The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  "We still don't know what is going on, though. There is no evidence to prove a crime ever happened."

  "We do know. I will go into detail another time, but Edward Moyse died because of the Scole confession."

  "That's only our assumption."

  "No. Miller confirmed it. A stranger paid him to locate the letter, no doubt to conceal the identity of the writer. Had he succeeded, Moyse would still be alive and we would be none the wiser."

  "Where is the letter now?"

  "It could be anywhere. It's not at Moyse's house in Redcross Street. I checked."

  "But what can we do?"

  Lawrence shrugged. "We can get more records, but the detail is important. A drowning alone is not evidence of foul play. And we need to find out who wrote the confession. Is it linked to these deaths? We still have much to learn."

  Violet nodded. "If you hadn't arrived today, you would have missed me altogether," she said. "Staying seemed pointless and I'm glad you are here." Violet smiled and released her hand. "We must see this through, or someone will get away with murder."

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  The Printworks

  Saturday, May 25, 1895

  Lawrence knocked on the door of the coroner's office for the third time, then slammed his palm against a wooden panel.

  "He isn't in, no matter how many times you try," said Violet, reasonably.

  "It's frustrating," said Lawrence.

  "It's Saturday," Violet retorted. "You will have to wait until Monday now."

  Lawrence opened his mouth to snap a reply when he saw a familiar figure ahead. His frown changed to a smile, and he waved. "It's Michael."

  Michael strode out towards them, and Lawrence thrust his hand out. Michael faltered, and for an awful moment, Violet thought he might refuse the handshake. But good manners and his position in the church got the better of him.

  "Good to see you at last," he said. "Where have you been?"

  "In Liverpool."

  "For a whole week?"

  "Yes."

  "It's none of my business," said Michael, abruptly. "I suppose Violet has told you what happened to her?"

  "She did, and it sounds like she handled herself magnificently."

  "She nearly died, Lawrence, trapped like a rat in a cage."

  Violet glared at Michael, and he stopped, surprised at her demeanour.

  "I didn't realise it was that serious," said Lawrence.

  "Well, it was." Michael was in no mood to spare his feelings. "What brings you here?" he continued.

  "We were hoping to see Mr Garrod," said Violet. "About the list of unnatural deaths."

  "Why?"

  "For further clarity," said Lawrence, speaking before Violet could answer. "We need to know the exact circumstance of the deaths to know if they are suspicious."

  "You'll have to wait until Monday," said Michael.

  "We know," said Lawrence, uncertainly. In all the years he had known Michael, the younger man had always been friendly. His attitude today was curt and his anger, barely concealed. Lawrence already regretted his behaviour well enough without criticism from his friends.

  "Or, if you can't wait until then, go and see Edward Abbott."

  "Who?"

  "Abbott. The owner of the local printworks." Michael pointed to a large building further up Mere Street. "I've just walked past the print shop, and it's open."

  "How will that help?" asked Lawrence.

  "An excellent idea," said Violet clapping her hands together. "At least some of the deaths will have made it into the newspapers."

  "Oh, that type of printworks," said Lawrence, enlightened.

  "Edward Abbot has produced the Diss Express since the 1860s," Michael explained. "I expect he keeps back copies."

  "Thank you," said Lawrence, holding out his hand again. "We will speak soon."

  Michael nodded in full comprehension of his meaning. "Until then," he said.

  Lawrence opened the door to the printworks to find an entrance hall with a long counter running almost the entire width of the room. An open doorway behind the worktop allowed a glimpse of the heavy printing press which creaked and groaned beyond. A young man dressed in work clothes and a leather apron was standing behind the counter squinting at a sheet of writing. He lifted his glasses and looked again before shaking his head in frustration.

  Lawrence coughed, and the man looked up.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, placing the paper into an overflowing wooden tray.

  "Do you keep old copies of your newspapers?" asked Lawrence.

  "Of course. We hold copies of every paper that ever went to press."

  "Can I view them?"

  "Not today. It's far too busy. We are only open because of the extra print run. No time for anything else."

  Violet flashed a smile. "That's a lot to get through," she said, gesturing to the tray. "Must you finish it today?"

  "Most of it, if I want to keep my job," said the young man. "This is the most important one of all," he continued, brandishing a sheet of heavy cream paper covered in tiny handwriting. "I would stand half a chance of completing it if I could only read Henry's scrawl."

  "Can I see?" asked Violet. He hesitated, then passed it to her, and she peered at the page.

  "Pass me that pencil," Violet commanded, pointing to a pot on the desk. "And a piece of paper."

  He handed her the items, and she marked the document with neat, precise strokes and passed it back again.

  "Are you sure that's what it says?" he asked, scrutinising the page.

  She nodded. "Once you know shorthand, any writing style becomes easier to read."

  "I didn't know you'd learned shorthand," said Lawrence.

  "There's a lot you don't know about me." Violet smiled towards the young man again. "Is Mr Abbott available?"

  "Not yet. He might come by later."

  "And what's your name?"

  "Charles. I am Mr Abbott's apprentice compositor."

  "I see," said Violet. "So it's your job to set the lettering for the press."

  He nodded. "Yes. I must produce two hundred characters an hour, which isn't difficult as long as I can read the original document. Most of them are readable, but anything from Henry – well, I don't know why he can't make his writing bigger. It's my first time alone, and I don't want to let Mr Abbott down."

  "Perhaps, we can help each other," said Violet. "Why don't you let us see the back copies of the newspapers, and we'll sit quietly out of your way. You won't even know we're there. Then if you have any problems with Henry's writing, you can ask me for help. How does that sound?"

  Charles pondered the offer. "I don't see that it can do any harm," he said. "Come through."

  They followed him into the printworks which smelled of paper and chemicals. Heavy wooden presses and compositors' cabinets filled the room. A desk had been set directly below the large window, and a composing stick full of letters was lying next to a handwritten design for a sales pamphlet.

  "I'll be working here," said Charles pointing to the desk. "And the door to the paper room is through here."

  He opened another door to a well-lit room which was sparsely furnished apart from a desk, two chairs and a gaslight. A large window dominated one end of the room and chunky wooden shelves, stacked with binders, covered the adjoining wall.

  "Don't come outside if you hear any voices," said Charles. "I'm not sure what Mr Abbott would have to say about this."

  "We won't," promised Violet as she sat at the desk. The door closed, and Lawrence moved the second chair opposite her.

  "Where should we start?" he asked.

  Violet retrieved her list and pushed it across the table. "I have written an asterisk by the suspicious deaths," she said. "You locate the binders, and I'll make a start."

  Lawrence nodded and reached for the first weighty tome, then manoeuvred it on the desk in front of Violet. She blew a layer of dust away, then located her handkerchief and wiped the residue.

  "I
t's been a while since anyone's read that," said Lawrence, unnecessarily, pulling down another binder. Silence fell upon the reading room save for the rustle of pages as they both examined the newspapers. Ten minutes later, they had found nothing of note. Deep sighs from Lawrence punctuated the rustling pages. Patience was not one of his virtues. After another ten minutes, he considered leaving the printworks and forgetting all about it when an article caught his eye. He was halfway through reading it when Violet spoke.

  "There," she said, pointing to a dog-eared newspaper dated April 1885.

  "What have you found?" he asked.

  "A suspicious death. It wasn't from drowning," said Violet, "but I marked it with an asterisk and having read the report, it's certainly questionable."

  "Who died?"

  "Susan Reynolds," she replied. "Her husband found her dead in the wash house. She was laying by the mangle and had fallen and injured her head."

  "It doesn't sound very suspicious to me."

  "But she was in perfectly good health. There was nothing wrong with her at all. The coroner ruled it natural causes because he could find no evidence of disease."

  "She could have lost her balance."

  "I suppose so. But the paper describes the wound on Susan's head as severe."

  "Mark it as possible if you like," said Lawrence. "But I'm not convinced. This one is worth checking further though," he continued poring over the page. "It doesn't sound right at all, and I bet it isn't on your list."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it concerned a young child," he said. "It was a real tragedy. The poor little chap drowned in a barrel."

  "Oh, no." Violet closed her eyes. "How awful. The poor parents."

  "According to the account, he went missing. When the searchers had exhausted all other avenues, one of the constables opened the lid of a barrel, and there he was."

  "He must have fallen in."

  "And lowered the lid at the same time? He couldn't have."

  "Did they treat it as murder?"

  "No. The coroner assumed that he had fallen in and that later on, when the light was failing, someone must have inadvertently placed the lid on the barrel."

  "That sounds silly."

  "I agree. But that is what the report says."

  "Then I'll make a note, and we had better keep looking."

  Two hours later, Lawrence pushed his binder into the middle of the desk. "That's it," he said. "I can't see straight, and I've got the devil of a headache. Have we got enough to be going on with?"

  Violet scanned her journal. "More than enough. We've found reports for about half the names I listed. Those, together with the other records, gives well over twenty inexplicable deaths."

  Lawrence took the list from her. "They're not in order," he said. "Wait a moment." He opened his notebook and re-listed them, putting a tick against each of Violet's entries as he wrote it down. "Right. The first name on the list is Solomon Derby who fell in front of a cart in March 1876. Next, is Mary Green who drowned in December of that year and Mary Clarke who fell down the stairs in January of '77. Charlie Green was found dead in his bed in May '77..."

  "Any relation to Mary?"

  "Her eight-year-old son. The verdict on his death was unknown. The boy was perfectly healthy when he retired to bed. The father went to get him up in the morning, and he was cold and stiff. A drop of blood in the right nostril was the only unusual sign."

  "There are too many children on this list. I don't like it."

  "Next is Althea Carter and then Fanny Nunn. Ah, strange."

  "What?"

  "The next inexplicable death after Fanny is Charlie Adams in 1880. Nearly a three-year gap. But since then, there have been at least one and often two deaths a year. Extraordinary."

  "My goodness." Violet's hand flew to her mouth. "How dreadful. Don't you see what this means?"

  Lawrence nodded. "Oh, yes. There's a definite pattern. The murders started before the death of Fanny Nunn, and they have continued unabated ever since."

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  The Ironmongers

  "I can't believe it," said Violet for the third time, as she worried at her bandages with pale fingers.

  "Stop that," said Lawrence, placing his hand over hers. "They will unravel, and you'll need to see the doctor again."

  "It's just so horrible," she continued. "Could we have made a mistake?"

  "Nothing is certain," said Lawrence. "Our evidence is largely circumstantial, but we know that somebody killed Moyse and his murderer is probably still living in Diss. Even if only one of the deaths is unnatural, it is one too many."

  "And we don't know who did it or why. Do you think anyone suspects that we are investigating?"

  "They must do. Someone lured you into that empty house with the sole purpose of causing you harm."

  "But how could they know?"

  "Have you told anyone why you are here?"

  "Only Michael. Mary Nunn thinks I am a journalist, at least that's the story I gave her, and I think she believed me. But anyone could have heard you and me talking. Or perhaps listened to one of my conversations with Michael."

  "We can't trust anyone," said Lawrence, lowering his voice.

  "What do we do?"

  Lawrence walked towards the window and stared at the whitewashed wall beyond. "We need to know why Fanny Nunn was so important. She was the only person named in the confession."

  "Why don't we look at the newspaper report of her death while we are here. Her mother gave me lots of useful information but there may be something more in the papers."

  Lawrence scanned the bookshelves and removed the volume covering December 1877. He drew his chair to the other side of the desk and sat next to Violet. Fanny's death had been the subject of several reports, and he located them quickly. They read the articles, side by side, their heads bent close together.

  "I'm not sure this helps," said Lawrence, when they had finished.

  "There's a dearth of available witnesses."

  "Yes. Both the surgeons are dead," said Violet. "I found that out several days ago. Fanny's brother Christopher lives in London, and we can't speak to him. John Aldrich died last year according to Minnie, and Harry Aldrich won't talk to anybody about Fanny."

  "What about his sisters?" asked Lawrence. "Both of them were witnesses. And the newspaper report suggests that the coroner took their evidence seriously."

  Violet scanned the paper again. "I agree. They both heard Fanny drown. Do you think we should go and see them?"

  "If they haven't gone to meet their maker. Everyone else involved seems to have passed away."

  Violet smiled. "But they were well past their prime. There's nothing sinister about their deaths, and yes, the Aldrich girls are very much alive. They've been running the ironmongers in Market Hill since their father died. We could go there now."

  "Good. I think we should. And let's hope they are a little more forthcoming than their brother."

  The Misses Aldrich were a long way past their prime which momentarily confused Violet who still had the 1877 newspaper reports fresh in her mind. She'd overlooked the fact that almost two decades had passed and they were no longer young women. From the moment Lawrence opened the door to the ironmongers and ushered her through, Violet was ill at ease. She reached the counter first and asked the middle-aged woman behind it, where she might find Miss Louisa Aldrich. When the woman replied that she was Louisa, Violet could not conceal her surprise.

  Louisa Aldrich wore a smart, black brocade dress. Though the modest dress looked simple, it was finely tailored and of excellent quality. Louisa was taller than Violet and looked older. It was difficult to estimate her age, but fine crow's feet and raised veins on the back of her hands gave clues to the passage of time. Slim, with pale, unblemished skin, Louisa wore her hair in a tight bun exposing a long, slender neck. Her deportment was elegant, and she carried herself with the confident poise of a woman who knows her place in the world.

  The well-organise
d ironmongers in which Louisa kept shop smelled like the blacksmiths in Violet's childhood village. Items of metalwork hung from hooks on the ceiling with smaller pieces arranged in drawers or tidy stacks. Violet felt a wave of nostalgia, half expecting a horse to push its head through the stable door at the rear.

  "How may I help?" asked Louisa.

  "A pair of hinges and nails to fit," said Lawrence pointing to a half-open drawer containing a small and hopefully cheap set of brass fittings.

  Louisa retrieved them and deftly wrapped the items in a piece of newspaper which Lawrence recognised as last week's copy of the Diss Express.

  "Will that be all?"

  "And some information, please," Violet added.

  "Certainly. What would you like to know? I'll fetch Mr Baxter if you need something forged."

  "It's not that sort of information," said Violet. "Nothing to do with the shop."

  "Oh?" Louisa's brow knitted momentarily.

  "I hoped you would answer some questions about Fanny Nunn."

  "Why? The poor girl died a long time ago."

  Violet caught Lawrence's eye and hoped he would follow her lead. Her persona as a reporter had worked well with Mary Nunn, and she thought it worth repeating.

  "I'm working for a magazine," she said.

  "I don't believe you," said Louisa, directly.

  Violet opened her mouth to protest, but the words would not come. Something close to a smile played across Lawrence's lips. Violet scowled at him, furious at his enjoyment of her discomfort.

  "I saw Mary Nunn yesterday," said Louisa. "She has told half the town that she will be receiving an award from your magazine."

  "That's not what I said," Violet protested.

  "It's the way she has interpreted your words," said Louisa. "Take whatever you said and multiply it by a large dose of wishful thinking. The result will be Mary Nunn's version of events."

  "Isn't she reliable?" asked Violet.

  "To a certain degree," said Louisa, "She does not lie, so much as exaggerate the truth."

  "Then what she feels about her daughter's death is not necessarily what happened?"

  "It might be. But equally, Mary could have embellished things. She is a good woman, but prone to overstating the situation."