The Fressingfield Witch: A Lawrence Harpham Murder Mystery Book 1 by Jacqueline Beard

Author:Jacqueline Beard [Beard, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PublishNation
Published: 2017-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

The Curse Crow

“Lawrence, what is wrong. You are as white as a sheet.” Michael emerged from the study, disturbed by the running footsteps in the passage.

Lawrence was out of breath. The lamp, still lit, wobbled unsteadily in his shaking hands. He set it down, trying to steady his breathing.

“Come into the study, sit down,” said Michael, concerned.

“No,” said Lawrence. “No, I cannot. You must see come and see this thing in the store room, Michael. I need to know I am not losing my mind.”

“Calm down,” said Michael, “you are speaking in riddles. What is in the store room that has upset you so much.”

“Just come with me,” commanded Lawrence. “But for God’s sake man, bring another light.”

They returned to the basement room. Lawrence was still shaken, but less so now he was in company. Nothing had changed. The books were still in the same tidy pile that Lawrence had made but papers were strewn everywhere.

“Who did this?” asked Michael. “Not you Lawrence?”

“Of course not,” snapped Lawrence.

“Sorry,” said Michael, “This vandalism is upsetting. We will have to put a padlock on the room now. I cannot imagine why anybody would make such a mess.”

“There is worse,” said Lawrence, darkly. Fear welled in his chest again. “Open the box.”

He raised the lamp high while Michael lifted the lid. The smell of decay crept through the stagnant air.

Michael looked in the box then up at Lawrence. He shook his head. “This is unbelievable,” he said. “You cannot tell anyone.”

“I know,” said Lawrence. “There would be uproar.

“We must clean it up,” said Michael practically.

“There is a box upstairs,” said Lawrence. “I will fetch it.”

“Leave the light here,” said Michael.

Lawrence returned to table. The journals were still by the box where he had left them in his panic. He upturned the box littering the desk with candles and took it to the basement.

Michael reached for his pocket handkerchief. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he placed it over the writhing mess and set it in the box. The stick was thrust firmly in the remains of the bird and the cleaved top contained a note.

“You read it,” said Lawrence.

Michael opened the small square of parchment, then stared at Lawrence, bewildered.

“What does it say?” asked Lawrence.

Michael passed it over, wordlessly.

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