Lawrence followed his instructions and found himself in a different dormitory. He picked his way past sleeping bodies and settled on one of two free beds before rolling over and dropping off to sleep. When Lawrence woke a short time later, he was scratching like a dog. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock, still dark outside and he was hellishly uncomfortable. Lawrence shuffled under the blanket, but sleep proved impossible. He put his shoes back on and clumped downstairs and into White’s Row where he began the long walk to Lambeth. As dawn broke, it became lighter, and he pulled back his sleeve. Angry red spots littered his forearm — bed bugs again.
An hour later, he arrived back at the Regal, removed his clothes and prepared to go back to bed. As he hung the coat over the arm of a chair, something fell out. It was the other item that he had grabbed in panic as he felt around Haim’s kitchen ledge looking for a key. He picked it up and examined it. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. It was a scalpel - deathly sharp, with a nick on the side and a dark red substance embedded in the handle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Signed Confession
Sunday 8th March 1891
Lawrence decided against going through the charade of returning the coat and hat into the caretaker's bedroom in the basement. Though the room was usually empty, and he was unlikely to get caught, he had needed the disguise more often than expected. It was easier to hang on to it and give it back before leaving for Suffolk. As a sop to his conscience, Lawrence slipped into the basement and pushed a few more coins under the door. The man might need a coat - it was March, after all.
Lawrence returned to the hallway to wait for Violet. He loitered in the hotel lobby before spotting a recently delivered stack of newspapers bound together with string. Lawrence reached into his pocket, pulled out a penknife and cut the cord from the bundle. He selected a copy of The Times and glanced at the headlines while shivering by the door. The temperature had dropped several degrees since yesterday. He had not felt the cold walking back from Spitalfields but standing still was another matter.
The door to the coffee lounge swung open, and Lawrence peered over the newspaper to see who was coming out. It was Violet.
“Hello,” he said, tucking the paper under his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.” The words stuck in Lawrence’s throat as three people appeared behind Violet, two of whom were Frank Podmore and Dr Myers.
“Mr Blatworthy,” said Myers offering his hand. “I trust you managed to get your membership approved?”
“Yes, I did thank you,” said Lawrence. “Mr Podmore arranged it yesterday.” He smiled at Frank Podmore while considering how he was going to explain his presence in the hotel. Being pleasant seemed like a sensible first move.
“You met Miss Smith at the Town Hall,” said Arthur uncertainly, gesturing towards Violet. Lawrence chewed his lip. Myers was trying to make an introduction while unsure whether it was strictly necessary. He opened his mouth to reply, but Violet answered instead.
“Yes, you are right. We did meet at the Town Hall, and when Michael and I came back to the hotel, we found that Mr Blatworthy was also a guest.”
Lawrence smiled. “A stroke of luck. It has been a pleasure to have companions with similar interests.”
Dr Myers nodded. “Good, good,” he said vaguely. “Well, my dear. We must be off.” He took Violet’s arm and guided her towards the door, then stopped and raised his hat. “Good day, Mr Blatworthy.”
Michael nodded and exited with Frank Podmore, leaving Lawrence in the foyer. Lawrence watched through the window as the foursome approached a hansom cab. Dr Myers took Violet’s hand and helped her aboard.
Violet took a seat and stared at the hotel window, flashing a look of fury at Lawrence. He sighed. He had wanted to let her know about Elias Haim and warn her, but she should be safe in Kew with Michael.
Lawrence's suspicions had settled firmly on Haim. He needed to know more about him and wondered if the Headquarters would be open on Sunday. Doubtful, but he had nothing better to do, and it wasn’t far to go. He was in disguise yesterday, and it had been dark, so he shouldn’t have anything to fear from Haim if he was there. Lawrence returned to his room, grabbed a heavy coat and a thick scarf then glanced down at his feet with the mismatched laces. Pity, it was Sunday. There was no chance of buying another set today. He thought about asking the Hotel manager if he could borrow some but decided against it. The owner of the brown shoes would have noticed the missing laces by now and might have reported it. Making a mental note to buy some more first thing Monday morning, Lawrence set off for The Adelphi.
Lawrence had been in disguise so often during the last few days that donning the soft tan gloves that he habitually wore felt odd. He wasn’t able to wear the gloves in the doss house - they were luxurious and would have given the game away, so his hands were on show, scars and all. It had been good for him. His injuries no longer made him feel guilty. Other things invoked memories of Catherine now - smells, mostly. Perfume and the sweet odour of a certain kind of hand soap always produced vivid images of his dead wife. He considered abandoning his trademark gloves altogether. They belonged to a part of his life he needed to leave behind. He would never forget Catherine and would always wonder about the young woman Lily might have become. But if he was ever to free himself from the veil of melancholy, now was time to cast bad memories aside.
Lawrence arrived at The Adelphi, feeling lighter. His introspection had been beneficial, for once, like a tonic. Violet was with Michael, and she was safe. He had nothing to worry about for once. It was time to give the investigation his full attention. When he reached the SPR headquarters in Buckingham Street, he found the front door wide open. The weather was freezing, and Lawrence was still cold, despite walking for twenty minutes, so it was surprising to see the inside of the building exposed to the elements. All became clear when he went inside and almost collided with Thomas Barkworth as he supervised the removal of a large wooden cabinet.
Barkworth eyed him quizzically.
“Should I recognise you?” he asked.
Lawrence offered his hand. “Alistair Blatworthy,” he said.
“Oh, yes. You’re the chap that wanted to become a member. I’ll get you a form if you can wait a moment.”
“I’ve completed one,” said Lawrence. “I was here yesterday.”
“Then what can I do for you?”
“Mr Podmore said I could use the library,” said Lawrence. Frank Podmore had said nothing of the kind, but Lawrence doubted Barkworth would challenge his word.
Barkworth sighed. “Wait a moment.” He followed two workers in shirt sleeves outside while they deposited the wooden filing cabinet into a cart. Barkworth returned and closed the door gazing ruefully at the wallet in his hand. “I had the devil of a job trying to get them to work on Sunday,” he said. “It has cost me a small fortune.”
Lawrence smiled sympathetically. “I only came here on the off chance,” he said. “I’m surprised to see it open today.”
“It’s the popularity of the library,” said Barkworth, and the lounge, if I’m honest. Several of the members are bachelors. They treat it like a club. There’s usually somebody here.”
“But a day off for the doorman?” asked Lawrence.
“No. Haim takes his day off on Monday. He’s around somewhere. We’re tidying up the rear rooms. We've got a delegation of American members visiting next week. We’re getting their accommodation ready.”
“Very good,” said Lawrence. “Will you be open all day?”
“Until three,” said Barkworth. “I’ll be here for another hour, then Haim for a few more.”
“A useful man,” said Lawrence, “he seems so much more than a doorman.”
“He is. And his loyalty is without question. He has long-standing family connections to some of our members. Not sure how, but perhaps through his father. In any case, he’s been here longer than I have. Now, do you know where the library is?”
Lawrence nodded. “I’ve been before.”
“Please don’t remove any books. Read here as long as you like. I’ll ask Haim to let you know when he is locking up.”
Lawrence murmured his thanks and entered the library. He perused the shelves and picked up a couple of books which seemed basic enough to understand. Lawrence had little sympathy for psychical studies, but the number of books and journals in the library was impressive. He selected a dusty tome from the top shelf and sat down at the desk. Lawrence leaned over the book trying to concentrate. The introduction was not as easy to understand as he had hoped, but it didn’t matter. The book was only a cover for what he was about to do next. He listened for sounds in the corridor and heard nothing. Barkworth and Haim must be away from the immediate area, so he made his way to the narrow desk from which he had removed the address book the previous day. The drawer slid open again. Lawrence systematically removed every document studying each piece of paper in detail. They were disappointingly uninteresting — most documents related to membership in one way or another. There were lists of members, associate members, American and European members, contributors to the library and names of backers - men who had offered considerable sums of money towards the costs of running the SPR. Lawrence sighed as he thought about the many sensible things they could have purchased with their hard-earned cash.
After ten minutes of fruitless searching, Lawrence returned to the desk feeling annoyed. He had hoped to find something else to link Haim with the recent spate of deaths. First, there were the newspaper clippings and then the bloody scalpel. Lawrence shuddered. Haim must be involved in something untoward. There were definite links to the D'Onston blackmail attempt, and it had been reasonable to look for more evidence at the headquarters. But there wasn't any, it seemed. And now Lawrence was stuck with another two hours of pretending to research. The thought of wasting time in a place he didn't understand and with a possible psychopath only a few rooms away, left him weary. Lawrence wanted to go, but he had almost blown his cover this morning. If he behaved unpredictably now, there was no chance of recovering his credibility.
He read another page and another. His eyes grew heavy, and he fixed his gaze on the opposite wall and tried to concentrate on the timeline of the investigation, so far. As his thoughts drifted, an idea popped into his head. Something was missing. When he opened the narrow desk draw yesterday, there had been another, smaller drawer nestling inside. He had examined every piece of paper in the desk today but had not seen the drawer.
He pushed his book away and approached the desk again, sliding the drawer open to a sea of paperwork, but no smaller drawer appeared. Lawrence placed his hands beneath the papers and felt around the bottom and sides. Nothing. He ran his hand along the top of the drawer. It was rough, and he felt a stab of pain as a splinter pierced the soft pad of his middle finger. He put his finger in his mouth and sucked the pain away then tried again, this time feeling above the back edge of the drawer where it sat in the carcass of the desk. His fingertips passed over a small bump which he pressed, and a tiny drawer sprang from the rear of the bigger draw. It was darker and locked with an inverted J shaped lock. Lawrence tried to prise it open, but it was sturdy and thick. Whatever mechanism held it was too strong for Lawrence to prise it away. Short of having the key, or destroying the desk, there was no way to discover what was inside. Lawrence sighed in frustration and shoved the drawer back. It slid into the mechanism and was swallowed into the back of the desk until hidden from view.
Lawrence sat down wondering how secret the drawer was. A stroke of luck had revealed it when he looked yesterday, but who else knew of its existence? All the members, or just one? The desk was well crafted and could have been in use for years with no one aware of the secret it held - if there was a secret. It could be empty for all Lawrence knew. Still, he would have liked to find out.
Lawrence spent a further hour trying to read his book. It was a waste of time. The words flitted around his head like bees in a hive, forgotten in an instant. It was not a bit like school, which he had, for the most, enjoyed. At the end of an hour, he couldn’t face another page and returned the books before proceeding to the entrance. Both Barkworth and Haim were standing there discussing the building renovations. Lawrence’s heart stopped when he saw Haim, but the man showed no sign of recognition. Nor should he have. Lawrence’s disguise was excellent. He could have fooled his mother.
“Useful?” asked Barkworth. “I thought you’d be in there a bit longer.”
“Very useful,” said Lawrence. He sniffed and pulled out a handkerchief. “I would have stayed all day,” he continued, “but I’m not feeling well. I seem to have caught a head cold.”
“Hardly surprising,” said Barkworth sympathetically. “We're in for some unpleasant weather. You’ve not been feeling well either,” he said looking at Haim.
“No,” said Haim. He did not elaborate.
“I’ll be off then,” said Lawrence.
“You’ve dropped this.” Haim stooped down and picked up Lawrence’s handkerchief. He returned it with a forced smile.
“Thank you.” Lawrence shook Barkworth’s hand and made for the door. He turned and waved as he stepped through the threshold. Barkworth smiled back, but Haim’s face was ashen. He stood, motionless, eyes fixed and staring.
Lawrence walked back along the Embankment thinking about the hidden drawer. Then his thoughts turned to Haim, and in a sudden flash of realisation, he understood the expression on Haim’s face. The dropped handkerchief had drawn Haim’s attention to Lawrence’s feet - feet that Haim had last seen scrabbling over the wall opposite his house. George Smith had been in awe of Haim’s self-taught skills of recall. With a memory like that, there wasn't a doubt that he would remember seeing the mismatched laces the previous night.
Lawrence walked briskly towards the hotel hoping that Violet would have returned, but knowing that it was unlikely, given the length of the journey to Kew. His thoughts turned to Haim. What did he know about the man and what was speculation? The newspaper clippings were factual. While they did not name D’Onston, they were personal advertisements written as D'Onston described. Then there was the scalpel with the blood on the handle. But was the blood human or animal? And was the weapon used on poor Frances Coles a scalpel or a knife? As far as Lawrence could remember, Doctor Phillips hadn’t specified the type of blade that slashed her throat three times. And that was all the evidence he had against Haim. The fact that the man dwelled in White’s Row was circumstantial. He was sure of Haim's guilt but needed more proof and the best way to get it was from Scotland Yard.
Lawrence doubled back from Westminster Bridge and made his way towards the Embankment. He entered the open building and asked for Henry Moore. Henry was not available nor was he expected back that day. Lawrence asked to speak to Fred, who Henry had deemed the fount of all knowledge. But the young policeman behind the desk was uncooperative and viewed Lawrence as a nuisance. He refused to answer any questions or allow Lawrence to speak with a senior officer and there was no choice but to leave. Lawrence arrived back at The Regal, frustrated and angry. He paced the floor of his bedroom waiting for time to pass. desperate to make use of Violet’s logic. She knew nothing about Haim. The opportunity to tell her had not arisen but Lawrence felt sure she would have something sensible to contribute. Perhaps a plan for what to do next.
At half past four, he ventured downstairs and sat fidgeting in an armchair until tiredness overcame him and he fell asleep. Michael roused him an hour later by gently shaking his shoulder.
“You were snoring,” he said amiably.
Lawrence rubbed his eyes and focussed.
“Where’s Violet?”
“I don’t know. I hoped you did.”
“But you went to Kew together.”
“I know. We’ve been back for almost an hour. I popped upstairs to change. Violet was talking to the Hotel Manager when I left, but she’s not in her room, and I can’t find her anywhere else.”
“Have you asked the Manager if he kno
ws where she is?” Lawrence was on his feet now, pulling at the curtain as he peered out of the window. The street was empty.
“I can’t find him either.”
“Come with me.”
Lawrence burst through the double doors to the dining room. A young lady was setting the tables for dinner.
“Where is Mr Brookbank?”
She pointed outside. Lawrence exited via the rear door with Michael following behind.
Brookbank was cooperative and told them that he had seen Violet and had given her a telegram which arrived just after she returned from Kew. She had asked him for directions to the nearest telephone and was sent to a nearby street containing the larger of the local hotels.
“So, she could be anywhere,” Lawrence hissed when they were back inside.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be back soon,” said Michael reasonably.
But she wasn’t. They waited half an hour and then another hour, and at six o’clock, Lawrence pulled his watch from his pocket, checked the time and snapped it shut.
“I’m not waiting any longer. Follow me.” He stepped into the street and hailed a cab. As they crossed Westminster Bridge, Lawrence told Michael about his encounter with Haim. He pulled the scalpel from his pocket and showed it to Michael who recoiled in disgust. They pulled up outside the Headquarters of the SPR and Lawrence jumped from the cab and knocked at the door. The building was unlit, and he remembered Barkworth saying that it would close at 3 o’clock. It had been a long shot, but Lawrence needed to rule out the possibility of Violet going to the building to see her new friends.
He turned to the driver. “Take us to Leman Street,” he ordered.
The cabman nodded.
“Quickly,” said Lawrence, and they sped off into the night.
The hansom cab pulled up outside Leman Street police station. Lawrence flung the door open and vaulted down, without waiting for Michael. He strode through the door of the police station and over to a red-bearded constable who was sitting behind a desk. “Yes?” he asked.
The Ripper Deception Page 22
