From: Miss Hutchinson, Butter Market, Bury Saint Edmunds
Come home quickly. Mr Lawrence unwell. Recovering at the residence of Mr Farrow. Please do not delay.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Netherwood House
Wednesday, May 1, 1895
Francis Farrow's residence in Westgate Street was an imposing three-storey building with an array of sash windows and a doorway set below a triglyph frieze. The Doric pilasters adorning the sides provided further grandeur, enhanced by a sizeable driveway leading to garaging for his carriage and a small formal garden. Farrow's three decades as a high ranking Suffolk detective had not generated quite enough income to buy such a magnificent property. As the eldest son, he had inherited the lion's share of his father's fortune, and this windfall allowed him to take early retirement and sole occupation of Netherwood House. Like his father before him, Francis lived alone except for the servants. His father had been a widower for over a decade, and Francis had never married. If his brother Michael had not chosen to follow his faith, he might have stayed in Bury with Francis. But Michael did not seem to envy his older brother's fortune and had never expressed a wish to live at their ancestral home. Anne Huntingdon, their older sister, was the only other living member of the Farrow family, and she had joined her husband in India many years before. Anne only visited England occasionally, and Francis was left to enjoy the quiet luxury of his home alone.
Violet had been to Netherwood on several previous occasions, and all were jolly affairs. She was therefore unaccustomed to the butterfly nerves that had settled inside her since catching the earlier train. It was almost three thirty by the time she arrived, accompanied by Michael who had insisted on joining her despite her protestations. She had already taken up too much of his time and was fearful that his superior would think he was neglecting his duties. But Michael had explained the situation and The Reverend John had been sympathetic. As long as Michael was back in Frenze before the weekend, he would manage.
Michael rang the doorbell of his childhood home more out of politeness than necessity. Their old retainer, Albert Floss, answered it with a welcoming smile before asking after Michael's health. Once he was satisfied with the reply, he guided them into the drawing room where Francis was sitting on a chaise longue. Beside him was a moustached man wearing a stethoscope around his neck. They stood as Violet entered the room.
"Ah, good to see you both," said Francis. "You know Doctor Mallory, don't you?"
Michael approached the doctor and shook his hand while Violet smiled uncertainly. Their paths had not crossed during her four years in Bury, and she was unaccountably nervous in his presence.
"Where is Lawrence?" asked Michael.
"Upstairs, in the blue room," said Francis.
"What happened?" Violet picked anxiously at the brocade on her jacket as she spoke.
"I'll let the doctor explain."
"Sit down." Doctor Mallory beckoned them towards the sofa. "Mr Harpham is suffering from nervous exhaustion. He has experienced a breakdown, not helped by the consumption of an excessive amount of alcohol. His spirits are low."
"Poor Lawrence." Violet's eyes filled with tears. "His health has improved so much over the last few years that I thought he was over the worst of it. Why has he relapsed?"
"It could be anything," said the doctor. "Sadly, it is all too common among the long term injured. Mr Farrow and I were discussing the possibility of moving Mr Harpham to a sanatorium."
"No." The word exploded from Violet's mouth. "He would hate that. He must recover in his own home."
"I understand your feelings," said the doctor, kindly, "but it is not always the case that home is best. Still, it is his choice, and if he refuses to go, I cannot make him unless he deteriorates further. But I have sedated him, and I strongly suggest that he is not left alone."
"Then, I will look after him. There is a spare room in my cottage. He can stay with me."
"Or here," said Francis. "You can stay too if you like."
"No," said Violet. "He will be better off with me."
"How will it look?" asked Francis. "Your reputation will suffer."
"I don't care. I will explain and if people want to imply something that isn't true, then let them. Lawrence is my friend, and I know I can help."
"Let her try," said Michael. "Violet has nursed him back to health once already."
"His father will decide, in the end," said Francis. "I contacted Lionel earlier, and he is already en route."
"I am sure he will agree," said Violet confidently. "Thank you for taking care of Lawrence, but my background as a companion is perfect for looking after him. Caring for people is what I do best."
PART TWO
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Crown Hotel
Violet had cared for Lawrence well. Very well. So well, that he was sitting in The Crown Hotel, in Diss only two weeks later, waiting for her to join him. The first week after his breakdown had passed in a blur. Violet had fed him, cared for him and tended to his every need while dutifully keeping the office running. When Violet was working, she sent Annie to her cottage to watch over him and later in the evening, she cheerfully cooked dinner and chatted about the day's events. Her presence was a balm to his wounded soul, and he felt, as before, immeasurable gratitude towards her. By the start of the second week, Lawrence was beginning to improve. He stopped taking the sedative prescribed by the doctor and started taking an interest in Violet's current case. Two days later, she'd arrived home to find him sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by bits of paper and utensils. He had spread half the contents of her kitchen cupboard across the table at strategic intervals.
"What are you doing?" she'd asked.
"It makes no sense," said Lawrence, rearranging the crockery. "See. This is Moyse." He pointed to a pepper pot and moved it to the left of the table. "Needham is down here." He dragged a saucer towards him and pushed a china cup to his right. "And this is Miller," he said, pointing to the teacup. Finally, he grabbed a thimble and placed it above the pepper pot and saucer. "This thimble is the attic space. Now, they say that Miller attacked Moyse for money and no other reason. They were friends, and Moyse was kind to Miller. A purse of money was under Moyse's mattress, and Miller must have known that there was money in the house, even if he didn't know the location. Regardless, the mattress is the first place you would look for money."
"I agree," said Violet. "It is a pity that elderly people won't use banks. They often doubt that their money will be safe."
"Precisely," said Lawrence. "And that's why they hide their most valuable items close to their person. It is inconceivable that Miller would have gone to look for money and not checked the mattress. Especially as he had already killed the occupant of the bed."
"What did Miller say to you?" asked Violet gently. She had avoided mentioning anything about Liverpool while Lawrence was recovering, but things had rapidly changed. The man before her was the usual version of Lawrence and not the sick and broken creature from the previous week.
"Nothing," said Lawrence. "He neither confirmed nor denied it. But it's a question of logic. There was clear evidence that Miller was searching the attic. When I challenged him, he almost keeled over in shock. Now, Miller might have killed Moyse to prevent the old man from stopping his search. But if that was the case, then why attack Needham? He had already been into the loft before he hit the boy."
"Perhaps he was angry because he couldn't find what he was looking for."
"I agree," said Lawrence, returning the cup to the saucer. "Whatever he was looking for and couldn't find was crucially important to him. The frustration of being unable to find it enraged him to the point of murder."
"Do you think he was looking for money?"
"No, I do not. Miller was searching for something connected to the Scole Confession.
Violet frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Of course not. But instinctively it fits. Tell me everything you discovered while I was in Liverpool."
&nb
sp; Violet chewed her lip, contemplating whether he was up to a long conversation. But Lawrence was adamant. He needed to know everything she did. They talked into the night. Violet recounted her experiences with Mr and Mrs Jackson over and over again until Lawrence was satisfied and he finally decided that he had the measure of Moyse clear in his mind.
"We'll go to Diss tomorrow," he had said, but Violet refused. And because she had been so good to him, he didn't press it. But as the days passed by and he fought to keep Catherine from his thoughts, he knew he must carry on with the case. Finding out more about Fanny Nunn and the Scole Confession became his one focus. At the end of the second week, he returned to his apartment, and after a lot of persuading, Violet agreed to return to Diss. Lawrence made arrangements with Annie Hutchinson to mind the office, and Violet left a day earlier.
Friday, May 17, 1895
Safely back in Diss, Lawrence had unpacked and was waiting for Violet who had gone into the town for reasons best known to herself.
"Another coffee, sir?" Minnie Panks had returned to the lounge with a vase of flowers and two newspapers.
"Thank you," said Lawrence.
"Help yourself if you like." She nodded towards the papers as she collected his empty cup.
He picked up a paper and almost put it back when he realised it was local. The Diss Express was not likely to be a hotbed of exciting news. Lawrence half-heartedly read it not expecting much in the way of national coverage, but he was wrong. Between an article on the Rickinghall flower show and a report about the Bishop of Norwich's views on education, was an article headed 'The Liverpool Murder.'
Lawrence grasped the paper with both hands and read greedily. 'The trial of William Miller for the murder of Edward Moyse formerly of Scole, concluded at the Liverpool Assizes on Wednesday when the jury returned a verdict of guilty and the prisoner was sentenced to death.'
So that was the outcome. Miller would hang. Lawrence read on. All the details that he hadn't got from Tom Strettell or his uncle were in the newspaper report. Miller was poor and of bad character. He was an adulterer who had left his wife and children to run away to America with another woman, who he subsequently robbed. His wife had forgiven him only to find him back home and covered in blood from the murder. She had burned his clothes and done her best to help him. Lawrence shook his head. Miller was guilty. Of that, there could be no doubt. The only unknown was what he was trying to find. 'I don't suppose I will ever be sure,' he muttered aloud.
"What was that?"
Lawrence had failed to notice the arrival of three men, who had squeezed past him on their way to a window seat.
"Sorry," said Lawrence. "I was talking to myself."
"I do it all the time," said one of the men. "I find I get a much more civilised response."
One of the other men raised his eyes heavenwards and shook his head.
"Here you are," said Minnie Panks, bustling into the lounge and placing a cup of coffee on the table.
"Any sign of Violet yet?" asked Lawrence, hopefully.
Minnie shook her head. "Not yet."
"Are you looking for Violet Smith?" asked the slimmer man.
"Why, yes. Do you know her?"
"We had the pleasure of meeting Violet a few weeks ago," he continued, walking towards Lawrence. He offered his hand. "Harry Aldrich," he said, "and this is Joseph Pope and Robert Moore. We ran into Violet half an hour ago. She was on her way to the church."
"Thank you. I'm Lawrence Harpham. Violet and I will be staying here for a few days."
"Do you mind if we join you?" asked Joseph Pope, already moving towards him with a cup in his hand.
"Not at all. Please sit down," said Lawrence with more enthusiasm than he felt. Conversing with strangers this early in the morning had not been part of his plan. He folded the paper and put it to one side.
"How do you know Violet?" he asked.
"We met at the last lodge meeting." Harry Aldrich reached into his pocket for a pair of spectacles, picked up the paper and scrutinised the page. "Catching up with the cricket results, I see," he continued.
"Yes, it sounds like a good match," said Lawrence vaguely. He had no idea who had been playing or the outcome of the game, but it was easier than admitting to reading a report of the Liverpool slaying.
"They're a good team over at Thelnetham," said Moore, looking at the paper over Harry's shoulder.
"I beg to differ," said Joseph. "We won by more than an innings last time we met." He reeled off a long list of local cricketing statistics.
"How the devil do you remember all that information?" asked Aldrich.
"He's probably making it up." Robert Moore rested his chin on his hands and stared across the table.
Joseph Pope raised an eyebrow. His round face bore a quizzical expression.
"Check them, if you like," said Harry Aldrich. "I guarantee he will be right. He can't remember how to tie a shoelace, but remembers all the non-essential details."
"You enjoy cricket, then?" asked Lawrence.
"Not really," Pope replied. "It's a dull game. I don't play myself, but collecting scores – well, that's a different matter."
"That's what happens when you work in a bank." Robert Moore looked apologetically towards Lawrence. "He spends too much time adding numbers together. It has addled his brain."
"You work in Diss?" Lawrence was struggling for small talk in a group of three men who were evidently well acquainted. He was very much the outsider.
"The National Provincial Bank on Mere Street," said Joseph, looking at his pocket watch. "Which is where I should be now." He rose and tipped his forelock before leaving the room.
"Don't mind him," said Harry Aldrich. "He's one of the more eccentric members of our lodge."
"Are you Freemasons?" asked Lawrence, feeling on more solid territory at the mention of lodges.
"Oddfellows," said Aldrich. "We met your friend at the last lodge meeting."
"You did," said Robert Moore. "I was elsewhere at the Faith and Fidelity lodge trying to boost their spirits. I play the accordion," he continued, by way of explanation.
"And he plays it jolly well," said Harry.
"Was there a problem at the lodge?" asked Lawrence, wondering why spirits were low.
Aldrich flashed Moore a look, but he ignored it.
"The treasurer ran off with the bulk of their funds," he said frankly. "It's gone to court, and they secured a conviction, but it's too late. Their savings are gone. All that money, fraudulently used."
"Shocking," said Lawrence. "What a shame."
"They've appointed another treasurer," Moore continued. "But there's little money left to look after."
The irony of a fraud case in the Faith and Fidelity lodge was not lost on Lawrence, but he kept his counsel and made no comment.
"We are arranging a series of events to raise funds for our brothers," said Harry Aldrich. "A spring fair on Sunday week. You are welcome to come along."
"I expect we will be back in Bury by then," said Lawrence. "We're only here for a day or two."
"Work or pleasure?" asked Robert Moore.
Lawrence opened his mouth to answer just as Violet walked past the doorway.
"Violet," Lawrence called to her, but she sailed by. "Excuse me." He put down his coffee cup and followed her into the hall.
"I say, Violet."
She turned to face him. "Lawrence." She smiled at the sight of his face.
"Where have you been?"
"To the church and the chemist. I am feeling a little under the weather this morning."
"Go back to bed then. I can carry on alone."
"It is nothing serious," she said. "Where shall we start?"
"I've been chatting to your new friends," said Lawrence. "We ought to say goodbye before we leave."
He returned to the lounge with Violet in tow.
Harry Aldrich rose and greeted her. "Did you find the vicar?" he asked.
"Yes, I did, thank you. He was very accommodating e
ven though I unintentionally interrupted his meeting with Mr Garrod."
"Henry Garrod?" Robert lowered the newspaper and scratched his nose.
"Yes, I believe so."
"Solicitor and county coroner," said Harry helpfully.
"I wonder what he was doing there?"
"Any reason why he shouldn't be?" Harry peered over his glasses.
"The last time I saw the two of them together, they had words," said Robert.
"About what?"
"I couldn't hear what they were saying despite the raised voices."
"Unusual," said Harry, "they are both mild-mannered men."
Lawrence coughed and nodded imperceptibly towards Violet.
"We must go now," she said. "It was good to meet you again." She offered her hand, first to Harry Aldrich and then to Robert Moore before leaving the room ahead of Lawrence.
"Let's walk," said Lawrence following Violet into the hallway. "We won't get any privacy in here."
They proceeded down St Nicholas Street towards St Mary's Church. "How did you get on?" he asked.
"The Reverend Manning is charming," said Violet. "We got on rather well, once I'd apologised for interrupting him."
"Could he help?"
"Yes and no," said Violet. "He showed me the burial register, and there was just enough time to copy down a few names of women who were the right age and recently deceased. He has allowed me free access to the register whenever I like."
"Good." Lawrence nodded approvingly.
"I told him that I was looking into the death of someone who lived in Diss but did not give any further detail. I thought it would be unwise to say too much, even to a man of the cloth."
"Always best," murmured Lawrence.
"But then he asked if she died in Diss, and of course, we don't know."
"No, we don't." Lawrence squinted and shielded his eyes as the bright sun penetrated the market place. "The Bible came from Diss, and the address book directed us to Jackson in Scole. She could have died in either place."
"Or somewhere else altogether."
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 59