" asked John Morley.

  "He's won the majority of our games so far, but he won't win this one," said Lord Battersea, nodding his head confidently.

  Lady Battersea smiled at her husband. "Have you recovered from your ordeal this morning?" she asked, turning to Violet who cocked her head solicitously.

  "Yes, thank you," Violet replied.

  "And you called upon Mrs Bowden?"

  "We did. She was very distressed as I am sure you can imagine. It had only been a few hours since her husband passed away."

  "I will drop in on the family tomorrow," said Lady Battersea. "It is the least I can do. Dear Mother instilled in us a great sense of duty. There is much pleasure to be had from helping others to lead full and happy lives."

  Michael smiled. "I am sure they will appreciate your attention," he said. "I fear I may have a visit of my own to make when I reach my parish tomorrow."

  "Really?" Lady Battersea looked at Michael with concern.

  "Yes. Suzanne Hardy, the coachman's wife. She's been suffering from tuberculosis and can hardly rise from her bed. I happened upon her husband in our little church the day before I left. The poor chap was knelt on the floor and praying to God with such concentration that he did not hear me enter. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he started in shock, so I joined him, and we prayed together and asked that God might spare her. I can only hope that he answers our prayers, but I fear she was too far gone to hold out much hope."

  "Life is but fleeting," murmured Lady Battersea.

  "Hmmm." Lord Battersea smiled at his wife. "Let us speak of happier things, my dear," he said.

  "Like your golf
game," laughed Francis.

  "I could talk about that all night, but my head will grow big," said Lord Battersea. "I say, Mr Harpham, did you get to the post office in time?"

  "Post office?" echoed Violet.

  Lawrence coughed. "Yes, I did," he replied, turning away from Violet's gaze.

  "Ah, so you are going to join me tomorrow?" asked Morley.

  "Yes, if it is still convenient. Thank you again for your kind offer."

  "What offer?" Violet did not attempt to conceal her suspicions.

  "Mr Harpham has agreed to join me on my trip to Liverpool, and Lord Battersea has kindly arranged a carriage to the station."

  "You are going to Liverpool tomorrow?" asked Violet angrily.

  "Yes. I sent a telegraph to Uncle Frederick this afternoon, and he replied just before dinner. Fortunately, he has no other engagements, and it suits him to see me this week instead of next."

  Violet did not answer. She stopped eating, put her cutlery down and glared at him with ill-disguised annoyance.

  "Francis and Michael will accompany you to Bury Saint Edmunds. It will be no different from our original plan except that there will be three travelling instead of four."

  "How long will you be?" Violet watched him through reproachful eyes, her anger already turning to disappointment.

  "A few days, at most," said Lawrence. "I will catch a train at the end of the week."

  Violet opened her mouth to ask how she was supposed to manage their office alone again. Then thought the better of it, remembering that she was acting as the daughter of a Scottish baronet during this visit. She recovered herself and politely asked Lady Battersea about her earlier visit to the Belfry school.

  Lawrence let out a deep breath. He had escaped Violet's wrath for now, but would no doubt have to face the consequences in the not too distant future.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mann Island

  April 24, 1895

  Lawrence and John Morley parted ways by the Albert Docks. Morley was due to resume his post in Ireland the following day and had taken rooms at his usual hotel. Lawrence had declined the offer of a drink on the pretext of going straight to his uncle's house in Derby Square. He would go there, eventually, but not before he visited the bookseller's stall in Mann Island. The murder of Edward Moyse fascinated Lawrence for reasons that he didn't fully understand. Ordinarily, he would not have rushed to Liverpool at the risk of upsetting Violet. She had taken the dominant role in the business part of their occupation since Lawrence's injury and after being incapacitated for the best part of two years, Lawrence had stopped acting on impulse and did not take unnecessary risks. He was calmer and more measured in his approach towards investigations. Violet had been right, and the business had recently become profitable due to her more cautionary nature. Lawrence no longer dreaded paying the rent and keeping on the right side of Violet was a price he was happy to pay. But, he told himself, he was only bringing a planned visit forward by a week because the transport arrangements were better. And he might as well visit the scene of the murder while staying in Liverpool. After all, he was a private investigator, and it was perfectly reasonable to take an interest.