The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Linden House was a handsome property set well back from the road. Lawrence climbed a small set of steps to reach the doorway located beneath a balustraded balcony. He rang the bell, and a young servant girl greeted him. She waved him through the door and left him alone in the spacious hallway while she went to fetch her master. Lawrence began to feel uncomfortable as he waited. It was one thing asking for an opinion in a drug store, but quite another invading a gentleman's home. He needn't have worried. Thomas Gostling grasped the potential severity of the situation as soon as he had finished speaking.

  "You've come to the right place," said Gostling, reaching for the jug. "I'm almost retired, you know. But I have a small laboratory in the back of the house and more than enough equipment to conduct a Marsh test."

  "Marsh test?" echoed Lawrence.

  "Yes," said Thomas Gostling, leading him through a corridor and into a room that smelled of sulphur. "It's as good a detector of arsenic as it was when they convicted Marie Lafarge in the forties."

  "If you say so," said Lawrence, feeling out of his depth.

  "I'll tell you how it works if you like," said Gostling enthusiastically, reaching for a porcelain apparatus containing taps and tubes. He placed the device on top of a wooden table and carefully adjusted it.

  "We need one of these," he said, unscrewing a jar. He reached for a small pair of tongs and extracted an even smaller piece of metal which he placed in one arm of the tube.

  "What is it?" asked Lawrence.

  "Zinc," said Gostling, "and this is sulphuric acid." He pointed to a cabinet, donned a pair of heavy gloves, and poured in the contents of the bottle. Now, let's take a sample from your jug," he continued, decanting a small amount into the other arm. "One stopper," he said, producing a rubber bung, "and a short wait." He stepped back and stared at the device.

  "It doesn't seem to be doing much," said Lawrence.

  "That's because you can't see through the porcelain," said the chemist. "But rest assured that hydrogen is now building up in the short arm." He made a vague gesture towards the apparatus. "Water?"

  "Where?"

  "I mean, would you like a glass of water as you were unable to drink yours earlier?"

  Lawrence faltered, unsure whether to accept given his recent experience.

  "It's perfectly safe."

  "Yes, then," Lawrence muttered, feeling foolish.

  Thomas Gostling poured a glass and smiled as he passed it to Lawrence.

  "Thank you," said Lawrence, gulping it down.

  A clock chimed from outside the room, and the chemist looked up. "Is that the time? I must get on," he said. "Now, for the clever bit." He struck a match, released a nozzle on the device and ignited the gas. Then he opened a small drawer beneath the desk, took out a piece of glass and placed it in the whitish flame. "Oh dear," he sighed as a brownish-black spot appeared. "Your suspicions were correct. There was arsenic in your water."

  By the time Lawrence returned to The Crown, the full implications of his narrow escape had set in. His fingers shook as he untied his cravat, and he sat down slowly on the bed, thankful for the stray hair that had saved his life. By rights, Lawrence should have slept at The Crown the previous night and was in the habit of drinking water if woken up in the small hours. Had the arsenic been introduced before bedtime, which was likely, he could have gulped it down without seeing the contents. Lawrence shuddered at the thought of death by poison. He'd already witnessed the unendurable pain of a strychnine victim and would never forget seeing the dying spasms of the poisoner's target during one of his first cases as a newly promoted inspector. The memory would haunt him forever.

  He bolstered his pillows and lay back, reclining against the bedstead while surveying the hotel room. The bedroom door was to his right and easily visible from the bed. It would be too risky for someone to interfere with his drinking water at night when he would be in the room. An intruder would be easy to see. In any case, he remembered drinking from the glass yesterday morning. The contamination must have occurred in the afternoon or early evening. It was most likely after he announced his suspicions to the Oddfellows which implied their involvement. Equally, a member of the Panks family or their servants could have doctored his water. The keys were available from the recessed area of the hallway, and the front door to The Crown was open from early morning to late evening. Anyone could have walked in off the street, which opened up the possibility of further suspects. While musing upon that thought, Lawrence fell asleep.

  He awoke to a pang of hunger, and his stomach growled in response. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and if he didn't shake a leg, he would miss dinner too. Lawrence stood and walked towards the dressing table where he picked up a comb and ran it through his hair. His reflection stared back, and he didn't like what he saw. The spray of grey at his temples had extended towards his ears. Faint vertical lines on his forehead suggested a perpetually worried man. He raised his eyebrows and watched the lines disappear, wishing that the change was permanent. It had been several months since he had last called upon his barber, and his hair needed a good cut. All in all, he did not feel his usual impeccably-groomed self.

  As he turned away from the mirror, he spied a glint of metal on the floorboards near the bed. Lawrence peered more closely in case he had imagined it, but there was something on the floor. He walked towards the bed and stooped down, closing his hand over the object. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he opened his hand. In his palm, was an object which looked like a chunk of metal but was a cufflink with a symbol etched on top. The last time Lawrence had seen a similar symbol was inside the cupboard at the back of The Crown Hotel. It was a close match to one of the medallions from what he remembered, but Lawrence was by no means certain. He would have to go back and check, which might prove difficult in the middle of the evening. Patience was not his strongest virtue, but he was going to have to wait. In the meantime, he was starving. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Lawrence made his way to the dining room.

  Dinner was not a memorable meal, and Lawrence would have struggled to describe what he had eaten if asked. His concentration was lacking, and impatience overrode every other emotion as he waited for the evening to pass. Lawrence wasted an hour walking the streets, and at ten o'clock, returned to his room, making an unsuccessful attempt to sleep on top of the bedclothes. Eventually, he gave up and decided it was late enough to risk a visit downstairs. The hallway was empty, and the doors to the public areas shut, so he slunk towards the counter and removed the bunch of keys. The back of The Crown was dark and still. Lawrence located the lantern that he had borrowed on his earlier walk and stowed by the rear door. He ignited it and made for the cupboard again, encountering no one this time, feline or human. Once again, the cupboard door opened easily, and this time the lantern cast a powerful illumination over the contents of the closet.

  Lawrence located the Oddfellows jewels on the middle shelf where he had last seen the symbol. The little pile gleamed in the beam of the lantern as he compared them to the cufflink. He had been right. One of the icons was identical. But something beneath the jewels was different. Propped up against the shelf immediately below was a burlap sack tied with a rough rope that he did not recognise. Lawrence stared at it, trying to remember. But the bag occupied the spot on which he had spilt wax so it could not have been there the night before. Lawrence untied the rope and pulled out the contents. First, he retrieved a dark grey jacket in reasonable condition for a garment of its kind. Then, he rummaged inside again and removed a flat cap and a pair of trousers. A halfpenny fell out of the trouser pocket, startling Lawrence as it rolled across the floor. Something white protruded from the other trouser pocket.

  Inch by inch, he tugged at it until he was holding what looked like a small furry animal. He held it aloft and saw an all too familiar wire and spring arrangement. The object he held was a long, full, white beard. Suddenly he realised what he was seeing. The outfit and beard fitted the description that William Miller had given of the ma
n by Moyse's bookstall. The man who had asked him to find the Bible and who was responsible for many deaths. The man who had come perilously close to poisoning Lawrence earlier that day. He dropped the disguise and turned the sack inside out. There, at the bottom, was a bundle of invoices bearing the mark of Aldrich's auctioneers. With shaking hands, Lawrence replaced the clothes and papers in the sack and set off for the police station.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  A Mysterious Note

  Tuesday, May 28, 1895

  Lawrence whistled as he descended the stairs of The Crown Hotel for the second time that morning. He'd delivered the burlap sack to the police house late on Monday night, anticipating a lacklustre response. Instead, the constable had listened intently. Mr Gostling, the chemist, had been summoned to the police house shortly after breakfast to give an account of the Marsh test conducted the previous day. Then, the constable had sent for his inspector who regarded the sack solemnly, promising to question Harry Aldrich at the earliest opportunity. Lawrence had only given scant details of his suspicions. The facts surrounding the burial club deaths were too disorderly to make public. But he was making progress. As soon as he gained irrefutable proof of financial wrong-doing, he would present the evidence to the authorities. Lawrence decided to spend the rest of the day cross-referencing his records.

  As he reached the foot of the stairs, the formidable shape of George Panks loomed before him. The worst of his embarrassment about the late-night feeding foray had passed, and Lawrence greeted him with a cheery 'Hello'.

  Panks scowled. "When are you leaving?" he growled.

  "I haven't decided," said Lawrence, taken aback at the man's tone. George Panks' attitude had changed from the tolerance of a simpleton to outright hostility.

  "I suggest you decide soon," he said. "You are not welcome here."

  "Why?" asked Lawrence, perplexed. He was sure he hadn't caused any further offence to his host since the affair with the pie.

  "The arrest of Harry Aldrich this morning is why. The poor fellow is in the police house because of some cock and bull story that you cooked up. Aldrich is a good man, Harpham. And a good customer of this hotel."

  "So it's about money, is it?" asked Lawrence. "Worried there might not be any more meetings held here? Is that why you risked the life of one of your guests?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Poison," said Lawrence. "I don't know who you've been speaking to, but I was nearly killed in your hotel yesterday. I've since found incriminating evidence of Harry Aldrich's involvement. So I suggest you consider your position, before condemning mine."

  George Panks continued to glare at Lawrence, but stepped away and allowed him to pass. As Lawrence made for the front door, Minnie Panks breezed past, oblivious to her father's mood.

  "I've got a letter for you, Mr Harpham," she said, bustling towards the counter. "I would have delivered it earlier, but Father sent me to the butchers, and I clean forgot. Here." She thrust two envelopes towards him.

  "Ah. A telegram from Violet," he said, looking at the markings on the envelope. "Hello, what's this?"

  The second envelope was white and written in a chunky, almost childish hand with the words 'Private & Confidential' inscribed at the top. Intrigued, Lawrence slipped Violet's telegram into his trouser pocket and slit open the envelope. He read the slip of paper inside. 'Come to the reading rooms at The Diss Express as soon as you receive my note.' Lawrence turned the page over. The reverse was blank.

  "Who gave you this?" he asked, showing it to Minnie.

  "Nobody," she replied, not troubling to read the page. "I found it on the doorstep this morning."

  "When?"

  "About seven o'clock."

  "Hmmm," he said vaguely, reaching for the door, not sure what to make of the letter. He supposed that it must have come from young Charles, the compositor, but quite what he wanted with Lawrence was a mystery. If the message been for Violet, he would have understood. Charles had taken quite a shine to her since her help with his handwriting problems. But the letter was explicitly intended for Lawrence and therefore a puzzle.

  Lawrence hastened straight for the printworks and was there within ten minutes, hoping it was not another waste of his time. He was keen to get back to his notes and produce a timeline of evidence that might satisfy the constabulary. He pushed the wooden door, but it did not open. Turning the handle did not remedy the problem, and it was clear that the door was locked. Lawrence walked down the side of the building and to the rear where he remembered seeing another door on his previous visit. Sure enough, he could tell from a distance that the rear door was ajar. He pushed it open and walked inside. The small rear lobby led to the open door of the reading room. Lawrence peered inside, but the room was empty. He went to the front of the building, through the compositor's office and into the entrance with the long counter. The printworks were bafflingly devoid of human life. He returned to the rear again, wondering whether he was being taken for a fool by the letter writer. It could be a punishment for his part in the arrest of Harry Aldrich. After all, Harry was one of the town's most esteemed inhabitants. Lawrence was only too aware of the strength of feeling against him from his earlier encounter with Panks.

  He returned to the reading room, deciding to use his time wisely by consulting the archived newspapers while the place was empty. But as he glanced across the room, his eye was drawn towards another envelope. It had been propped up against a book in the middle of the table and marked, 'private'. On the front of the envelope written in a familiar childish scrawl, was 'For the attention of Lawrence Harpham'.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Derailed

  Monday, May 27, 1895

  The train journey that should have taken Violet no more than four hours had begun badly and rapidly turned into the worst travel experience of her life. The steam engine had pulled out of Diss station and gone no more than a few miles before grinding to a halt on the tracks. After a long delay, a harassed conductor informed the passengers that the boiler was faulty and would need repairing. Another hour passed before they were finally underway. The engine limped on a while longer until they reached the outskirts of Norwich. Then disaster struck as an explosion ripped through the front of the train. Time stood still. The windows imploded from the force of the blast and shards of glass spiked across the forwardmost carriages. Violet joined the other passengers as they scrambled onto the tracks in a disorderly mass.

  Outside, the scene was chaotic. Two boilermen, dragged from the front of the train by their colleagues, lay bleeding on the grass. Another man slumped by the side of the locomotive was beyond help. The engine lay broken and still, pipes and metal spilling from the front of the boiler. A young mother sobbed frantically, and her frightened children huddled by her side while an elderly lady tried to console them. The woman continued screaming, caught in an unending cycle of hysteria until a wiry, dark-haired man slapped her on the cheek.

  "How dare you, sir," bellowed a white moustached man, in colonial attire.

  The young man ignored him and shook his head before kneeling by one of the injured boiler men. He cradled the man's head and made a clumsy attempt to dress his wounds, working in silence. The slap had done the trick, and the young woman had stopped crying. She rocked backwards and forwards on a grassy mound, arms cradled around her children. Their sobs quietened as they leaned into their mother. Violet joined the young man and offered her help. He nodded his acceptance, and she explained that she was an experienced first aider. He introduced himself as Maurice.

  One of the fallen boiler men had suffered a deep gash to his upper arm, from which blood spurted in a pulsing stream. Violet asked Maurice to remove his belt to use as a tourniquet. He unbuckled it without speaking, and Violet applied it to the injured arm. The bleeding slowed to a trickle, and the boiler man's complexion gradually changed from grey to pink. Violet loosened his shirt and made a thorough check. He'd suffered cuts and bruises from the flying metal but was not in any immediate
danger.

  His companion had been less fortunate. Though initially seeming in better health, he was now flagging. He'd walked from the train unaided, according to Maurice, and had appeared uninjured. But now, he breathed in rasping gulps and beads of sweat dotted his brow. Violet felt for his pulse. It was slow. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his rattling lungs.

  "This man needs urgent medical help," she whispered.

  "I'll go," said Maurice, and he set off towards a hamlet in the distance.

  Violet was still sitting next to the boiler man an hour later. As dusk had fallen, the temperature dropped. The injured man clung to her hand as his body shivered in shock. Some passengers had taken their chances and made for the hamlet, but Violet remained with the stricken men. She was not alone. The train crew had stayed behind, helping anyone unable to walk, including elderly passengers, a middle-aged man with a walking stick, and two young children.

  Pins and needles spiked through Violet's legs which she feared would turn to cramp. Just when she thought she would have to get up and walk around to relieve the discomfort, she saw the glow of lanterns in the distance. Moments later, Maurice appeared with two other men.

  "Help is coming," he said. "There will be enough carts to take you to Norwich."

  He was as good as his word, and the transport arrived within moments. The injured went first, and Violet rode with them, staying until they arrived at the hospital. She watched as medical staff assisted them into the emergency wards, wondering what she would do for a bed. But as she walked away, a nurse ran up to her and guided her back into the hospital where she gave her a thorough examination. Typically, Violet had given no thought to herself.