The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  More Telegrams

  Monday April 29, 1895 – 9:05 am

  From: Smith, Bungay Road, Scole

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  Met Jackson. He thinks Moyse irrational & doubts credibility of confession. Fanny Nunn drowned twenty years ago. When will you be back?

  Monday April 29, 1895 – 9:36 am

  From: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Bungay Road, Scole

  Re Jackson – why? Re Nunn – how? Not yet – will seek interview with Miller first. Who wrote confession?

  Monday April 29, 1895 – 10:16 am

  From: Smith, Bungay Road, Scole

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  No love lost between Moyse and Jackson. Imprisonment probable cause of resentment – also presence of stranger. No details re Nunn drowning. Proceeding to Crown Hotel, Diss shortly. I do not know.

  Monday April 29, 1895 – 10:49 am

  From: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Bungay Road, Scole.

  What stranger? Find out circumstances of drowning. Re confession – find parish register & note female deaths for last decade. Who was imprisoned?

  Monday April 29, 1895 – 1:17 pm

  From Smith, Bungay Road, Scole

  To: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  Seeing Michael later. Will search parish records tomorrow then return to Bury. No more details by telegram. Come back soonest.

  Monday April 29, 1895 – 2:50 pm

  From: Harpham, Lord Street, Liverpool

  To: Smith, Crown Hotel, Diss

  Dash it all, Violet. Give details of imprisonment. Cannot work without facts. Back when finished.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Haven of Success

  "Can I help you?"

  Violet had arrived at the Crown Hotel and was standing in the foyer admiring a painting of a windmill. An attractive young woman popped her head up from beneath the counter, where she had been cleaning.

  "Oh, you startled me," said Violet, clutching her chest. "I was somewhere in that scene," she explained, gesturing towards the picture.

  "Lovely, isn't it?" said the girl. "Father bought it from the auction house only last month, and everybody seems pleased with it. It cheers the place up, don't you think?"

  "Much more than the item in the cabinet below." Violet moved her hand across the glass-topped cupboard and peered at the rifle inside. The highly polished wooden gun bore the inscription 'H. Holland."

  "It's a paradox," said the girl. "My father's pride and joy."

  "Paradox?"

  "It fires both shot and solid projectile. But don't ask Father about it unless you have a lot of free time."

  Violet nodded and moved closer to the counter. "I have reserved a room," she said.

  The girl turned a page in the hotel register. "Name?" she asked.

  "Violet Smith."

  "Yes, here it is. How many nights are you staying?"

  "I'm not sure yet," said Violet. "One, possibly two."

  "Have you eaten yet?" asked the girl.

  "Not since breakfast and I'm famished." Violet had struggled to sleep in Michael's unfamiliar lodgings and had risen early, breakfasting before seven o'clock. Between the journey and sending Lawrence's telegrams, she hadn't found time for lunch.

  "Would you like an evening meal? We've got mutton pie on the menu tonight. It's my favourite dish."

  Violet's stomach rumbled in anticipation. "Yes. Dinner would be lovely."

  "Here's your key. You're in room number five on the first floor. I will make your table up for six o'clock. Oh, and there's a telegram for you."

  Violet raised her eyes heavenwards as she took the telegram and noted the sender. She tucked it into her pocket and climbed the staircase to the first floor of the building. Room number five was on the right-hand side of the corridor at the far end. She dropped her carpetbag and inserted the heavy iron key into the lock. It turned, and she entered a small room containing a single bed, a narrow wardrobe and a dressing table. Dark velvet curtains framed a square window overlooking Saint Nicholas Street. Violet sat on the end of the bed, reached into her pocket, and withdrew the telegram. She slit it open and frowned. "No, I won't give you any more information by telegram, Lawrence," she said aloud. "It is too much." She put the telegram on the dressing table, unpacked her few possessions, and hung her spare dress in the wardrobe. Then, she watched the busy street from the window for a few moments, yawned loudly and lay on the bed for a short rest before dinner.

  Violet woke at a quarter after six, taking a few moments to remember where she was, and what she ought to be doing. She freshened up and bolted downstairs, arriving in the dining room just before half past six. Violet located a small table in the corner of the room. She was barely seated when a young woman clad in a black dress and white apron arrived carrying a notebook and a pencil.

  "Dinner or cold cuts?" she asked.

  "Dinner, please," said Violet.

  "You can have beef stew or mutton pie, with treacle tart or rice pudding to follow," said the girl.

  Violet made her selection, and the waitress licked her pencil and scribbled on the notepad in a spidery hand.

  "It won't be long," she said cheerfully, looking over her shoulder as she bustled towards the kitchen.

  Violet picked up her book and opened it at the page marked with a red ribbon. She was just getting lost in the story again when a buzz of noise preceded a procession of colourfully dressed men. They were walking past the dining room on their way to their meeting next door. Violet tried not to stare at their insignia and brightly coloured sashes and aprons. One man, who seemed to be the leader, wore a bright blue sash and a chain around his collar. The others sported silk tassels in shades of red and yellow which hung from double curved flaps on their white aprons bearing an open hand atop a golden ball.

  The rumble of noise dissipated from the corridor and passed into the next room as the men walked by. Violet tried to resume her reading, but the noise was so loud that it disturbed her concentration. Violet's chair was immediately next to the adjoining room, and the monotonous tones of what sounded like a treasurer's report rumbled through the wall. She debated moving tables, but closed her book with a sigh and waited for dinner to arrive.

  The waitress was as good as her word and delivered Violet's mutton pie quickly.

  "Noisy lot, aren't they?" she said, placing the hot plate on the table cloth.

  "Freemasons, I suppose," asked Violet, thinking of Francis and his regalia.

  "Oddfellows," said the waitress. "It's different."

  "Oh. I've heard the name Oddfellows recently," said Violet. "I think there is a lodge in Bury Saint Edmunds."

  "There are lodges everywhere," said the waitress. "We have two in Diss – the Loyal Nelson lodge and this one." She waved her hand towards the wall. "These gentlemen are members of the Loyal Haven of Success."

  "I love the unusual names. What do they do?"

  "They are a friendly society, miss. They look after each other."

  "A charitable organisation?"

  "Yes, that too. But the Oddfellows see each other right when times are hard, or when someone dies."

  "Oh, I see. Like a burial club."

  "Yes, miss. Similar to the Freemasons. Lots of secrecy and strange ceremonies, so I hear. Have you met my father, Mr Panks?"

  "Not yet."

  "He's a Mason," she said, crossing her arms and nodding her head as if to make a point.

  "But not an Oddfellow."

  "No. Anyway, eat your dinner, miss, before it goes cold."

  The mutton pie was every bit as good as Minnie had said. Violet was full and sleepy by the time she'd devoured the treacle tart but had arranged to meet Michael after dinner and waited for him in the lounge.

  The room was empty when Violet arrived, and she tried to read again before another interruption stopped her. It was not to be. A heavyset man
bowled into the room, panting with exertion. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow and placed a large leather satchel onto the table. It knocked against an ashtray which clattered to the floor.

  "Damn and blast it," said the man, not appearing to notice Violet, who was sitting quietly by the window. He pulled out a fob watch, checked the time and tutted loudly.

  Violet gave a gentle cough, hoping to head off another outburst, and he looked up with a start. "Sorry, I didn't see you there. What must you think of me?"

  Violet smiled. "Please don't worry."

  "Bad language," he said, collapsing onto the chair, "is unforgivable. Especially in front of a lady."

  "Well, I do forgive you," she said. "So there is nothing to worry about."

  He peered at his watch again. "There is," he said. "I'm late. Very late. Now, where is it?" He rifled through the bag and pulled out a shiny medallion on a blue silk fob. "There's my beauty," he said, holding it aloft.

  "What is it?"

  "A Member's jewel for the Oddfellows East Anglia Unity. There is a presentation here tonight," he said, closing the bag and depositing it in the corner of the room. "And muggins here forgot to bring the most important thing. I've run a mile and back again to fetch it."

  "They were still making speeches when I came in here a few moments ago," said Violet. "You should have plenty of time."

  "Yes, good." He gave his florid complexion one more wipe with the handkerchief, put two fingers to his head in an informal salute and left the room."

  Violet smiled. The man must have been in his early fifties. Too young to be senile, but undoubtedly eccentric. His manner was endearing, and his membership of an organisation that went by the name of the Oddfellows entirely befitted his character.

  She finally managed to finish a chapter of her book before Michael arrived.

  "Sorry I'm late," he said. "The Reverend John has taken ill. Some unexpected paperwork to finish."

  "It's no trouble," said Violet. "I've had quite an entertaining evening so far."

  "You must tell me about it," said Michael. "But first, I need a drink. Would you like one?"

  Michael's return from the bar coincided with the mass exodus of the Oddfellows from the second dining room. By the time he joined her, the lounge was full, and he could barely see her through the crowd of brightly dressed men. With typical foresight, Violet had placed her book on the adjoining seat, saving it for Michael. He squeezed through the throng and sat beside her.

  "Sorry," she said. "It will be hard to talk with all this noise. Perhaps we should find somewhere quieter."

  Michael was about to answer when a man approached them and thrust his hand out. "Reverend Farrow. How are you?" he boomed.

  "Very well, Harry. How's that young son of yours?"

  "Happy now his little horse has been returned."

  "Sorry, Harry. Where are my manners? Let me introduce you to Miss Smith. Violet is an old friend of mine. She is staying at The Crown tonight. Violet, this is Harry Aldrich, proprietor of the auction house and father of little William."

  Violet offered her hand. "And your little lad likes horses?"

  "What did you say?" Harry struggled to hear over the chatter in the small room.

  "Your little boy. Does he like horses?"

  "A particular horse," said Harry with a twinkle. A wooden one. He left it in the butcher's shop. Michael found it and asked around until he discovered who owned it, then he returned it to my youngest."

  "How kind," said Violet.

  "It's noisy in here," said Harry. "And will get worse, no doubt." He nodded towards a group of men in the corner, each clasping a jug of ale with a spare one set aside on the table. "We're sitting in a quieter area in the other room. Would you care to join us?"

  Michael looked towards Violet and raised an eyebrow. She nodded. "Thank you," he shouted towards Harry.

  They rose and followed Harry Aldrich into the second, more substantial, dining room where three men sat around a square table near an open door leading to the rear yard. An elderly collie dog snuffled beside one of the men who Violet recognised from earlier.

  "Ah," he said, "my nemesis returns to haunt me over my careless words."

  "Not at all," she said.

  "You've met Joseph, then?" asked Harry. "Once met, never forgotten."

  Joseph bowed his head with a satisfied smile.

  "Miss Smith, Michael, this is George Fairweather, you've met Joseph, and you know Arthur, don't you?"

  Michael offered his hand to the wiry, dark-haired man seated by the door who returned the gesture.

  "Good to see you again," he said, "in happier circumstances. We were talking about Tom earlier."

  "Yes, poor chap. Violet, do you remember me mentioning the coachman with the ill wife when we were in Overstrand? Unfortunately, Tom's wife succumbed to the effects of consumption despite our prayers.

  "We will see him right," said Arthur." He is one of us."

  "The money won't heal his heart, brother," said Harry.

  "But it will feed his children."

  "There are not enough funds in the society to feed all yours, eh, George?" quipped Joseph, lightening the mood.

  "Do you have many children?" asked Violet.

  "Only eighteen," said Joseph before George could reply.

  "That is a lot of mouths to feed."

  "Arthur is halfway to catching me," George Fairweather growled as he gulped his pint. He was the only one at the table drinking alcohol.

  "Nine and one on the way," said Arthur proudly. "I'll name him after you if it's a boy."

  George scowled. "Don't bother."

  "Or Grace for a girl."

  "That's pretty," said Violet.

  "Steady on," said Harry Aldrich as George knocked back the last of his pint.

  "This obsession with temperance is making you boring," George replied, slamming the tankard onto the wooden tabletop.

  "And closer to God," said Harry.

  "Are you all in the temperance league?" Violet asked.

  "I'm not," said Arthur. "But I don't drink at unity meetings out of respect ."

  "It is not compulsory," said Harry. "Most of the men in the bar like a few drinks. I don't mind being around drinkers although I don't indulge myself."

  "He's a Methodist, you see," said Joseph as if the two things went hand in hand.

  "Tell me about the Oddfellows," said Violet.

  Michael grimaced. "That might not be possible," he said.

  "We are not so secretive now," laughed Harry. "Once upon a time, a response to that question would be strictly forbidden. Some friendly societies were banned. The Oddfellows survived, but the movement was riven apart with factional splits and secessions. We are more modern now, and although we don't discuss our oaths and rituals outside the organisation, we acknowledge their existence. And we have recently opened a ladies lodge."

  Violet nodded approvingly.

  "What brings you to Diss?" asked Arthur Thompson.

  "I'm visiting Michael," she said.

  "You've come a long way to go to church," said Joseph, tickling the dog behind his ears.

  "But not to see a friend," said Violet. "Michael is not only a man of God. I have another purpose in Diss. I am looking for someone," she continued.

  "Well, you've come to the right place," said Joseph. "We know everything about everyone. Harry's family have been here since Noah built the ark."

  "Good," she said. "Though the person I seek may be dead, so forgive me if my enquiries sound insensitive. And what I need to ask about happened a long time ago, so I am led to believe."

  "What was that?"

  "A woman called Fanny Nunn. I think she may have drowned. I wondered if it was by accident?"

  The table fell silent. Only the soft pant of the dog was audible as the men glanced uneasily towards Violet.

  She bit her lip. "Sorry. Have I spoken out of turn? Please forgive me."

  Harry Aldrich picked up his glass and sip
ped the water, then licked his lips as he considered his reply.

  "You are right. It happened a long time ago, but Fanny's death has bothered me for many years. She did not die naturally. Somebody killed her, and I heard her drown. My father and I, we listened to those terrible screams as we tried to help her. But we couldn't save her. Even now, after all this time, her pitiful cries still haunt me."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Inside Walton Gaol

  From the moment Lawrence decided to visit William Miller, he agonised over how he was going to access the gaol. Neither Tom Strettell nor any of the other policemen were likely to help. Quite the contrary. And he couldn't go wandering in and expect a welcome. There were strict rules in place about visiting prisoners. And notorious inmates accused of murder were even more closely monitored. Lawrence considered arriving at the prison unannounced and bribing the guard. It wouldn't be the first time he had used that tactic, but it was fraught with risk. It wasn't until he returned to his uncle's house having posted the third telegram to Violet, that an idea presented itself. It was a plausible plan, coming as the result of his uncle's latest obsession.

  "What do you think of this, my boy?" Uncle Frederick had asked, as Lawrence entered the drawing room. Frederick was standing in front of a teak stand holding the ugliest looking black box that Lawrence had ever seen.

  "What is it?" he asked, staring at the glass lens set into a hole in the centre of the box.

  "It's a Kodak," said his uncle, proudly.

  "I am still none the wiser."

  "A camera, my boy. For taking photographs."