At first, Violet had protested but realised that she would be less of a nuisance if she agreed. And when the nurse removed her coat, there were swathes of dried blood on her dress. Violet had sustained wounds of her own and not noticed the pain in her bid to aid the more seriously injured. The nurse dressed her cuts and grazes then offered Violet a bed. Both knew it was not necessary, but Violet would be comfortable on the ward, even if only for a few hours. As it happened, she didn't leave until the next morning.
Tuesday, May 28, 1895
Violet located her luggage at Norwich station where her rescuers had left it the previous night. It was still early when she boarded the Cromer train. The trip was quicker and safer than the journey from Diss, and she pulled into the station well before lunchtime taking her carpetbag while leaving her suitcase in the conductor's care. Violet continued the short trip to Overstrand by carriage as the sun blazed high in the sky on a perfect May day. She walked to the centre of the village pondering whether to stay or return to Bury on the evening train.
Violet strolled down the high street intending to go to the Cottons' house on Gunton Terrace but determined to make the most of the balmy weather she took a detour instead. Turning into the Londs, she walked past the flint cottages, stopping to peer through an ornate wooden gate where vibrant violet wisteria crowded the wall. The pretty gardens burgeoned with spring flowers.
At the end of Pauls Lane, she saw a fisherman crouching by a net at the top of the cliff with a large-eyed needle in his hand. Beside him was a wooden bucket containing seawater in which freshly caught crabs clawed at the surface. A second bucket contained the still bodies of previously boiled crustaceans. Violet asked the fisherman if he would mind her bag, and he nodded his assent. She left it by the side of the buckets, free to explore the beach without the burden of luggage.
Violet removed her shoes and stockings and made her way across the sand, avoiding the pebbles. The tide was halfway out, leaving little pools of seaweed and shellfish in its wake. Violet walked to the water's edge letting the sea lap against her ankles and inhaled the salty odour. Her senses were alive with the sound and smell of the sea; yesterday's accident already a distant memory. Life was transient, she thought, easily lost. It took an experience like the train explosion to appreciate life and the good health she enjoyed. Violet paddled for ten minutes then found a dry spot towards the cliffs and let her feet dry in the sun. Brushing the sand from her toes, she put her shoes on and headed back. By the time Violet climbed to the top, the fisherman had repaired his net and was dressing crabs on a little wooden trestle table. She retrieved her suitcase, and the fisherman suggested she might enjoy a small crab for lunch. Violet accepted gratefully, remembering how much she'd enjoyed them during her stay with Lord and Lady Battersea. She located a nearby seat and began to eat the crab, but a wave of nausea came from nowhere, and she could not finish. Disappointed, Violet left the uneaten crab by the side of the path where seagulls soon disposed of it. With a churning stomach, she returned up Pauls Lane and towards Gunton Terrace.
Amelia Cotton was sweeping the pathway outside number four when Violet approached. She regarded Violet quizzically before recognition dawned, and she greeted her warmly.
They exchanged small talk and Violet began the tricky task of explaining the purpose of her visit.
"So, are you suggesting that my father's Bible belonged to a murderer?" asked Amelia, misunderstanding the Bible's provenance.
"No," said Violet. "The man who sold it was the victim. Someone killed him."
"After my father received the Bible."
"Yes. A few months later."
"But, what has it got to do with Father?"
"Nothing," said Violet. "It is a coincidence. But I have reason to believe that the Bible might contain a document which the murderer went to great lengths to recover."
"Father never spoke of any such thing," said Amelia doubtfully.
"He may not have understood the significance. Have you kept the Bible?" asked Violet.
"I have, as it happens," said Amelia. "Mother gave it to my husband, George, as a keepsake."
"May I see it?"
"If you wish."
Violet followed Amelia into her kitchen and waited at the table while the younger woman went upstairs. She returned with the Bible and set it down on the table, anxiously hovering as Violet opened the front page. The bookstall stamp and inscription were as Violet remembered. She flicked through the pages of the black-bound book, checking for a letter or document, but the Bible was empty. She turned to the final page, checked the binding and pressed the cover. The lining was intact and undisturbed.
"I didn't think you would find anything," said Amelia, "If there ever was a letter, it is long gone."
Violet put the book on the table, trying not to feel too deflated. She'd known that finding the confession was an unlikely prospect, but one worth checking.
"Thank you anyway," said Violet. "It was kind, especially as..."
Violet stopped in her tracks as she glanced at the Bible again. There was one place she hadn't yet checked. She stood the book on end and scrutinized the spine. The cover fitted neatly around the pages with no visible gap. Violet splayed it open, and the space between the spine and cover gaped just enough for her to insert the tip of her index finger. She could feel a slight difference in the lining of the spine and dragged her nail along the inside. Something moved, and she tried again, inching an object up the spine until the tip of a curved piece of paper emerged.
"What is it?" asked Amelia, eyes wide.
Violet pinched the tube of paper and pulled it out, unfurling the document across the table.
"Oh no," she said, colour draining from her face. "It can't be."
"Can't be what?" asked Amelia, but Violet was already rushing out of the door. Time was short, and she had an urgent telegram to send before the post office closed.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
At Muskett's Staithe
Lawrence picked up the envelope and examined it. The anonymity of the writing evoked the stomach-churning memories he'd felt when he'd received Catherine's crests. But whatever the envelope contained, it couldn't be that. Nobody from Bury Saint Edmunds knew that he was working in Diss. Well, nobody apart from his domestic, Annie, who he trusted implicitly. There were no further clues on the back of the envelope, and he opened it gingerly, revealing a newspaper cutting dated December 8, 1877. The clipping was from the Bury Free Press and detailed Fanny Nunn's inquest. The article was familiar. Lawrence had already seen it during his research. But the snippet in his hand was a fraction of the original piece, and someone had underlined a paragraph in blue ink. It read:
There's thirty pounds of money in this little bag. You will find it in my Ulster coat pocket tomorrow morning 20 yards from Mr Muskett's staithe in the mere under the weeping willow.
Carefully written beneath in the same childish writing as the original note, was the figure nine. It was drawn next to a depiction of a clock face, with a half-moon scribbled below.
Lawrence sighed as he leaned against the table with the note in his hand. The whole thing left him feeling like a participant in a parlour game. The picture was an unsubtle clue to time, and the presence of the moon indicated that he should be somewhere at nine o'clock at night. Judging by the reference to Mr Muskett's staithe, it was an instruction to meet underneath the willow tree at the appointed hour. But it was silly and dramatic, like a theatre performance. And not a very good one at that. Lawrence felt too old to participate in a purposeless charade, and yet, he was still curious. What might he find there? And would it be a risk if he didn't arrive at the requested hour? He mulled it over for another ten minutes, vacillating between obeying instructions or ignoring the note. If he decided to go, should he take a companion or set off alone. He even contemplated asking for Michael's opinion, but the long walk to Frenze church deterred him. Not to mention the embarrassment of Michael knowing he had given credence to the note. In the end, curiosity got
the better of reason, and he decided to go by himself. The risks were low. It would still be light at nine o'clock, and he had no cause for concern about his safety now that Harry Aldrich was in police custody.
Making the decision made him feel more comfortable, and he left the printworks for The Crown Hotel. Once there, he spent the rest of the day arranging records. Satisfied with his progress, and confident that he could prove his suspicions, he broke for supper. Then finding it unusually quiet, he read the paper in the lounge until quarter to nine. Earlier that day, it had occurred to Lawrence that he had no idea where to find Mr Muskett's staithe. As usual, he broached the subject with Minnie Panks. And obligingly, she not only shared the location but told him what a staithe was without him having to go through the indignity of asking.
Feeling better prepared, Lawrence set off towards the mere, looking out for a large willow tree near to Muskett's landing stage. He saw it as soon as he approached the mere and, as Lawrence drew closer, it was apparent that the rickety structure required repair.
Lawrence loitered beneath the willow and ran a hand over its ancient bark. Shrouded within its golden leaved boughs, he realised that he was almost invisible to anyone passing. Whoever had summoned him here, must have understood the cloaking effect of the willow and thus hoped for privacy. The thought made Lawrence nervous and he walked towards the water's edge and picked up a small rock which he placed in his pocket, for protection. Nine o'clock came and went, and nobody appeared, and at five minutes past the hour, Lawrence wandered away from the mere. As he reached the footpath, he almost collided with Joseph Pope, Arthur Thompson and George Fairweather.
"Good evening," said Joseph. "Which of us are you arranging to arrest today?"
"It wasn't like that," sighed Lawrence. He hadn't expected anyone to welcome him with open arms, but the overt hostility came as a surprise.
George Fairweather glared at him. "I'm going," he growled. "The air smells bad around here." He stalked off without looking back.
Joseph Pope tipped his hat and forced a smile. "Enjoy the rest of your evening," he said sarcastically. "Are you joining me, Arthur?"
"Later," said Arthur, holding his hand up. He waited until the men were distant shadows.
"Sorry," he shrugged. "They are still upset about Harry."
"But you're not?" asked Lawrence.
"Only because I'm sure that he will soon be a free man. I don't hold you entirely responsible," he continued. "Are the fish biting well?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's ten past nine and getting dark," he said, snapping open his pocket watch. "Why else would you be by the mere?"
His question caught Lawrence off guard. "I'm waiting for someone," he said, without thinking.
"I'll keep you company if you like?"
"No." Lawrence immediately regretted the force of his refusal and the suspicion it might generate.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Pity," said Arthur. "I've nothing better to do."
Lawrence watched him stride away, waiting until he was sure that he was alone. Then he returned to his place beneath the willow deciding to wait for another half an hour before giving it up as a bad job.
A slight breeze rustled through the leaves as he stood in semi-darkness concealed from the sight of any passer-by. Gently lapping water punctuated the silence and Lawrence shifted his weight from one leg to the other as the evening cooled. A branch snapped underfoot as Lawrence eased towards the edge of the willow, then another, until enlightenment dawned. Lawrence was standing on grass, so why could he hear footsteps? The sound was coming from someone else. He tensed, barely breathing, listening for a clue to the direction of the noise, but the only sound was the high-pitched yowl of a passing fox. He must be hearing things. The failing light was making him nervous, and he was getting cold.
He decided to give it another five minutes then retreat to The Crown for a quick bedtime brandy. His mouth watered at the thought. Lawrence pulled his collar up and thrust his hands into his pockets. His fingers connected with Violet's telegram, discarded earlier in his haste to identify the letter writer. He retrieved it and opened the envelope, straining to read in the poor light. It was no good. The words swam in a blurry mess on the page. He patted his inner pocket and found the tin he always carried containing a candle stub and matches. Then he struck a match, lit the candle and examined the telegram. It was a brief and concise warning. And as the words registered in his mind, Lawrence heard the unmistakable crunch of footsteps behind him. He had no time to draw breath, let alone move before he felt the cold metal edge of a knife against his neck.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Unmasked
"I wouldn't move if I were you," said a familiar voice, as the sharp-bladed weapon pressed into his carotid artery.
"I wasn't planning to," Lawrence retorted.
"I suppose you recognise my voice?"
"Yes. It's quite distinctive. Are you going to tell me the point of this charade?"
Lawrence winced as the knife dug deeper and he felt a drop of blood well against the blade and trickle down his neck.
"Careful. This waistcoat is new."
"Then I would say that you wasted your money," said his assailant, chuckling at the play on words.
"Are you going to tell me why we are here?"
"If that's how you want to spend the last few minutes of your life, then by all means. What would you like to know?"
"Let's start with Amy Sullivan, shall we? What was she to you?"
"Amy Sullivan." The man sighed wistfully as he drawled her name in elongated vowels. "What a woman."
"But you never married her?"
"Why would I? I didn't love her."
"Yet she loved you."
"You probably find that difficult to understand. I was a handsome young buck in my day. Amy's adoration was useful. But I didn't need a wife. I needed a partner."
"Partner in crime?"
"Precisely."
"And it was all about money?"
"Now, Harpham. That's rather offensive. The money was a useful extra, but it was all about power."
Lawrence snorted. "Power," he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the knife against his throat. "You killed women and children. They were easy targets."
"Not power in the crude way you describe. And I killed full-grown men too. It was about possessing the power of life or death."
Lawrence shuddered at the excitement in his captor's voice, betraying naked passion at the thought of murder.
"Have you ever seen anyone drown?" The man closed his eyes as if accessing a favourite memory. "The pleasure of watching is exquisite, but nothing surpasses the act. I can make the end quick or prolong it indefinitely. The power, the thrill..."
"But why?"
"Because I like it."
"And Fanny Nunn. Was she just another victim?" asked Lawrence, discreetly sliding his hands in his pockets.
"Fanny Nunn was an interfering busybody," hissed the man. "Always poking her nose into matters that did not concern her."
"Tell me more."
The man expelled a sigh and Lawrence recoiled at the warm breath as it brushed the back of his neck.
"Sit down," the man commanded.
Lawrence lowered himself to a seated position beneath the willow and looked up at his assailant.
"Won't you join me?" he asked.
"Hardly," said the man, running his thumb along the edge of the knife. "Move so much as a finger, and I will cut your tongue out. Stay still, and I'll tell you a story."
Lawrence sat quietly and waited for the man to begin.
"My mother killed my father," said Joseph Pope casually. "And I was quite happy to go along with it. We were poor, you see – had nothing. Father was sick and didn't work. He was a useless waster.
I was sixteen when Father died. Mother and I discussed it first, both agreeing that my meagre income could support two of us, but not three. Father was ten years older than s
he and as weak as a kitten by the time we killed him. He didn't struggle when she put the pillow over his head. Nobody questioned his death. Nobody cared. And then we remembered that he had been paying into the burial club. Not only did my earnings go further, but we received a little more than the cost of the funeral. It was a good Christmas that year. For once, there was food on the table." Joseph paced as he spoke, keeping a watchful eye above Lawrence's head.
"The following year, Mother had a fall. She lingered for a week, then died. A terrible accident, they said. It wasn't anything of the kind. I pushed her down the stairs. Fortunately, she never regained consciousness. Waiting until thirteen months after Father's death gave me time to pay a year's worth of insurance premiums on her life. It was a much better return on investment than the pitiful offerings of the burial club. Then I met Amy."
"How?"
"She nursed my mother in her final weeks," said Joseph. "Amy was lonely and liked to talk, which was irritating to begin with until I realised how useful her village tittle-tattle could be. One day she told me that Hannah Rampling had been complaining about her sick child, wishing that it would die so she could have the burial club money. Amy deplored her sentiments, but all I could see was the flaw in her logic. Hannah Rampling wouldn't get the money, you see. Children under eight are uninsurable. But it put me in mind of a scheme for use outside the confines of the burial club payments, so I insured the life of a sick child. I had no relationship with the boy. He belonged to one of the parishioners, but the insurer accepted me as the parent, and I waited for him to die. The child had a wasting disease and did not take long to succumb. The insurers asked few questions, and I profited handsomely, but Amy discovered the insurance papers, and started to pry."
"I'm surprised you didn't kill her too?" said Lawrence, staring at Pope from his seated position.
Joseph's lip curled. "Why would I kill her when she could be useful? No. I courted her and made love to her until she became devoted to me. I gave her little gifts from my profits. She did not mind the deception when it only amounted to fraud."
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 72