The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  Lawrence hailed a cab from the station and soon arrived outside The Royal Albion Hotel in Brighton. It was a handsome building positioned close to the sea. The rear of the Hotel overlooked the coast and a broad road passed between it and the aquarium directly opposite. A further open area to the front of the porch provided a pleasant outlook. Lawrence inhaled the sea air and began to relax. He paid the cabman, collected his case and sauntered into the hotel to find a woman standing on a chair in the foyer.

  Nora Knight was slight in build and a shade over five foot tall. As Lawrence entered the reception area, he watched her stand on tiptoes, trying in vain to reach a paper dart. The missile protruded from the top of a tall cabinet filled with pigeon-holes. Keys and messages were sparsely scattered inside, with many compartments empty, indicative of the slow winter season.

  “Can I help you reach that?” Lawrence asked.

  Nora wobbled precariously on the chair as she turned to face him. “Sorry sir,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt as she steadied herself before getting down. “What must you think of me?" she continued.

  “I can reach it if you like,” offered Lawrence.

  “No thank you, sir,” she said. “I’ll be in enough trouble if old angry wasp sees it up there. Miss Crosby, I mean. Thomas and I were larking around, and it got stuck. Still, she won’t know who it was, will she? Can we start again?” Nora flashed a broad smile. “How can I help you, sir,” she asked.

  “I need a room for two nights,” said Lawrence.

  “Of course,” Nora replied. “You can have your choice. It is out of Season, and we are half empty. What floor would you like?”

  “It's not so much a matter of what floor I'm on,” said Lawrence, “but I would particularly like Room 27.”

  “That's impossible,” said Nora, biting her lip. “I would have let you have it, but someone has already taken Room 27.”

  “I see.” Lawrence steepled his hands while Nora tried to ignore the disconcerting sight of one gloved hand and the other bare.

  “Why do you want Room 27, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Lawrence debated whether to evoke her sympathy by making up a story. A sad story, about a beloved aunt who had a particular penchant for Room 27. A sadly deceased beloved aunt who liked nothing more than to watch the ocean from the window of the aforesaid room. But what if Room 27 faced away from the sea? He settled on the truth instead. “Something happened in Room 27 a few years ago. I don't suppose you happen to know what it was?”

  “Oh, but I do,” said Nora. “I remember very well. My friend, Milly, found him.”

  Lawrence set down his suitcase in Room 23, which was the nearest he could get to Room 27. He peered out of the window and considered the information given by Nora. The young woman appeared remarkably well-informed about the death of Edmund Gurney. She had been a close friend of the girl who found him. The sight of a dead guest had so upset her friend, Millicent, that she fled the hotel in search of Nora. A dutiful friend, Nora had offered comfort and consolation before escorting Milly home. Her obligations fulfilled, she had returned to the Hotel and joined the deputy Manager and Manageress. Between them, they relocated the body to a downstairs room where it was discretely collected by the Coroner’s staff later that day. Nora's next half day fell on the day of the inquest. Being something of an inquisitive girl, she decided to attend. She was not called to give evidence but was keen to find out more about the deceased guest and how inquests worked.

  Nora had a good memory and recounted the story to Lawrence in detail. The dead man was Edmund Gurney, and he had been a talented musician and philosopher. When Nora mentioned that Gurney had been a founder member of the Society for Psychical Research, Lawrence raised an eyebrow. By unexpected coincidence, Violet was also working with the SPR in Chelmondiston.

  According to Nora, Gurney's death was unusual. He had suffered from neuralgia and was in the habit of self-medicating. On the night of his death, he had strapped a mask to his face, inhaled a substance believed to be chloroform and had consequently overdosed. The hotel staff contacted one of his colleagues who later gave evidence at the inquest. The man, a doctor, had confirmed Gurneys’ use of opiates for pain relief and the Coroner ruled his death accidental. And that had been the end of it, as far as the authorities were concerned.

  Having established the basic facts, Lawrence grilled Nora at length about the details. She seemed happy to talk and held nothing back. Gurney, she said, hadn't registered at reception and it had been the devil of a job to find out who he was. There was no identification on his body, but a later search produced an undelivered letter written on SPR headed paper. Names of the primary committee members were printed across the top of the letter. After a little investigation, they tracked down Doctor Myers and summoned him to the Hotel. Myers identified the body and organised its removal to London.

  Lawrence sat on the bed and marshalled his thoughts. It was odd that he had come across the SPR again, but it was only a coincidence. Gurney's death was strange but explicable. There seemed no room for doubt about the verdict. Yet Lawrence felt uneasy. But uneasy or not, if no suspicion was attached to the death in Room 27, there was little point in him being in Brighton. If the death was a terrible accident, what more was there to do?

  Lawrence thought about it as he unpacked and washed his hands. The trip to Brighton had been rotten, and it was clear that he didn't have a case to investigate. And his conscience was beginning to trouble him. He had let Violet down by abandoning her in Bury and leaving her to carry out the case alone. Lawrence knew that Violet was capable of running the investigation solo, even if she did not. But he should not have forced it on her. He would return to Bury with some trinket or other and show his appreciation.

  Lawrence unfolded a spare pair of trousers and hung them in the wardrobe. Then, he sat beside the dressing table and opened his notebook. He rifled through pages of spidery scrawl looking for a blank sheet and grimaced as he tried to read his writing. It was poor, even by his low standards. His writing used to be tidy until the fire. The injuries he sustained made it necessary to learn to write all over again. His left hand, with its scarred and twisted fingers, was not up to the job. Lawrence remembered the months of frustration as he relearned this most basic of skills using his right hand. Now, his damaged hand was a little stronger and he might be ambidextrous if he tried. But he still hated the scars on his maimed hand and kept it hidden beneath the glove while continuing to produce an almost unreadable scribble.

  Lawrence dropped the notebook and retrieved it from his lap. It opened at the back where he had written a short list. The second item was a note to visit Sybil Jones. He might as well see her now that he was here. Once he had eaten, that is. Nothing would get in the way of a good dinner. Lawrence grabbed his coat and hat and made his way towards the dining room.

  It was a pleasant walk to Montpellier Street, despite the weather. The pavements were hard with frost, and there was a pleasing crispness in the air. The faint morning sun had all but disappeared and clouds, heavy with snow, hung low in the sky. Lawrence pulled his collar up and pushed his hat over his dark hair, now greying at the temples. He strode with purpose, long legs covering the distance effortlessly.

  He passed through the centre of town listening to the clip-clop of hooves across the streets. It was quiet and hardly anyone was around. As Lawrence walked past the residential houses, he peered inside. Well stoked fires burned brightly in their grates. The inhabitants of Brighton seemed happy to remain indoors and away from the cold. The roads became steeper as Lawrence walked north. The houses were bigger and more uniform. Terraces of identical properties stood sentry either side of the road. He reached Montpellier Street and located his destination. The correspondence found in the squalid bedroom where Ruth Moss passed her final days had been useful, after all.

  Sybil Jones lived in a handsome, white, bay-fronted house. It stood three storeys’ high and was accessible through a black door containing a large brass
door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Lawrence knocked three times, took a step back and waited. Nothing happened for several minutes. Sighing, he tried again - this time knocking harder. He was about to leave when a voice called, “I'll be with you in a moment.” Eventually, the door swung open to reveal an elderly woman with white hair and a bronzed complexion.

  Lawrence removed his hat and smiled. “Are you Mrs Sybil Jones?” he asked. The woman nodded. He reached into his pocket and passed over the letter she had written to Ruth Moss three years before. Lawrence had surreptitiously removed the letter on the day Ruth Moss died. He hadn't quite got around to asking Fernleigh if he could, on the basis that Fernleigh was sure to have agreed, and if he didn’t, well, problem avoided. “I am Lawrence Harpham,” he said. “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions about Ruth Moss?”

  Five minutes later, Lawrence was sitting in the parlour in a comfortable armchair in front of the fire. His coat and hat hung on the hat stand in the hallway, and a cup of tea and a fruit scone were on a small table by his side. Having been well looked after, Lawrence felt a pang of guilt about the news he was about to deliver.

  Sybil Jones spoke first. “Now, my dear, what do you want to ask me?”

  Lawrence leaned forward. “I have bad news,” he said.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” asked Sybil Jones.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She was ill. She passed away in her sleep.”

  Sybil nodded, sipping daintily from her china teacup. “I hope she did not suffer,” she said.

  “No,” said Lawrence, not knowing if it was true or not. “It was a natural death.”

  “Then, how can I help?”

  Lawrence considered how much he ought to divulge about Ruth’s living conditions. He did not want to upset Sybil Jones but felt he should put some context behind his questions. He decided to lead up to it.

  “How long did you know her for?” he asked.

  “Let me think. It must have been upwards of fifteen years. Yes, that’s right. Ruth moved here first. She had the house over there.” Sybil Jones pointed through the window to a similar house diagonally opposite her own. “She owned a boarding house, like mine. That’s how we became friends. I inherited this house from my Uncle, and it was far too big for me, so I decided to take in boarders. Well, Ruth had been doing it for years, so I asked her advice, and we got along famously. We looked after each other's houses when the other wanted to go away and visit family or friends. The arrangement worked well.”

  “Good,” murmured Lawrence taking a bite of scone. He was not hungry and was eating to be polite, but the scone was delicious.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  Sybil Jones smiled. “There are more in the kitchen.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “That’s kind, but I mustn’t be greedy. Now, there was a newspaper clipping in the letter you sent to Ruth Moss. I wondered what it meant?”

  Sybil Jones removed the snippet from the letter. “Oh yes,” she said. I remember it well. “I sent this to Ruth when poor Mr Gurney died.”

  “You knew him?”

  “We both knew him,” she said, “although Ruth was better acquainted than I.”

  “How so?”

  “He was a regular visitor to Brighton,” said Sybil. “Mr Gurney and his associates came here often. They conducted experiments.”

  “Experiments?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr Gurney studied hypnotism and telepathy. It was very scientific and quite successful, I believe. Anyway, Mr Smith was one of Mr Gurney’s young men, and his mother ran a boarding house on The Promenade. Well, Mr Gurney often stayed there, but it used to get booked up in the summer. One year they were so full that he came to Ruth instead and his visits became regular after that. When Ruth left, he stayed with me a few times.”

  “So, you wrote to Ruth to let her know about his death?”

  “I did,” said Sybil. “I thought she would like to know, but she never wrote back.”

  “Odd that he stayed at The Royal Albion on the night of his death.”

  “I had never known it,” said Sybil. “He always boarded.”

  “Curious,” said Lawrence. He picked up his teacup and put it to his lips, just as a large, orange cat leapt into his lap.

  “Marmaduke, get down!”

  The cat ignored her and started grooming. Lawrence glared at the intruder in his lap and put the teacup down again.

  “Push him off if you like,” said Sybil.

  Lawrence would have liked nothing better. Cats made him sneeze, and this particular cat was an unfortunate colour. If it stayed in his lap much longer, it would make a nice mess of orange cat hair over his perfectly laundered suit. But he had a series of difficult questions to ask, so he smiled and tickled the cat behind its ears. It settled down and began to purr.

  “Did Miss Moss keep a tidy boarding house?”

  “Of course, she was very house proud. Why do you ask?”

  “I ask because she died in unfortunate conditions.”

  “You said her death was normal.”

  “It was, but her room was, well…” Lawrence searched for the right words. “It was empty, bare. There were hardly any possessions in her room, and the place was untidy, dirty. But she did not lack means. She had more than enough money to live a comfortable life. It was a choice.”

  “Oh.” Sybil Jones eyes glazed over. She stared from the window in silence, her thoughts elsewhere. Lawrence waited.

  Eventually, Sybil turned to face him.

  “It all stemmed from that man,” she said. “The whole thing. He was the reason she sold her house. She was never the same again.”

  Lawrence sat up and shifted in his seat. The cat scowled. “What man?” Lawrence asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Sybil. “Ruth didn’t either. That’s how it is with boarding houses. Sometimes people book in advance and sometimes they turn up out of the blue, wondering if you have a room. Well, that’s what happened. It was out of season, quiet and a man called and asked if he could stay for a few days. Ruth said yes, and everything seemed fine. On the third night, Ruth went up to bed and passed him on the landing. The man was coming out of his room with a manic look in his eyes, staring as if he wasn’t in control of his faculties. Ruth asked him what was wrong, but there was no reply. Then she walked past him to go to her room, and as she walked by, he grabbed her from behind and held a knife to her neck. She cried out, and something changed in him, and he dropped the knife. He shook his head from side to side as if he was trying to clear his head. Then, he noticed her trembling before him and pointed to the knife on the floor. “Did I do that?” he asked, as if thought he might have, but was not sure. Ruth fled into her bedroom and locked the door. By the time she came out the next morning, he had gone.”

  “And you have no idea who he was?”

  “None at all. I told Ruth to go to the police, but she refused. She felt foolish, having a man in the house and knowing nothing about him. What could she tell them, after all?”

  “Was there anything about this man to identify him? Did she tell you what he looked like?”

  “She said he was well-dressed and intelligent. Oh, and she thought he was a professional gentleman.”

  “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “I took it to mean that he had an occupation, but a skilled one. In hindsight, she may have meant the opposite and that he was a gentleman of means. I am not sure what her exact words were.”

  “You say she sold her boarding house soon after.”

  “Immediately after. Ruth sold it within the month.”

  “And you never saw her again.”

  “I did,” sighed Sybil. “One last time. It was in the Spring of 1888 before Mr Gurney died. He passed away in June that year. Ruth and I had kept in touch a little, sending the occasional letter here and there. Ruth had returned to Essex, you see. She owned a cottage in the village of Tendring. My aunt lived
in Manningtree, and I went to visit her that Spring. I didn’t tell Ruth because I wasn’t sure whether I would have the opportunity to see her. As it happened, I had a spare half a day, so I made my way to her cottage.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Yes, but I wish I hadn’t. It was not a happy reunion. She opened the door but did not invite me in. She suggested that we walk across the fields and we did. But she was pre-occupied. Ruth had her eccentricities, but everything about her was different from before.”

  “In character or appearance?”

  “Both. She was poorly dressed. Her clothes were old, and her cardigan buttoned the wrong way, but she did not seem to notice. And she was thinner, much thinner than when I had known her. She hardly spoke and took no joy in the visit. I told her my news, but she exchanged nothing in return. After walking for half an hour, we found a hillock and sat in silence for a while. Then she grabbed my hand and told me that I had been right, and she should have told the police about her lodger. He would kill one day, and it would be her fault. She spoke earnestly, but with wild, haunted eyes, as if she carried an unendurable burden. I told her it was nothing. She couldn't have stopped him because she didn't know anything about him. Besides, it was unlikely to happen again, and he could be dead or in an asylum. I told her that she was not responsible and should stop worrying. But she said over and over again, that she should have fetched help when he attacked her. She had woken every day since convinced that she had looked into the face of the devil.”

  “Poor woman. He must have frightened her out of her wits?”

  “I hate to say it about a dear friend, but I believe she was suffering from an ailment of the mind. She fixated on the man. It must have been a terrifying experience, but almost three years had passed since it happened. She ought to have come to terms with it by then. No, the incident affected her sanity.”