The rear door of the hotel was stiff. Lawrence put a shoulder to the swollen door and heaved. As he picked his way past the broken bicycles in the garden, he glanced through the dining room window. Michael was standing over Violet with a protective arm around her shoulder. She was sitting down with her head in her hand. Lawrence shrugged. She must have a headache, he thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
An Uncomfortable Night
It was late afternoon by the time Lawrence arrived in Spitalfields. The weather was cold but dry, and the streets were busy. Lawrence had hoped to locate Elias Haim’s house without drawing attention to himself, but it was not to be. Having walked the length of White’s Row several times, Lawrence realised that Gunpowder Alley did not have the benefit of a street sign. Several alleys were leading off, and it could have been any one of them. Worse still, there were no numbers on any of the houses. He would need help. By the time he had traversed White’s Row for the third time, a group of women had emerged from Spitalfields Chambers. They sat outside the front door chatting to each other. A young boy dressed in frayed trousers finishing halfway up his legs rolled a wooden ball down a gulley which ended in a shallow pit in the middle of the street. Lawrence watched as the boy collected the ball and tossed it again and again. Eventually, it overshot to the cambered side of the Row where it rolled towards Lawrence. He picked up the ball. It bore heavy traces of wear and was no longer round, but a treasure, he suspected, to the poor ragged boy. He held it in the air, and the boy ran toward him. Lawrence ruffled the boy's hair and smiled. Then, remembering he was in character, he scowled towards the women as if the boy was a nuisance.
“Come ‘ere Thomas.” A young, sallow-faced woman eyed Lawrence suspiciously. “He didn’t mean any harm.”
Lawrence approached the group. He had not recognised Sarah Fleming from a distance, but she had seen him.
“You back again?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I thought you were visiting someone in Swallow Gardens.”
“Been there and seen him,” he said. “I’m going back to Lambeth tomorrow, but I’ve got business with Elias Haim. Know him?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met.”
“I need to find him.”
“Got an address?”
“Gunpowder Alley.”
“I know Haim.” Thomas was sitting on his mother’s lap. She wrapped both arms around him and was rocking back and forward as she spoke to Lawrence.
Lawrence grunted.
“He lives over there, by the Tenter Ground.” She pointed down the street towards one of the alleyways. “He’s a funny one.”
Lawrence raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t want to talk out of turn if he’s a friend of yours.”
“It’s business,” said Lawrence, gruffly.
“He doesn’t talk,” she continued, “keeps himself to himself. We don’t mind that, but he’s not very friendly. We speak to him, but he doesn’t reply. Thinks he’s a cut above us, but he isn’t. He lives where we live and breathes the air we breathe. There’s nothing special about him.”
“Which one is his house?”
“First on the left as you go into the alley. It’s nothing special either.”
Thomas wriggled free, and she watched as he resumed his ball game. She sniffed and wiped her hand across her face.
Lawrence nodded. “I’ll be going then,” he said and walked towards the unnamed alley, feeling the eyes of the two women boring into his back. He hadn't wanted to advertise his business, much less acquire an audience, but there was no choice. The East End was a far cry from Westminster with its well-mapped streets and numbered townhouses. Local knowledge took years to gain, and if he hadn’t asked for help, he could have been wandering around for hours.
The alley was narrow and short. A terrace of dark-bricked houses loomed either side, their brick walls chipped and faded. The properties were identical. Each had a worn wooden door with a rectangular door light and one downstairs and two upstairs windows. The windows overlooked each other. But for the dirty panes, there would have been no privacy at all. Gunpowder Alley was grim and unpleasant. Lawrence wondered what drew a man like Elias to live somewhere so different from and with such a tortuous journey to his place of work.
As he hovered by the entrance to the alleyway, Lawrence noticed a flicker of light through the grimy window. It was after five o’clock and dusk was falling. The presence of a candle indicated that Elias had arrived home. Things were not going according to plan. Lawrence had hoped that Elias would be at the SPR headquarters for the entire working day.
His position at the front of the alleyway was conspicuous, and he surveyed the area looking for cover. Two wrought iron gates stood halfway along the row of terraces, one on each side. Lawrence strode towards the left-hand gate and unlatched it. The gate opened into a narrow, cobbled passageway which led to the back of the terrace and allowed access into a small yard at the rear of each property. The wall of the passage was about four feet high, and a corrugated roof ran along it across the width of the first two properties. A large tree grew at the end which might provide cover.
Lawrence hauled himself up the wall, wincing as tried to accommodate his bodyweight on his strong right hand. His useless left hand crumpled, but he managed to support himself on his elbow. Sitting atop the wall, Lawrence gingerly tested the corrugated roof. It took his weight, and he sat in the shadow of the tree watching the rear of Haim’s property. The wooden back door was ajar, and the rear window was well-lit. Elias Haim was in full view, bathed in the soft glow of a lantern. He was sitting at a table and appeared to be reading. The outside light faded and as day slipped into dusk, the illuminated property became more visible. Lawrence could now see that Haim was reading a newspaper.
Lawrence fidgeted. He was uncomfortable and time slipped by slowly. It began to drizzle, and he pulled up the collar of the odd job man’s coat. It smelled of glue and gave little protection from the elements. Lawrence shivered, wondering how long he would have to remain here. His presence would be pointless if he couldn't get into the house undetected. He thought about the investigation, as he waited. Violet’s earlier words smarted. She had always valued logic over instinct, and it was one of the reasons he had asked her to be his business partner. They complemented each other in their approach. But if he listened to Violet and ignored his sense of certainty that the answer lay in the building before him, then logic would lead them away. In fact, logic would mean abandoning the venture altogether. From the discovery of Ruth Moss’s body until the moment he entered Gunpowder Alley, was one long series of coincidences with little to connect them. He sighed. Perhaps Violet was right, and he was wasting his time.
Pins and needles tracked down his leg, his collar was wet through, and his thoughts were turning black. He recognised the early signs of depression and decided to do something physical to evade the cloud of gloom. He slithered from the wall and made for the wrought iron gate deciding to wander the streets for half an hour. If Elias had not left the property by the time Lawrence returned, he would abandon the idea, go back to The Regal and rethink his entire approach. He unlatched the gate and walked out, then quickly stepped back and squatted inside the entrance. He had almost walked right into the path of Elias Haim, who was locking his front door. Lawrence watched as Haim turned right and disappeared into White’s Row.
Lawrence doubled back to the pathway behind the rear of the terrace. It was dark now, and the pale moon cast speckles of light across the wet cobbles. He spotted a wooden gate set into the low wall between the pathway and Haim’s yard. The wood felt spongy as he pushed it open. He closed the gate quietly behind him, inched towards the door and pulled the handle. Haim had locked it, and the door stood firm. Lawrence sighed. Even in this feral part of the East End, doors were usually left open, but not tonight, regrettably. He tried the window which moved slightly, but not enough. Then, he pushed against the upper window sur
round with his palms and tried again. A gap opened just wide enough to insert his fingers. One more yank and the stiff window moved freely. Lawrence ducked inside and eased himself into the same room he had seen Haim occupy earlier. He closed the window, noticing a newspaper laying open on the table. Haim had extinguished his lantern before he left, but a box of matches lay open nearby.
Lawrence turned the wick, struck a match and re-ignited the lamp. It cast a dim glow around the bare, tatty room. Lawrence searched his surroundings. A large section of olive-green wallpaper was peeling away over the door. The fire in the chimney breast contained a low, metal grate and weeks of ash spilt across the floor and coated a nearby threadbare rug. Apart from the table and chairs, the room was empty. Lawrence wondered if he was in the wrong house. Elias Haim had created a favourable first impression with his immaculate clothes and slicked back hair. There was not so much as a loose thread on his apparel. His shoes shone like mirrors, and the sharp crease in his trousers showed great attention to detail. His appearance belied the unkempt room.
Lawrence moved into the kitchen which was messy but not dirty with pots and pans spread across a small kitchen table, and plates in the sink. Lawrence opened a cupboard door, but there was nothing of note. Across the hallway and to the left he found the parlour tidily set out with two high-backed chairs and a fully stocked bookcase. This room was orderly and clean. Lace antimacassars covered the back and arms of the chairs and a small clock ticked on the mantlepiece. A book lay face down on one of the chairs. Lawrence opened it and held it to the light. The title read - ‘The Methods of Ethics.’ Lawrence had judged Haim as a man of intelligence, and his reading matter concurred.
There was nothing of further note, so Lawrence made his way upstairs. The floorboards creaked as he moved across the landing. The house was deathly quiet save for the tick of the clock in the parlour. Every footstep sounded like a claxon. Two doors from the landing lead to bedrooms, both open. Lawrence lifted his lamp and peered into the smaller of the two. It was little more than a box room with an unmade single bed and wooden chair. The next room was bigger and was dominated by a large double bed. Haim must have a penchant for oversized furniture. His chest of drawers looked too big to fit through the door frame. Haim’s bed was unmade with sheets and blankets laying in a crumpled heap at one end. A small wooden crate containing a single book lay against the bed. Lawrence placed the lamp on top of the chest and pulled out the drawers one by one. He flinched at the smell of mothballs as the drawers opened. Haim had folded his clothes to exacting standards. They were clean and pressed. Lawrence continued opening drawers to find one full of books and another used for shoes. Both drawers were orderly. Lawrence tugged at the last one. There was no keyhole, but it would not open. He rattled it from the outside, and the contents settled. Inside were reams of paper and ephemera including documents and old copies of SPR journals. Haim had crammed a lifetime of memories inside including black-edged mourning cards, letters and old family photographs.
In the middle of the mass of paper, Lawrence found two neat clippings attached to a copy of the Pall Mall Gazette. He held them to the lantern. “To the One Who Knows - Go to the premises of Gilbert Price, Butcher on the morning of the 14th inst. to receive news to your advantage.” The other clipping was much the same. Lawrence gasped. The newspaper cuttings could easily be responses to D’Onston’s blackmail demands. He had been right to come, after all. But Lawrence had no opportunity for self-congratulation. No sooner had he closed the drawer, then he heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock and the front door slammed open.
Lawrence extinguished the lantern and bolted into the back bedroom, flattening himself behind the door. His breath was heavy and laboured, and his heart raced. He listened while Haim prowled around the lower part of the house, opening doors and muttering under his breath. Lawrence felt a weight in his hand and realisation dawned. Haim was looking for the lantern that he knew he had left on the dining table earlier. Lawrence hoped that he wouldn’t ransack the house looking for it. He waited by the door, cramped and uncomfortable trying to decide how to get out of his predicament. The window opposite provided no realistic means of escape. His useless hand would not allow him to hang down long enough to drop to safety, even if he managed to open it undetected. The same applied to Haim’s bedroom. He could only hope that Haim would settle in the parlour with the door shut, so he had a chance to creep downstairs. Fate intervened. As Lawrence stood shuffling from one foot to another, the stairs creaked, and a candle flickered on the other side of the door. Haim was only feet away. Lawrence held his breath, clutching the lamp to his chest, willing his heartbeat to quieten.
Moments later, springs creaked as Haim slumped across the bed. A noise like the sound of a cork popping preceded the clink of glass against glass. Then another, then another. Lawrence licked his dry lips. Haim was drinking in his bedroom, and the thought of liquid of any kind tormented Lawrence who, by now, had been standing for over an hour. His legs shook as he squatted against the wall beside the door to stop himself falling. He dropped to a seated position and held his breath hoping that Haim had not heard the faint squeak from the floorboards. To his relief, the chink of glass against bottle continued. Lawrence was in no doubt that Haim was getting quietly intoxicated.
Haim did not stay silent for long. As Lawrence settled with his back against the wall, the sound of sniffing began. Soft, rhythmic snuffles which in due course changed to deep gasps. It took a few moments for Lawrence to understand. The man next door was sobbing. Lawrence squirmed. His physical location was uncomfortable enough, but witnessing a grown man crying in the sanctuary of his own home, made Lawrence uneasy. He had not expected this. Lawrence covered his ears and tried to block the sound, but it was no use. The crying continued unabated for a long time - so long that Lawrence fell asleep.
He jolted awake in the small hours of the morning to the sound of a fearsome scream. He shook his head and blinked while his eyes became accustomed to the light, wondering where he was. The room was dark and unfamiliar, and the blood-curdling screech emanating from next door set his heart racing again. His first instinct was to run, but then he remembered where he was and who was with him. Was Haim hurt? Did he need help? Lawrence resisted the urge to check and stood up, wincing as he placed his hand on the small of his back. Cramp seared through his calves from long hours of sitting in the same position. He steadied himself on the door jamb and craned his neck into the landing. The door to Haim’s room was still ajar, and Haim was the source of the scream. He was in the grip of a nightmare. Lawrence tiptoed into the landing and watched from a distance as Haim thrashed from side to side. He moaned, then silence settled like a shroud. As Lawrence took a step forward, Haim sat bolt upright in bed, “the blood, the blood, God help me.” His eyes snapped open, and he looked straight into Lawrence’s eyes.
Lawrence didn’t hesitate. He ran down the stairs, two at a time, almost colliding with the newel at the bottom in his haste to get away. He rounded the corner and tore through the kitchen hurling himself at the door handle. But the door was still locked. Haim was fully conscious now and had leapt out of bed. Heavy footsteps thudded across the landing and down the stairs. Acting on instinct, Lawrence felt along the sill of the high window to the left of the door. His hands closed over two items. One was a key. He thrust it into the lock and, as Haim entered the kitchen, he turned it. Lawrence tore through the gate and vaulted the low fence. The risk of exposure was too high to turn right into the alley, so he attempted to pull himself up the wall again. As he jumped, he balled his left hand into a fist giving enough momentum to place his forearm on the wall. Haim was behind him now and lunged. He grabbed the bottom of the coat, but Lawrence pulled free. Haim tried again and seized his shoe as Lawrence scrabbled up the wall. Lawrence wobbled, almost losing his balance, before snatching a low-hanging tree branch. He pulled himself clear and slithered across the corrugated roof before dropping into a courtyard. It opened into White’s Row, only a short dist
ance from where he had entered that evening. Time was of the essence. Haim could arrive in White’s Row at any moment. He needed to hide - somewhere close and soon. The door of Spitalfields Chambers was still open. Lawrence slipped inside and brushed himself down.
“Who are you?” asked a voice.
Lawrence looked up. “We’ve met,” he said. “I stayed here a few nights ago. We shared a drink.”
“Oh yes. I remember you. What do you want?”
“A bed for the night.”
“Show me your money.”
Lawrence held out a handful of coins, and Sam swept them up.
“Oy,” said Lawrence, “It’s late. I only need it for a few hours.”
“It's a fixed price.” Sam was sullen. Lawrence had preferred him last time he had seen him, face down on the kitchen table. But it wasn't worth quibbling about the cost of the room with an angry doorman on his tail."
Sam smirked. “It’s upstairs. On the left.”
The Ripper Deception Page 21
