"That’s everything then," said Violet.
"Not quite," said Lawrence. "I have a question for you."
"What?" asked Violet.
"Please don't be offended," said Lawrence, "I have to ask. Why didn't you tell me that you were born Violet Mills? Are you related to Faith Mills?"
Violet laughed. It was the first time Lawrence had seen her smile since Mrs Harris died. "No relationship at all," she said.
"Then why didn't you say?"
"Why would I bring it to your attention when it was of no importance? You're a private investigator. What else would you think?"
"Were you married?" Lawrence asked.
Violet spluttered. "Don't be absurd," she said. "I was born Violet Mills, but my mother remarried when I was small, and I took her husband's name. He was like a father to me and treated me kindly. He died soon after I left home, and I was fond of him and kept his name."
"I see," said Lawrence, regretting his cynicism. Everyone who knew Violet had believed in her when he had not. He alone had doubted her, and he had been proved wrong. He didn't know what to say and changed the subject.
"Hannah lit the fire in the basement, you know. She poured oil through the window and tossed a lighted match inside intending to kill us both."
"How did she know we were there?"
"It was my fault," said Lawrence. "I met Caroline Elliot outside the chemist shop, and she told me something that didn't fit with the facts. She said that Hannah had missed her shawl when Hannah had denied it only moments earlier. Then Caroline said that Hannah encouraged Mary's odd beliefs. Perhaps Eliza Clay told her. Who knows? Finally, I remembered what I had seen on the wall hanging. I recognised the names of Charles Fayers and his wife Christian but not the context. I couldn't quite remember why their names were familiar, but after I left, it dawned on me that the names might be part of the Mills family tree. I couldn't find my notes or yours either, so I went to the basement to look for the registers."
"A good thing you did," said Violet. "It saved my life. Now, Hannah's room is immediately above the front of the Chemist," she continued. "I noticed that when I went there. She most likely heard your conversation with Caroline."
"And my subsequent exclamation," said Lawrence. "She must have followed me to The Vicarage, waiting to see what I would do next. I proceeded to the basement, exactly as she'd feared."
"It would have been easier if you had just gone to the study," smiled Violet. "I left our notes there for safe-keeping."
Epilogue
Bury St Edmunds, October 1890
Rain lashed over the cobbled streets as the man in the top hat battled with a large umbrella which threatened to collapse at any moment. He slowed as he approached the mullioned windows of Number thirty-three. The sign above the window bore the interlocked names of Harpham and Smith, Private Investigators. He peered inside. A smartly dressed woman worked at her desk examining a map through a magnifying glass. The man checked over his shoulder, stole a furtive glance up and down the street, then grasped the door handle and entered the establishment.
A bell clanged. The gentleman wiped his feet on the doormat and shook the umbrella onto the street before closing the door. He took a deep breath and walked towards the woman. She looked up and smiled.
"How can I help you?" she asked.
"I wish to consult with Mr Harpham," he said. "There is a matter of some delicacy that I'd like to discuss."
"Mr Harpham is unavailable," she said. "He is out. May I be of service?"
"I would be equally prepared to speak to Mr Smith," the gentleman continued. "It is all the same to me, as long as they are discreet."
The woman opened her mouth to speak, but the bell chimed again, and Lawrence Harpham strolled into the newly painted office.
"Good day sir," he said. "Can I help or are you dealing with my business partner, Miss Smith?"
"Oh," said the gentleman. "I assumed it was Messer's Harpham & Smith."
"Everybody does," said Lawrence. "Come into the office and tell us all about it. Miss Smith and I will sort out your problem in no time."
THE END
Afterword
The Fressingfield Witch is a work of fiction based on real events and was inspired by a series of newspaper clippings recording the allegations of witchcraft made against Mary Corbyn and the subsequent inquest into the death of baby Edith Hammond. The Bury Witch Trials were factual and took place in 1645 though whether Faith Mills escaped with her life or not is, as far as I know, unrecorded. I have taken the unusual step of populating my fictional version of Fressingfield with real inhabitants from the 1891 census records including a few of the main characters. But many of the main characters exist only in my imagination.
Jacqueline Beard, Cheltenham
www.eastanglianancestors.co.uk
https://jacquelinebeardwriter.com/
References: William Dowsing – Information about William Dowsing was ‘Extracted from Trevor Cooper (ed.), The Journal of William Dowsing: iconoclasm in East Anglia during the English Civil War, Woodbridge, 2001’
The
Ripper
Deception
Jacqueline Beard
Copyright © 2019 Jacqueline Beard
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Printing 2019
Dornica Press
Dedicated to my nephews & nieces
James, Maddie, Ben, Freya & Charlotte
PROLOGUE
Friday 22nd June 1888
The man hunched over a heavy, black-covered tome and scoured the pages through deep-set eyes. He tapped arrhythmically against the dark-stained wood of the table as he read. Quick taps, slow taps, silence. A distracted mind. Raising a cup to his mouth, he gulped the tepid brew and umber coffee grounds flecked the edges of his white walrus moustache. The room was cold, yet sweat beaded his brow, and he swept it distractedly into a receding hairline. His chair was set close to an unlit fireplace, and its proximity tricked him into thinking that the day was fine, but the weather was unseasonably cold for June. The man looked up and snapped the book shut. His eyes were dark, almost black, and devoid of compassion. Otherwise, his appearance was unremarkable, although his reading material was not. The title of the book he pored over with studious intent by the fireside of The Cricketers Inn, was entitled ‘The Occult Relevance of Blood.’
His black frock coat lay crumpled over a battered leather Gladstone bag at his feet. Both were shabby and second hand, quite likely inherited. Like the man himself, they had seen better days. Roslyn D’Onston placed one hand on the table and heaved himself to his feet. He loosened the lock of the bag and put the black-bound book inside with a certain reverence. He pulled a small, silver timepiece from his breast pocket and scowled. Slipping the frock coat over his jacket, he wound a dark check scarf around his neck and walked to the front of The Cricketers Inn. Then, he nodded to Emily Pitt, wife of the proprietor, lifted his collar over the scarf and set out into the rainy night.
A gas lamp cast shadows across the street illuminating the lanes and alleys of Brighton with a gloomy glow. D’Onston surveyed the front of the Cricketers Inn. Dark painted render coated the curved window bays to the first and second floors. His room was on the second floor at the back of the building, necessitating a regular slog up two flights of stairs. The climb irritated an old leg wound and defeated the purpose of being in Brighton where he had come to relieve the fatigue caused by neurasthenia. Climbing a staircase was not the way to go about it. He had asked for a room on the first floor, but The Inn was full, and his request was denied.
Roslyn D’Onston limped as he picked his way through the alleys. It was eight o’clock in t
he evening and on a fine day, it would have been light, but today was overcast and wet. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and bowed his head against the increasing rain. He strode down the Old Steine towards Brighton seafront and thought about the pointlessness of the meeting he was about to undertake. Not that he was confident that the woman he was due to meet would arrive. She hadn't turned up last time. Mabel Collins shared a profession with him, being a journalist too. She also shared his interest in the occult. He respected her theosophist opinions, but not enough to be looking forward to their meeting on such a cold night. Still, The Royal Albion served a particularly fine single malt whiskey which he would, no doubt, enjoy whether he drank alone or in company.
The wind whipped his scarf as he reached the seafront and he gazed towards the Royal Albion Hotel to his right looking forward to an escape from the relentless drizzle. He remembered his first visit to Brighton over a decade ago. Back then, the Royal Albion had epitomised elegance with its large Doric porch and Corinthian columns. Now it looked tired. Patches of plaster had peeled from the walls eroded over time by the acidic kiss of the dogged sea wind. D'Onston stole a glance towards the Aquarium on his left. It was one of the attractions he must see, they told him. It was unlike any other in the country, they said. He would find it tranquil. But like his visit to the Pavilion and all the other places he had frequented in a bid to distract his thoughts, it failed. Nothing shifted his fatigue or quelled his restless mind.
He crossed the street and passed a horse tethered to a post in front of the hotel. It whinnied and shifted its weight from foot to foot. He paused to pat its soft muzzle before unbuttoning his coat. Then, without further ado, he entered the building.
The guest lounge of the Royal Albion Hotel was a large, airy room facing the seafront. Wall mounted gas lights were plentiful, and the natural light from the expansive windows gave the place a spacious, open feel. A wave of relief descended over D’Onston for the first time in a week as he entered the comfortable room. He wondered whether the size of his quarters in The Cricketers Inn might be making his condition worse. The Inn was well priced, and the food was excellent, but the rooms were small. He considered whether to stretch his funds a little further and move to a seafront hotel for the last week of his stay.
He walked to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and sat by the window gazing out to sea. There were only two other people in the bar, none of whom were female. D'Onston looked at his timepiece again. It was precisely eight-thirty, and Mabel was almost late. It did not bode well. He swilled the whiskey around the glass and took a large mouthful. It trickled down his throat like molten nectar.
The door opened, and a man appeared carrying a drink which he took to a table at the other end of the room. He did not see Roslyn D’Onston, but if he had, he would have recognised him. They moved in similar circles. D’Onston noted the man with interest. Edmund Gurney was well known and a founder member of the Society for Psychical Research. Gurney believed in parapsychology and was an intelligent man and a scientist, who sought to prove inexplicable events using quantifiable means - definitely not a fool, or gullible. D’Onston continued to watch. He enjoyed watching people. He was a journalist and was paid for his observations, and as Mabel was now officially late, he had nothing better to do.
He watched as Gurney mirrored his own actions from earlier by opening his breast pocket and checking his watch. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Gurney must be waiting too. Gurney took a final look at the timepiece and thrust it deep into his trouser pocket pushing temptation out of sight. He reached across the table and grasped a copy of The Brighton and Hove Herald, spread it out and began to read. A sudden sneeze broke the quiet atmosphere of the guest lounge. Gurney covered his nose and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He sneezed again and blew his nose not noticing the envelope that fluttered from his jacket onto the carpet. It settled under his chair.
Gurney remained oblivious to its presence, but D’Onston did not. He made his living from being observant, and instinct told him that this small event mattered. He debated whether to retrieve the envelope and hand it to Gurney, find an excuse to pass the time of day with the man and enjoy some company. But Mabel was long overdue and had let him down again. He was irritable and vexed, churlishly preferring to drink alone rather than offer his help. He decided not to trouble himself and instead he watched and waited.
Before long, Edmund Gurney folded the newspaper and retrieved his watch for final scrutiny. He nodded imperceptibly and returned the timepiece to its starting place inside his jacket. He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, displaying an elegant signet ring, then strode towards the door. D’Onston turned away as Gurney approached him. As soon as he left the room, D’Onston walked towards the sideboard and searched an array of periodicals stacked in piles. When no one was looking, he stooped and retrieved the envelope. He placed his empty drink on the bar, fastened his coat and retreated into the hallway. As he appended his vacating time in the red-bound guest book, he glanced towards the wood panelled staircase. Edmund Gurney and another man were in earnest discussion. D'Onston could not see the man, who walked ahead of Gurney, but his voice carried in a frank exchange of views. They were not quite arguing, but whatever they were talking about had provoked a passionate response. Roslyn D’Onston tried to listen but heard nothing of note above the noise in the hotel foyer. It was of no consequence anyway. D'Onston dismissed the matter, nodded to the Hotel Manager, and retreated into the night.
Saturday 23rd June 1888
Millicent Harvey was fed up. She was often fed up. The life of a hotel maid had not turned out in practice the way she had rehearsed it in her head. She could have gone into service in a nice villa in Hove where she might have worked with a small group of servants. But Millicent had grander ideas. She was a romantic and wanted a husband. The best way forward, in her opinion, was to find an occupation where she would come into daily contact with members of the opposite gender. Sadly, it hadn’t worked out that way. Though there were plenty of young men employed at the Royal Albion Hotel, she didn’t cross paths with them very often. She was always too busy changing bedsheets or cleaning bathrooms. And the young men weren’t that appealing anyway - apart from Douglas, and he was already taken.
Today she was particularly fed up. She had woken to find one crusty eye sealed shut. Another attack of conjunctivitis had conspired to spoil her half day off tomorrow. She had arranged to watch a performance at the bandstand with her friend Nora. Her pretty friend, Nora. A friend who would look much more attractive than she did, if she ended up watching the recital through one eye. No, it wouldn’t do. She must find time to slip out of the Hotel and visit the Chemist before she was due in the dining room at three o’clock. It was now a minute past two, and the occupant of room 27 still hadn’t surfaced. He had slept through the morning and wasn’t answering now. “Idle beggar,” she thought as she hammered on the door with the flat of her hand for the fifth time. Silence.
Millicent stomped down the stairs with her dustpan in her hand brandishing the brush. She confronted the Hotel Manageress who was busy hanging keys in the lobby.
“Who’s the lazy bones in room 27?” she demanded.
The Manageress put her keys down and pursed her lips. “You mean which of our valued guests is occupying room 27, I assume?”
“If you say so,” said Millicent, sullenly.
“I don’t know who is staying in room 27,” said the Manageress. “The gentleman did not write his name in the guest book. Not that it matters. It’s his own business, but tell me, what seems to be the problem?”
It did not take long for the scope of the problem to become evident. The Manageress accompanied Millicent up several sets of stairs before they arrived outside room 27. She rapped smartly on the door and inserted her master key. The door swung open, and they saw, at once, the shape of a man lying on the bed.
The Manageress called out again, then grasped the heavy curtains and flung them open. The aftern
oon sun streamed into the room as she stepped towards the form lying prone on top of the bed. She examined him. He was a handsome man with a head of wavy hair and chiselled cheekbones which were still visible despite the sponge bag covering his mouth and nose.
“He-he’s not dead, is he?” stammered Millicent.
“I’m afraid he is,” said the Manageress. “You had better go and fetch Mr Gilbert.”
Alone in the room, the Manageress attended to the practical aspects of identifying her deceased guest. She crossed to the table and picked up a dark leather wallet. There was a large sum of money contained within, but nothing that helped to locate the man's name. She returned to the bed and watched the corpse with an air of detachment. One of his arms hung beside him. She noted the elegant shape of his fingers - musician’s hands, she thought. How sad that such a man would end his life in this way. Then she spotted a small bottle, just out of reach of the hanging limb. Gloria Crosby had a sensible head on her shoulders and decided not to touch the bottle. Instead, she knelt on all fours and scrutinised it carefully. It was open and almost empty. The small amount of substance remaining was colourless and odourless.
Her purpose unaccomplished, she rose, opened the wardrobe, and patted down the man's waistcoat, but the only pocket was empty. A search of his jacket proved more fruitful. It contained a letter providing not only his identity but the name of someone they could notify. Gloria took the envelope and placed it on the dressing table. Then, she waited for the Assistant Manager’s arrival and all the inevitable furore that accompanied a hotel death.
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