The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Alfred grunted, turned his back on Violet, and picked up the spade before resuming his task. Violet sighed. She had never encountered a circumstance where her natural empathy failed to gain trust, and by now, the conversation was usually flowing. She considered leaving, then noticed that her shoe buckle was hanging by a thread. Violet pulled the buckle off and dropped it into her bag, then stood with her arms crossed and a sullen expression on her face. She waited and watched Alfred Wylie dig. After a few moments, he stopped. "Are you still here?" he growled.

  "Obviously."

  "I should throw you off the property."

  "If you were going to, you would have done it already."

  He moved towards her and lowered the spade. "You're sparky, like Fanny," he said.

  "That's the first time anybody has described her character," said Violet. "Sparky. It makes her sound like a real person."

  "She was a real person and full of life," said Wylie. "Until that last week. I could tell you a lot about Fanny Nunn."

  "Then why don't you? Fanny deserves better than to be forgotten."

  He stared into the distance as if conjuring up a memory. "Walk with me," he said.

  "Where?"

  "I'll show you," he continued, striding through the rose arbour. Violet walked behind him, frowning in trepidation. Moments before he had threatened to evict her from the garden. Now she was obediently following him to goodness knows where.

  "This way," he said, turning left. Violet struggled to keep up as he marched down Mount Street. She was panting with exertion by the time they arrived in Heywood Road some ten minutes later.

  "Here," he said, pointing to a long pathway. It led to a flint-covered church with a large archway to the cemetery beyond. They walked through and towards a small plot under a low boughed tree. "This is where she lies."

  Violet lowered her head respectfully, wondering why he had brought her to this lonely cemetery. But two elderly ladies were paying their respects by a tall gravestone only a few yards beyond which gave her a sense of security.

  "I shouldn't do this," said Alfred, perching on the edge of a weathered marble tomb. "It's not right using a man's grave for a seat, but I often sit here and talk to Fanny. I tell her about my day. I never married, you know. We were only young and foolish, but she was the right girl for me."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," said Violet, feeling empathy towards him for the first time.

  "You sit here," said Alfred. "I'll stand. It's not right to sit in the presence of a lady. Sorry that it's not more suitable."

  "It will do well enough," said Violet. Sitting on a tomb might be disrespectful, but he had set off so fast that she'd almost run to keep up. Now she needed to take the weight off her hot and swollen feet.

  "I'll tell you about Fanny," he said. "Good and bad alike. She was not perfect. Not by a long way. But she did not deserve to die. Where do you want me to start?"

  "Tell me what happened on the night she died."

  Alfred took a deep breath. "I was in the market room at The Crown all night. It's one of the drinking areas, but it's quieter than the other public room. Fanny and I were having a beer with my friends. She liked a drink."

  "Was she in good spirits?"

  "Not really. The old bitch was sending her away, and she didn't want to go."

  "Did she have to leave?"

  He nodded. "Fanny had no choice. No money of her own, you see. And with younger children in the house, her mother didn't want her."

  "Too many mouths to feed?"

  "So the mother said, but she didn't want for money of her own. She took all the profits from the inn and had recently received a legacy. Fanny expected to get some money, but her mother would not part with so much as a farthing."

  "Did she help Mrs Nunn to keep the inn?"

  "Sometimes, though her mother did not always pay for her services. As I said, Fanny liked a drink, and on occasion, she would have too many and get up late the next day. Her mother said she was fat and lazy and true enough, she was a well-built girl, but a comely lass all the same."

  "Was she unhappy that evening."

  "You could say that, but she was not devastated. She did not want to leave me, but she knew that I would not stray and that she could return at the weekend."

  "And you don't know of any other reason why she might have been unhappy."

  "As I said, she was still mithering about the money in the will that she believed was intended for her. And she'd been quieter than usual for a few days, as if something was on her mind."

  Violet licked her lips before choosing her words carefully. "Do you think Fanny might have taken her own life?"

  "I don't know. I did not think so at the time."

  "Even though she was quieter than usual?"

  "She wasn't especially unhappy – more pensive than anything. As if something was playing on her mind."

  "And she didn't tell you what it was?"

  "No. And I wouldn't have listened if she had," he admitted. "We were all too jolly. The ale was flowing, and the conversation was light-hearted. Fanny laughed with us too, when she wasn't fidgeting and staring out of the window."

  "When did you last see her?"

  "A few minutes past eleven, it was. I left the Two Brewers with a couple of the other lads. Fanny grabbed me by the arm as I walked towards the door and said, "Alf, I want to speak to you."

  "Even though you had been together all night?"

  "Yes. I suppose Fanny wanted to say something privately."

  "And did she?"

  "Eventually. Fanny pulled me back into the market room, which was empty by then and burst into tears. I asked her what was wrong, and she did not reply. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. She shook it, and I heard a few coins jingle. 'There are thirty pounds in here,' she said."

  "I thought she had no money?"

  "She didn't. That parcel couldn't possibly have contained thirty pounds. At most, it was a pound or two."

  "Did she show you?"

  "No. But Fanny told me that if the thirty pounds weren't in there now, they would be by the time I saw it next."

  "How strange. Was Fanny expecting some money?"

  "I don't think so, but she was behaving oddly. She said that if I saw her at the weekend, we would treat ourselves. And if I did not, I would find the packet in her Ulster coat pocket the following morning. It would be twenty yards from Mr Muskett's staithe in the mere under the weeping willow."

  "And was it?"

  "No. I searched for it when I knew Fanny had drowned and I scoured the area more than once. There was no sign of the package, and I had heard it said that she was wearing her Ulster coat when they pulled her from the mere."

  "Did she say anything else before you parted?"

  "She gave me a note, as I left," said Alfred. "It was dark outside, so I made no attempt to read it, but put it in my greatcoat pocket. I told her I would see her when she returned from Norwich, waved her goodbye and went home, thinking no more about it."

  "Was that the last time you saw her?"

  Alfred nodded. "Yes. It was. Then, Inspector Amis called me up just after seven the next morning. I opened the window and asked what he wanted, and he replied that Fanny was missing from her mother's house and there was a body in the mere."

  "How dreadful."

  "It was. I knew it must be Fanny and I remembered the envelope she had given me the previous night. I opened it and showed it to the inspector."

  "What did it say?"

  "Nothing. It contained a likeness of Fanny. She wanted me to remember her." He reached into his breast pocket and removed a battered leather wallet held together with a cord. He untied it and removed a piece of paper. "Here."

  The tomb upon which Violet was sitting lay in shadow from the trees above. She stood and moved towards the pathway and into the sunlight before looking at the paper. It contained a pencil sketch of a well-built, homely looking girl with dark eyes and hair.
She turned it over, but there was nothing on the reverse.

  "Thank you," she said, handing it back to Alfred. He tucked it into the wallet and carefully folded the cord around. "What do you think happened to Fanny?" she asked.

  "I suppose she was more unhappy than I realised," he said sighing. "I did not notice at the time, but I was younger then and selfish in my ways."

  "You think she took her own life?"

  He nodded. "I suppose it is the only explanation. Why else would Fanny leave me her likeness?"

  "It is a good question," said Violet. "But it doesn't explain why she told you where to find her money. Did it ever turn up?"

  "There was no money," said Alfred. "And there was nowhere for her to get it. She made it up. She wasn't in her right mind that night and must have known what she was going to do. It was a long time ago, now. Let the poor girl lie." He nodded towards Fanny's grave and touched his cap. "I must go now, or Mr Brookes will notice my absence."

  "Thank you," said Violet. "I do appreciate you talking to me." She watched as Alfred Wylie walked briskly away and thought about how lonely he must have been. He appeared to be in his forties, and there was time enough to find love again if he wanted to. Then, snapping out of her reverie, Violet spotted a clump of bluebells beside a tree. She picked a bunch and placed them on Fanny's grave before leaving the cemetery; head bowed in contemplation. Alfred Wylie's explanation was convincing, and he had known Fanny very well. But the mention of thirty pounds troubled her. Fanny was either a fantasist or was expecting money. But from whom? By the time Violet returned to The Crown, she had talked herself out of believing Alfred's theory. Fanny's death was far from solved and Violet was as baffled as ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  A Bad Year for the Young

  Violet was still pondering the meaning of love as she walked back to the town. Romance had largely evaded her which was hardly surprising. She had spent the better part of her forty years in domestic servitude to others, first as a governess and later as a companion to several elderly ladies. There had been a young man once; a fleeting romance which had fizzled out almost as quickly as it began. She had not been particularly upset and had soon realised that their attachment was not as strong as she'd initially thought. Employment as a ladies' companion had been rewarding and never strenuous, but it was solitary, and Violet rarely found the opportunity to mix with suitable young men. She had not been unduly concerned to begin with, but as she left her twenties and thirties behind, the passing of time became more apparent. By the time she reached her forties, she had reconciled herself to the solitude of spinsterhood and was, for the most, content. But it was an uneasy peace. Loneliness could strike at any moment.

  She shrugged off her thoughts and entered The Crown Hotel, hanging her hat and coat on the stand before entering the dining room for a light lunch. A jam tart followed bread, cheese and a slice of brawn. She patted her bodice after eating, convinced that her waist was thickening. Violet had never been slight, but neither was she plump. She was fortunate in having an hourglass figure and was still wearing dresses that fit her twenty years ago. Violet examined the backs of her hands as she pondered, clenching them to hide the ugly veins that were becoming more prominent. She couldn't quite straighten her fingers anymore. Not the ring and little finger anyway. She was starting to look matronly but was sensible enough not to be unduly concerned. Violet stood and made her way into the sitting room, hoping that it would be quiet. She wanted to read her book, but not alone in her room. One or two companions in the lounge would be ideal, but when Violet opened the door, a buzz of noise indicated it was full. She turned away, and then a friendly voice shouted her over.

  "Miss Smith. Do come and join us." It was Arthur Thompson. He waved at her from the other side of the room. Harry Aldrich and Joseph Pope were sitting beside him. Their faces were solemn, and they appeared less animated than usual. "How are you?" she asked, pleased to see their familiar faces.

  "Not so good," said Harry. "But better now you are here to take our minds off it."

  Violet smiled. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but it was evident that Harry did not want to discuss it. "Are you here on business or pleasure?" she asked.

  "It's the Lord's day, so we must be here for pleasure," said Joseph Pope with none of his usual jocularity.

  "And a little business," said Arthur. "We are having an informal meeting of the Oddfellows."

  Harry Aldrich flashed him a glance, but Arthur ignored it.

  "On a Sunday?" Violet teased.

  "As long as we've been to church, the Lord will forgive us. And we did," said Harry.

  The men fell silent again, and Violet began to feel uncomfortable and wished she had retired to her room.

  "What have you been doing today?" asked Arthur. "Have you enjoyed the fine weather?"

  Violet smiled. "I took a stroll along Heywood Road," she said, "and I found myself in the cemetery. It is a beautiful resting place."

  "It's getting rather full," said Joseph glumly.

  Violet cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

  "I think he is referring to the children's graves," said Harry. "It's not been a good year for the youngsters."

  "In what way?"

  "There was an outbreak of smallpox earlier in the year," said Harry. "It took a few adults but many more children. Then last week little Doris Edwards died, and today we found out that young Samuel Grainger drowned in the well."

  "Poor little chap." Violet's hands flew to her mouth. "What a terrible thing to happen."

  Harry nodded. "It looks like he fell in and couldn't get out again. His mother is distraught. And she's a widow too."

  "What will she do?"

  "We will look after her," said Joseph. "Her husband was one of us, and she still pays her dues. There will be enough to bury the little fellow and a bit more besides."

  "Does she have other children?"

  "Plenty," Joseph replied. "Not as many as George Fairweather, but she's lost three and still has five."

  "A hard life," Violet murmured, thinking about her childhood. She was one of three and her mother one of two. They were a small family and had been fortunate enough never to have suffered the loss of a child. Violet could only imagine the pain.

  "Let us speak of happier things," said Harry Aldrich, banging his hand down on the table. "It's the spring fair on Wednesday afternoon. Are you coming?"

  "I would love to. Where is it?"

  "By the mere, near Lait's Coach Builder's."

  "I know it," said Violet. "I will be there."

  "And bring Reverend Michael too."

  Violet nodded. She would be meeting Michael later and was looking forward to it. Alfred Wylie's loneliness had made her wistful for the family life that had passed her by. After tales of smallpox and a little boy's drowning, she was more than ready to indulge in something pleasurable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Miller Talks

  Lawrence dropped his overnight bag in the upstairs room of the boarding house. He had opted to stay there on the spur of the moment after leaving the railway station. It was a last-minute decision, over which Lawrence had agonised, having intended initially to lodge with his uncle. As the journey progressed and the train drew closer to Liverpool, he'd begun to dread the prospect of making small talk. Staying with his uncle was a sensible option, but as he started walking towards Lord Street, he realised he couldn't go through with it. There would be too many questions. The minute he arrived, his uncle would ask why he was back in Liverpool so soon. An explanation would be unavoidable, and he was still pre-occupied with Catherine. He wasn't in a fit state of mind to insert himself into the domestic bliss in which his uncle and Connie now dwelled.

  So he had changed direction and applied to a lodging house near to the prison. Now, as he drew the curtains and gazed out of the dirty window onto Rawcliffe Road, he wondered whether he had made the right decision. The room smelled damp, the bed squeaked when he placed his bag on it, and
the wallpaper was peeling. Still, it would only be for one night. Lawrence reached into his jacket pocket and rechecked the visiting warrant. He was due to see Miller at two thirty in the afternoon. If he left now, he would arrive too early, but anything was better than being stuck in this room longer than necessary. Besides, it was sunny outside, and the walk would be pleasant.

  He returned down the staircase, taking care not to touch the bannister which was thick with grime. As he reached the bottom stair, the door to the sitting room opened, and the landlady appeared wearing a dark dress, her hair concealed beneath a lace cap. Her thin face was set in a scowl.

  "I'll be locking the door at ten thirty," she said. "Don't be late, or you'll spend the night on the doorstep."

  "I'll be back by ten," said Lawrence, putting his hat on and feeling aggrieved. He was in his forties, and the landlady had treated him like a child. If he hadn't already paid, he would have packed his bags and left. Instead, he politely requested directions. "Where is Hornby Road?" he asked.

  "Hornby Road is very long," said the landlady. "Where do you want to go?"

  "The gaol," he said without thinking, then sighed knowing what she would assume.

  She looked him up and down and pursed her lips before opening the front door. "Go left until you reach the bottom of the road, cross over and through the cemetery. You can't miss it," she said, crossing her arms under her chest. She stared at him, accusingly. "Is it a relative?"

  "Who?"

  "The man you are visiting."

  Lawrence restrained himself from telling her to mind her own business. "It's a professional matter," he said.

  Her thin lips relaxed, and she uncrossed her arms. "I see. Don't be late." She returned through the door without a backward glance, and Lawrence walked down the street, glad to be away from the dingy house.