The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "I don't know where he lives, and I cannot wait until Monday."

  Francis stood and walked to the window. He stared across the garden, watching the rosy hues of the rising sun as he tried to think of the least worse option. "Are you determined to push the boundaries of our friendship to this degree?" he asked.

  Lawrence bowed his head and shielded his eyes as he mulled over the dilemma. His behaviour was unreasonable, and he knew it. But it had taken eight years to confront the details of Catherine's death, and now that he'd started, he could not stop. "I am determined to do whatever it takes," he said finally. "I hope that as my friend, you will understand. I would not put you in this position for any other reason, but I must speak to Superintendent Clarke. I give you my word that I will not embarrass you, and I will not confront him. I will only ask him what he knew in a calm and orderly manner."

  Francis nodded. "Very well. Go home and get dressed into something suitable. I will sign you in, and you will tell anyone who asks that you have a current membership with another lodge. I will vouch for you, but please do not damage my reputation."

  "Thank you, Francis," said Lawrence, rising and touching him on the arm. "You are a good friend."

  Francis nodded. "Meet me outside the lodge at a quarter past twelve. Don't be late."

  Lawrence arrived in Chequer Square a fraction before midday. He had already searched through his old trunk in the eaves of his apartment in the hope that he still had some Masonic regalia left. Lawrence had lost many of his possessions in the house fire, but the trunk and its contents had survived. He found the Masonic clothing squashed inside a canvas bag below some educational books. After a quick shake and a half-hearted press with an unheated iron, they were more or less wearable. He was now standing by the obelisk in Chequer Square dressed in a crumpled lambswool Masonic apron. A couple of jewels were pinned to his breast pocket, both of which had seen better days.

  Lawrence had never progressed beyond the first degree of Masonry, much to the chagrin of his father. He had been willing to dedicate time to charitable activities but found the ceremony and tradition of the Masonic rituals tedious. He didn't see the point. But as a police inspector, Masonry was almost mandatory, and it wasn't easy to progress without membership. Lawrence deplored the practice of secret handshakes, but it was an inevitable part of his world. Handshakes were regularly delivered, and conveyed the rank of the person concerned. Even to someone as unambitious as Lawrence, it was disconcerting to learn someone's status without a single word being uttered. He always dreaded being the recipient of a handshake from a senior lodge member with influence and connections, while on police duty.

  Lawrence loitered around the obelisk for twenty minutes waiting for Francis to arrive. Finally, he saw him in the distance walking down Angel Hill and set off to greet him.

  Francis sported a colourful pale blue and burgundy collar with matching apron and an impressive array of lodge jewels. He looked Lawrence up and down and sighed. "That's not what I had in mind, Lawrence. You could have made more of an effort."

  "It's the best I can do," muttered Lawrence, flushing. He dressed smartly by inclination and was not proud of the condition of his regalia despite his apathy towards Masonry. Now he could add self-consciousness to his growing list of problems.

  "Come on then," said Francis, striding towards the Royal Saint Edmund lodge.

  Inside, the manorial room had barely changed since Lawrence had last seen it weeks before the grand opening almost five years earlier. The only significant difference was the temporary addition of two long rows of tables and chairs in the inner temple. A further table bridged the gap at the top of the room. Near it, a smartly dressed man with slicked-back hair leaned over while he rearranged the cutlery. His suit was plain, with no indicators of Freemasonry.

  "Good afternoon, Baxter," said Francis. "Is everything ready?"

  "Almost, sir," he replied. "Colonel Dade is unwell and will not be attending. I was changing the place settings to give you more room."

  "Good," said Francis. "Mr Harpham is unexpectedly joining us. Please change them back again, and sit him next to me. Where have you put Brother Clarke?"

  "Over there, sir." Baxter pointed to a position at the far end of the table.

  Francis nodded. Clarke would be too distant for Lawrence to disturb him over dinner. The meal might not turn into the disaster he feared, after all. "Stay here," he said to Lawrence. "The other lodge members will be arriving shortly, and I must greet them."

  Lawrence strolled around the outside of the room while Francis made his way to the entrance hall. After five minutes, he heard the low murmur of voices as guests arrived. He almost lost his composure when he saw the first entrant through the doorway. It was the familiar face of Superintendent Clarke who recognised Lawrence immediately. "Harpham, Good Lord. How are you? It's been a long time."

  Lawrence held out his hand, unsure of what to say. He had expected to be angry at the sight of his former superintendent, but Clarke's greeting was cordial, and there was no reason for it to be otherwise.

  "Good to see you, sir," he said, from force of habit.

  "No need for that here," said William Clarke. "It's good to see you back among us. I know you are working in town as a private investigator now, but we never see you any more."

  "I left the Masons," said Lawrence, then, following Francis's earlier instructions, corrected himself. "But I rejoined again when I was working in London."

  "Capital," said Clarke as the room began to fill with men in full Masonic dress. The number of men that he recognised came as a surprise to Lawrence. He seemed to be the only one who had moved on, leaving the Masons behind. Francis spotted him talking to Clarke across the room and weaved his way over. "Almost time to sit down," he said, guiding William Clarke away. Lawrence grimaced. He was desperate to speak to Clarke privately, but it had been an inopportune time. There were too many people milling around. Reluctantly, he took his place at the table almost as far away from Clarke as it was possible to get.

  Luncheon was a cold buffet brought straight to the table with no money spared in the preparation. Generous portions of raised game pie and plates of ham and tongue adorned the table with baskets of pastries and pots of strawberries in jelly to finish. The delicious spread was small consolation for the series of boring speeches that followed. Lawrence had forgotten what a self-congratulatory bunch the Masons could be. Though he appreciated their charitable endeavours, the constant referencing of individual achievements left him wondering how much altruism existed outside of their egos. He fidgeted as he listened, each word preventing swift completion of his task. Finally, the members stood for a toast, and the formalities were over. Lawrence watched as William Clarke shook hands with one of the blue-collared Master Freemasons beside him before making his way to the door. It was now or never. Lawrence bolted from behind the table and negotiated his way through the crowd. Clarke was not in the hallway or the opposite room, so he darted outside to see him striding up Crown Street. "Wait," he yelled. William Clarke stopped in his tracks and turned around.

  "Hello again, Lawrence," Clarke said, politely. "Are you walking this way?"

  "Yes, I am," said Lawrence. "Do you mind if I join you?"

  "Not at all," said Clarke, "although you'll have to shake a leg. I have another appointment. Bad planning on my part."

  "In that case, I will come straight to the point. I have a question concerning the events of May Day '87 when Catherine and Lily died."

  William Clarke stopped walking. "Ask me anything, and I will do my utmost to answer. I will never forget that dark day."

  Lawrence cleared his throat. "It has recently come to my notice that somebody raised the possibility of arson at the time of their deaths."

  "I see." Superintendent Clarke nodded and began walking again. His pace was slow, and he bowed his head in concentration. "Who gave you this information?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "No, I suppose not, but whoever mentioned i
t did you a disservice. The matter of arson was briefly speculated upon but did not amount to anything substantial in the end."

  "Why?

  "Why was it considered, or why was it discounted?"

  "Both."

  "I will tell you, Lawrence. But don't read too much into it. You probably remember that the fire began at night. The fire brigade arrived and extinguished it after several hours. It was all over by daylight. Now, do you remember Police Constable Brame?"

  "Yes. Wasn't Brame's beat in Livermere?"

  "Eventually. But at the time Brame worked in Bury. Anyway, he was the constable sent to secure your property and keep your surviving possessions safe while you were in the hospital."

  "I didn't know," said Lawrence. "I owe him my thanks and yours for sending him. I remember very little about the events of that awful night."

  "Naturally." William Clarke smiled sympathetically.

  "But how is this relevant?"

  "PC Brame spent several hours waiting outside your property while the workmen cleared as many of your effects as they could salvage. I don't know if you returned before they pulled the building down, but the rooms overlooking your garden were largely unscathed."

  "I never returned. I could not bear the thought of it."

  "I'm sure I would have done the same under similar circumstances. But, as I said, Brame was there for some time. On his return, he gave a statement. And in that statement, he noted the presence of several matches beside your boot scraper, some burnt out and some intact. Not Lucifer's either, but red phosphorus safety matches."

  Lawrence frowned. "I cannot think of any reason for struck matches to be near my front door."

  "Did you not have a lantern on your wall?"

  "No. It was not necessary. The street lamp was directly outside my house, and there was no reason for more light. Did you investigate why they were there?"

  "We did. Brame's report arrived on my desk the very next day. I searched him out, and we both returned to your home, but the matches had gone. Not one remained, nor any evidence that they had ever been there."

  "Good God, man. Isn't that evidence in itself?"

  Clarke pursed his lips. "No, it is not. There was no other indication that the fire could have been deliberate. None whatsoever. That is why I took the decision not to tell you to avoid any further distress."

  "But what about the matches?"

  "Only Brame ever saw them. He could have been mistaken, or perhaps they belonged to somebody else. If there had been any other sign of arson, we would have made a thorough investigation. I deeply regret that someone has seen fit to tell you of this matter. Trust me when I say that there was nothing in it."

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Another Letter

  Lawrence turned without another word and walked back in the direction of Chequer Square, his mind ablaze with questions. Every instinct in his body was alive, tortured by the significance of the matches. He had known PC Brame for a long time, and they had worked together once or twice. Brame was a good man and experienced. If he said that he saw matches, then he did, and if he thought they were worthy of mention in his statement, then it should have been taken seriously. There were only two possible explanations. Either Brame had been wrong which Lawrence doubted, or someone else removed the matches. A passer-by could have picked them up to use. But if that had happened, what became of the burnt ones? Perhaps the wind blew them away. But would bad weather dislodge them all? Lawrence shut his eyes and tried to remember what the weather had been like that week. Nothing came to mind. He had been in so much pain that he could hardly remember his name, much less whether there was a high wind or not.

  Lawrence found himself outside his office in Butter Market, having walked there without thinking. He looked through the window and saw the familiar shape of Annie Hutchinson leaning over his desk. Lawrence wondered what she was doing there so late on a Saturday afternoon. He considered walking past rather than disturb her, but loitered for a moment, then thought better of it and went inside.

  "Good Lord," Annie exclaimed, clutching her hand to her chest. She picked up a sheet of paper and fanned her face. "You frightened me to death," she continued. "There I was, singing to myself like a proper Charlie."

  "I didn't hear you," said Lawrence smiling. "It's not your usual day," he continued.

  "No, sir. I didn't come in yesterday. My sister, Mary, was visiting from London and I spent the day with her. I thought you wouldn't mind as long as I cleaned up today."

  "I don't mind at all," said Lawrence. "Have you much left to do?"

  "No. I'm almost finished. I'll make you a drink, and then I'll leave you in peace. Your post is on the mantlepiece."

  "Thank you." Lawrence collected the small pile of letters stacked against the clock, then returned to his desk. He discarded three brown envelopes and stared at the remaining two. One was a plain white envelope with no stamp, and the other bore a Liverpool postmark. Lawrence stared at the white envelope for a long time. It was disturbingly familiar. He waited until Annie deposited a cup of coffee on his desk, then made his way to the kitchen while she tidied her cleaning materials away. It took no time to steam the envelope open. Inside, exactly as he anticipated, was another copy of Catherine's crest. The word hidden beneath the gummed down envelope flap was different. It read 'betrayed'. Lawrence gritted his teeth. The first crest had released an unbearable sadness. This time, it made him angry. Lawrence strode into his office and waved the envelope in front of Annie. "Did you see who delivered this?" he asked.

  "No, sir. It was on the doormat when I arrived. Is it important?"

  "No," said Lawrence curtly. "I'm sorry," he continued. "I don't mean to be rude."

  Annie blinked in surprise. She had witnessed him losing his temper often but had never heard him apologise.

  Lawrence examined the crest one more time, expecting an overwhelming sense of loss again with the weighty blow of regret. But fury boiled inside him instead. Somebody was deliberately trying to make him suffer. It had worked the first time, but they had gone too far, and it had nullified the effect. Devastation had turned to irritation and weakness to strength. He felt buoyed in the certain knowledge that the perpetrator was a living, breathing person and not a ghost from the past.

  He slit open the second envelope with a brass letter opener and removed the single sheet of paper inside. It contained a warrant to visit William Miller in Walton gaol. Miller must have something to tell him, or why would he bother?

  It was a sign. He should go to Liverpool and continue with the Moyse investigation. The identity of the anonymous letter sender and the matter of the arson suspicion could wait a while longer. Lawrence scribbled a few words onto a sheet of paper and passed it to Annie. "Drop this at the post office on your way out," he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Alone Again

  Saturday, May 18, 1895 – 4.30 pm

  To: Miss Violet Smith, Crown Hotel, Diss

  From: Miss Hutchinson, Butter Market, Bury Saint Edmunds

  Good afternoon Miss Violet. Mr Harpham has finished in Bury and is proceeding directly to Liverpool. He will arrive back in Diss on Tuesday.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Alfred Wylie

  Sunday, May 19, 1895

  There were rough times and smooth in every occupation, but Violet felt fortunate as she sauntered along Saint Nicholas Street on her way to Market Hill. She had woken to a sunny day having attended the Corn Hall alone the previous evening where she had delighted in the operetta. While Violet would have enjoyed Lawrence's company, she had become too independent to be reliant upon it. Violet had arrived alone, but it was not long before she was engaged in small talk both before and after the performance. It had been a splendid evening, and today had started well too. Unsure how to locate Alfred Wylie, she had asked Minnie Panks. Minnie rewarded her with enough information to find him and the bonus of a potted history of his background. Minnie was a tremendous asset. She had a sound knowledge of
many of the townsfolk, whether high ranking or ordinary. And the guileless way she gave information without requiring an explanation in return, was both useful and endearing.

  So now, Violet was on her way to Rose Cottage in Mount Street expecting to find Alfred tending to the extensive, formal gardens at the rear. The property was only a short distance from Market Hill, and she found it with ease. An elaborate ironwork gate led into a pretty courtyard with an arbour covered in sweet-smelling climbing roses in shades of red. She passed through, hoping that she would encounter Alfred before bumping into the owner of the property. It was hard enough to know what to say to Alfred without also having to explain it to his employer. The day continued well when Violet spotted a man digging a trench at the side of the garden who appeared to be the right age for Alfred. She walked towards him and announced herself, and he confirmed his identity.

  Violet chewed her lip. "Minnie sent me," she said. "She thought you might be able to help."

  "With what?"

  Violet debated whether to continue with her new persona as a journalist. But the scruffy man in front regarded her with a dour expression, and she didn't think it would impress him.

  "Do you know Fanny Nunn?" she blurted out.

  His mouth set into a thin line until his lips almost vanished. "What business is it of yours?" he asked, thrusting the spade into the ground.

  "It isn't exactly," she said in a faltering voice.

  "Then leave me alone."

  "But I need your help."

  "You need to go before I set the dogs on you."

  Violet scanned the garden. There wasn't a dog in sight. Wylie was blustering, and it gave her the confidence to continue.

  "I'm not going to try and deceive you," she said.

  "That's good of you." He scowled at her with undisguised contempt.

  "I am sorry. I appear to have upset you, and it's quite understandable given the circumstances of your loss. But I'm not being nosy. I could make up a reason for my questions, but the truth of the matter is that Fanny's name has appeared in a diary in unusual circumstances. I don't know why and I would like to understand what happened to your sweetheart. Everyone I meet is reluctant to speak about her, apart from Mrs Nunn, that is."