The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  “Was he a musician or an actor?”

  Nora laughed. “Neither. He was a hypnotist. He used to get up on stage and put his partner in a trance. Then he would ask his partner to describe things that couldn’t be seen.”

  Lawrence raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m not explaining myself very well,” said Nora. “A few years ago, I walked out with a young man called Henry. He was keen on stage shows and often took me to music halls and theatres. Mr Smith and Mr Blackburn were a double act. Mr Smith would blindfold Mr Blackburn, then hide something in the theatre. Mr Blackburn always found it, even though he didn’t know where it had been put. The hypnotic trance caused him to think that he had second sight.”

  “Right,” said Lawrence, doubtfully. “But what has that got to do with Edmund Gurney?”

  “A great deal,” said Nora, crossing her arms and leaning forward over the reception counter. “You see, Mr Smith was Mr Gurneys’ private secretary. And not only that,” she continued, “but they carried out a lot of experiments together for their Society.”

  “Did they, now.” Lawrence was alert and interested. “And where can I find Mr Smith?”

  "He will be in Saint Anne’s Well gardens," said Nora. "He has business there.”

  “Do you think he will talk to me,” mused Lawrence.

  “Oh, I am sure he will. He is a very nice man, friendly and not at all self-important. He signed a place card for me last year when I saw him at the Aquarium. I didn’t like to trouble him myself, but Henry walked right up and asked if he could sign it and he did not hesitate. Anyway, he turned up at the hotel a few days ago, and I asked after his health. We chatted for a while and he said he had been in Kent for the last few months. He has booked his hotel room until the end of the week, so it looks like you are in luck.”

  “That's very helpful," said Lawrence, "I am grateful. “Just one more thing before I go. Do you keep a record of hotel visitors?"

  “Of course,” said Nora. “There's a guest register over there.” She gestured toward the right side of the counter. “Who are you looking for?”

  Lawrence had no opportunity to reply before a waitress bustled into the hallway. She mouthed something at Nora that Lawrence couldn't interpret.

  “I'll be back in a minute,” said Nora.

  Lawrence sidled over to the reception desk. Two large day books lay stacked beside by the bell. He opened the first. It was a register of guests, with space to record names, addresses and comments. It was new, and only the first two pages had been written on. He opened a second book and found a similar register - this time older and crammed to capacity. Lawrence scanned the first page. The date was 1884. Good. He licked his finger and leafed through until he reached the entries for June 1888. Edmund Gurney had died on the 22nd or 23rd of June. Lawrence located the relevant page and reached in his breast pocket for his fountain pen. It was not there. He patted his coat and trouser pockets, searching in vain for a writing tool. He checked behind the counter - nothing. Lawrence sighed, irritated at his inability to locate a pen on a desk, of all places. He was not prepared to waste the opportunity to glean more information and stole a furtive glance around the lobby. There was nobody in sight, so Lawrence ripped out the page, folded it in two and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

  The momentary pang of guilt he suffered, did not prevent his mouth creasing into a smile. Something felt different - a glimmer of hope, perhaps. The thought of going back to Bury Saint Edmunds with his tail between his legs, having followed another false trail, was behind him for the moment. Lawrence felt motivated again and determined to pursue the investigation with renewed vigour. Stopping only to ask a passer-by for directions, he set off towards St Anne’s Well gardens.

  Lawrence was ten minutes into his walk when it dawned on him that he was re-tracing yesterday's route. He realised that he must be close to Montpellier Street, judging it only a short distance away. If he walked to St Anne's Well gardens as the crow flies, he would miss the opportunity to see the house Sybil Jones had pointed out the previous day. A glimpse of Ruth's home might give him an insight into how she had lived.

  He found his way to Montpellier Street and searched for Number 41. It was a handsome white rendered property almost identical to Sybil’s house. Only the bay window surrounds were different, with the ones on Ruth's side painted black. Other than that, the two houses seemed the same shape and size and likely had similar interiors. Lawrence slowed his pace and loitered outside, pretending to check his watch. He saw no signs of life in the property, and, standing on tiptoes, he peered inside.

  As he had anticipated, the living room was at the front of the house. It was a long, thin room with an unremarkable fireplace. The decor was drab, utilitarian, and unwelcoming. Heavy drapes masked the large bay window, leaving it cloaked in shadow. Lawrence strained to see beyond the front room, but the poor light impeded his view. Even so, he could see enough to form an opinion. Despite the daylight, the room was sombre, and it was evident from the tired looking wallpaper and faded carpet, that the house was in need of redecoration. He must be seeing the room as it was in Ruth's time. The tired building could have been warm and welcoming, like Sybil's house. It had the potential.

  Lawrence imagined how Ruth must have felt living alone in this large, soulless house. He thought of her cowering in a locked room, frightened in fear of her sinister guest. The experience must have been unnerving. If Sybil Jones was right, it was understandable that the memory had remained with her.

  Lawrence turned away from the drab room. He would learn nothing more from watching the house and he set off for Saint Anne’s Well gardens.

  Ten minutes and a steep hill later, Lawrence arrived at the entrance to the gardens on Furze Road. An attractive steeply gabled cottage stood beside the park gate. Nearby, was a wrought iron signpost inscribed ‘private’. Lawrence ignored it. He was in no mood for impediments. He strolled down the path towards a large stone structure, built incongruously in the shape of a temple. By the side of the building, a wizened man moved boulders with the aid of a wheelbarrow. He saw Lawrence, stopped and placed his hand in the small of his back.

  “That looks like hard work,” said Lawrence, trying to start a conversation. The man grunted and grasped the handles of the barrow.

  Lawrence tried again. “Do you know if Mr George Smith is here today?”

  The man nodded towards the far side of the building and turned away. Lawrence followed his direction to see a curly haired man standing by a large sash window. He was scribbling in a notebook. As Lawrence drew closer, he realised that it was actually a sketch pad. The man was making detailed drawings of the structure in front.

  “Good morning,” said Lawrence, holding out his hand. “My name is Lawrence Harpham. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr George Smith?”

  The man reached for Lawrence’s hand and shook it tentatively. “You do,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  Lawrence took a deep breath and began the tricky task of conveying the reason for his visit using the least amount of words. He struggled to express himself, cognisant of the uncertainty of his position. He had still not discovered what crime, if any, had taken place and had no expectation of Smith's cooperation. But George Smith was intelligent and grasped the situation before Lawrence became too tongue-tied. His eyes misted as Lawrence spoke of Edmund Gurney and a tic pulsed above his cheekbone.

  “The matter of which you speak is painful,” he said when Lawrence had finished. “Painful indeed. Edmund Gurney was my friend. I will tell you what I know, and you can decide for yourself. It’s chilly out here. Come inside.”

  They walked through the ionic columns clustered with creeping ivy and entered the building. George directed Lawrence downstairs to the basement. “It’s not much warmer here,” he said, “but we are out of the wind and away from prying eyes. You know these gardens are private, don’t you?”

  Lawrence nodded. “I saw the sign,” he admitted, “but I wanted to speak with you”. He gl
anced around the room. A circular stone trough housed a bowl into which water bubbled up from a fissure in the rock. “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “It’s the Chalybeate water,” said George. “It’s a natural mineral spring. People come from far and wide to partake. It’s supposed to be very good for you. Try some.”

  He reached for a glass from a selection lined up on a trestle table by the basement wall.

  Lawrence collected a tumbler of water and sniffed. It smelled of sulphur. He took a few sips to be polite, but it tasted as bad as he expected.

  “I’m thinking of leasing it,” said George Smith.

  Lawrence arched an eyebrow.

  “The gardens, I mean. I make films. I need somewhere to use as a studio.”

  “Is that why you are here?”

  “Yes. I’ve been negotiating with the Goldsmid’s. They own this place. They have allowed me free access to the gardens while I work it all out. It should do very well.”

  “So, you have a legitimate reason to be here, unlike me,” smiled Lawrence.

  George laughed. “Yes, and it’s tricky negotiating so it would be helpful if they don’t assume that I’ve condoned trespassing on their land. “Take a seat,” he said walking over to one of several wrought iron tables surrounding the well. “It’s always devilishly cold in this part of the pump room, but no worse than being outside. Now, tell me what you want to know.”

  “I understand you weren’t here when Edmund Gurney died?”

  “No. I had only married a short time before. My wife and I were honeymooning in the Isle of Wight.”

  “So, you did not see him at any time?”

  George Smith shook his head. “He arrived long after we had left Brighton.”

  “And you never found out why he came here?”

  “No. It is a mystery."

  "Did he often visit Brighton?"

  "Only when he came to see me. I was his Private Secretary, but as I have already said, I was not here.

  I heard that he received a letter summoning him to Brighton. Nobody knows why. There were other letters in his possession when he died, but not that one.”

  "When did you see him last?"

  "A few months before he died."

  “Was his behaviour normal?”

  “In a manner of speaking."

  "Explain."

  "He had lost his usual ebullience and he seemed burdened, in some way. I do not know what troubled him, but there was a change in the weeks before his death. He was uncharacteristically quiet.”

  “Could he have killed himself?”

  “It is not inconceivable, but I doubt it. No man was more dedicated to his work than Edmund. There was so much that he wanted to do, to prove. I cannot imagine him giving it all up.”

  “So, the verdict of accidental death seems most likely.”

  “Most unlikely.” George Smith leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “I do not recognise any of the behaviour attributed to Edmund that justifies a verdict of accidental narcotic poisoning.”

  A frisson of excitement coursed through Lawrence. “If his death was not a suicide and not an accident, then what was it?”

  “You tell me,” said George Smith. “I cannot account for it.”

  “His use of narcotics to ease pain was well known,” said Lawrence.

  "Pain?"

  “Yes, neuralgia.”

  “What neuralgia?”

  “Did you not know of it?”

  “He did not complain of neuralgia in the whole time I knew him,” said George firmly. His piercing, clear eyes never wavered from Lawrence’s face. “And as far as I know, he did not take opiates. It makes no sense.”

  “You knew him well enough to make that judgement?”

  “Yes, but it's more than that. We conducted many experiments over the years and used hypnotism for the relief of toothaches and headaches. The sessions went very well indeed. We made real progress. If Edmund Gurney had long-standing neuralgia, as they say, he would have tried hypnotism.”

  “He may have tried, and it failed.”

  “He would have asked me.” George Smith raised his voice and tilted his head. He sighed and leaned forward again, clutching his brow. Unruly curls fell across his face. He sat in silence for a moment.

  Lawrence waited for him to begin speaking again.

  “I take it you know that we were all members of the Society for Psychical Research,” he said.

  “I do,” said Lawrence.

  “Edmund was a founder member,” George continued. “A few years ago, he wrote a paper called ‘Removal of pain by suggestion.’ The article concentrated on mesmerism and hypnotism. He had absolute faith in the power of suggestion. There is not a question in my mind that he would have come to me if he was suffering.”

  “But you were away,” said Lawrence.

  "Several men participated in the Brighton experiments," said George. "Anyone of us could have helped him."

  “To be clear, you do not think he was a habitual user of narcotics?”

  “To be even more clear, I do not believe he used them at all.”

  Lawrence exhaled. He realised he had been holding his breath while George was speaking. The passionate manner in which the young man argued against the verdict of accidental death, indicated he was on to something at last.

  “I am leaving the SPR,” said Smith. “I have made up my mind. I have obligations towards them until the end of the year, but I will resign immediately after.”

  “Why?” asked Lawrence.

  “I cannot tell you,” said George. “Something I cannot explain is making me uneasy. If you want to know more about the SPR, you should go to London and speak to some of the Society members. They all knew Edmund well. Ask for Frederick Myers or Frank Podmore. If you are lucky, Elias will be around.”

  “Elias?”

  “Our doorman, although he is so much more. Elias is loyal to the organisation and with an almost eidetic memory. He is the man to ask and will always be able to reach the others.”

  “I thought eidetic memory was a myth.”

  “In its pure sense, it is rare. All members of the SPR have a speciality no matter what function they serve. Elias has spent a lifetime learning mnemonic techniques to improve his memory. He has trained himself to have an almost photographic recall.”

  “London sounds like a good place to start then,” said Lawrence. “I’ll go there and search them out.”

  George stared towards the bubbling water and pulled distractedly at his tie. After a few moments, he looked up. “There is something wrong with the way they reached the verdict, Mr Harpham,” he said. “The coroner was veering towards suicide but was heavily influenced against it. Some of my colleagues thought it was an accident. I sometimes wonder whether it was in their interests for the verdict to go that way. After all, it was important not to tarnish the Society's reputation. Or their own. But in the conflict between accident and suicide, was something else was overlooked? Could Edmund Gurney have been murdered?”

  Lawrence walked in a daze as he retraced his route to The Royal Albion hotel. It was dusk, and darkness descended swiftly. The rising moon cast the merest trace of light and a murky soup of clouds concealed the stars. The streets of Brighton had become strangers, made hostile by the ghoulish glow of gas lamps. In the distance, a lamplighter hauled his ladder through an alleyway, trudging along frosty streets as he contemplated the laborious task ahead. Lawrence followed in silence considering George Smith's final words. “Could Edmund Gurney have been murdered?”

  Lawrence was distracted as he turned into a passageway and found himself in a maze of tiny streets leading towards Black Lion Street. The welcoming lights of The Cricketers Inn appeared a short distance away. Lawrence peered through the windows into the well-lit interior. The glass was clear, but Lawrence could not see inside. His mind played tricks as the word ‘murder’ appeared and disappeared from the bevelled glass. One minute it was emblazoned in foot-high letters, the next, only a figm
ent of his imagination. He walked the length of Black Lion Street until he reached the seafront. Accusatory voices surrounded him. Lawrence tried to block the sounds, but they echoed in a whisper of 'murder' again and again. Even the waves joined in, sloshing their criminations against the shore. Was murder an option? Why had it not been considered?

  By the time Lawrence reached the hotel, he was exhausted, and his mind was ablaze. He decided to buy a glass of brandy to drink before he retired. It would be more effective than counting sheep. He opened his wallet, but instead of extracting money, he grasped the piece of paper egregiously torn from the register earlier that day. He unfolded it without a flicker of guilt.

  Some of the names inside were registered against room numbers indicating that they were guests, not visitors. The remaining records were poor, only containing a surname twinned with a town. But two entries looked promising and were annotated with the word, ‘visitor’. One of them belonged to a dentist called Daniel Browning. He had given his address as 27 Upper Montague Street, Marylebone. The second man had appended two locations by his name. Roslyn D’Onston was a journalist who lived in London, but was currently staying at the Cricketers Inn, Brighton.

  Lawrence stared at the register. He did not believe in coincidences, and he had been standing in front of the Cricketers Inn not more than half an hour ago. Was it a sign? It did not matter whether it was, or not - it was a lead. Pausing only to consider whether he should tell Violet of his plans, Lawrence abandoned the idea of a pre-bedtime drink. He crossed the entrance hall and climbed the stairs, two at a time. The excitement had dissipated by the time he reached his room and practicalities had set in. Lawrence wished he could speak to Violet. Her opinion would be useful. He missed sharing ideas with her, and she was wise in a way that his natural impulsiveness prohibited. But she was in that village whose name he could not pronounce, or even remember. And the thought of her ghost-hunting still set his teeth on edge. It wasn't easy to contact her, and it was risky to try. She might attempt to persuade him to return to Suffolk. No, every lead pointed in one direction only. Tomorrow morning, at the earliest opportunity, he would take the train to London.