CHAPTER SIX
Approaching Scotland Yard
13th February 1891
Lawrence alighted at Victoria Station feeling a sense of relief. He vacated the train almost before it stopped and darted up the platform with an unaccustomed lick of speed. He had been sitting, for what seemed like hours, with a large woman and her elderly dachshund. Lawrence liked well-behaved dogs as much as the next man, but this dog was disobedient and overindulged, and had barked through the entire journey. The jarring, yappy noise penetrated his ears like a hammer on wood, and when he politely asked her to quieten the animal, she glowered at him and called him a brute. Worse still, the dog urinated in the middle of the carriage. Each time the train halted and re-started the puddle of urine edged closer. In the end, Lawrence moved, but not before the woman had the audacity to complain to the conductor about Lawrence’s behaviour. The conductor ignored her, skirting past Lawrence with a nod of sympathy.
Lawrence walked past the ticket office and into the Victoria tube station, a short distance below ground. He purchased a ticket, hopped on the brownish-crimson carriage, and managed to find a seat with no other people in the immediate vicinity. He watched the walls of the tube station pass by as the steam train whistled and chugged. Travelling by train was lazy. It would have been easy to walk, but it had been years since he had used the underground and he was eager to try it again. Lawrence appreciated good craftsmanship. It was abundant in the handsome glossy locomotives with their matching gold lined carriages. He stretched his legs and smiled, enjoying every moment of the short journey. After two stops, he alighted at Westminster Bridge.
Lawrence was in a good mood as he sauntered along the Embankment to his destination at New Scotland Yard. He had made an overnight decision to begin the London part of his investigation by visiting Inspector Henry Moore. Henry was an old friend who he met during training, and their paths had crossed many times over the years. Though several counties separated them, their friendship endured. Henry had always been more ambitious than Lawrence and carved a name for himself in the Metropolitan Police early in his career. This led to his current position in the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard. Lawrence considered how little he had seen of Henry during that time. It had been due, in part, to the distance between them. But also, a reflection of Lawrence’s inability to face people after the loss of his family. As Lawrence considered his friendship with Henry, it occurred to him that it had been several days since he had last thought about Catherine. He bit his lip, ashamed of his neglect for her memory and his good mood retreated.
As Lawrence approached his destination, vast chimney stacks from the building ahead dominated the skyline. The towering seven-story red-bricked building was gothic in appearance and exuded authority. The architecture was exquisite. White stone bands contrasted against tiers of red bricks on top of which were three levels of attics, graced by steep slate roofs. Lawrence had never visited Scotland Yard, but he had followed the relocation with interest. He was confident that the building ahead of him was the correct location and he could expect to find Henry Moore ensconced somewhere inside.
Lawrence walked towards the imposing structure and through a wrought-iron gate. He looked up. An intricately painted Royal Crest illuminated by two large lanterns either side lent further grandeur. Giant urns topped the columns adding another layer of magnificence. Lawrence passed through feeling somewhat intimidated and approached the polished reception desk where a young constable, clad in shirt sleeves, was scribbling into a ledger. Lawrence coughed, and the constable looked up. “I would like to speak to Inspector Moore," said Lawrence.
“You and half the rest of the press,” the young man replied. “You’ll be lucky if you get to see him this side of Easter.”
“Busy, is he?” asked Lawrence.
The policeman put his pen down and looked at Lawrence incredulously. “Are you trying to be funny? Clear off back to Fleet Street with your gutter press friends.”
“I’m not from the press if that’s what you are thinking.”
“Good,” said the young man. “If one more reporter comes in today, I swear I’ll swing for him.”
Two double doors into the main building burst open, and a group of half a dozen men swarmed through. They were talking heatedly but stopped at the sight of Lawrence. A dark-skinned moustached man walked menacingly towards him.
“Leave him alone,” said the uniformed policeman. “He’s not from The Press.”
The man retreated. “Good day,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“What on earth is going on?” asked Lawrence.
“Only another murder,” said the policeman.
“Where? who?”
“Tell me who you are first.” The young Constable closed his ledger and watched Lawrence through narrowed eyes.
“I’m a private investigator,” said Lawrence.
The policeman raised his eyes heavenward. “Then you can hop it too.”
“I’m a friend of Henry Moore’s,” Lawrence continued. “And a former Police Inspector. It's the truth. Please let him know that I am here.”
The policemen did not reply but pressed a bell on the desk.
“Name?” he asked curtly.
“Lawrence Harpham”.
Another uniformed policeman appeared. “Ask Inspector Moore if he knows a Lawrence Harpham.”
The second policeman walked through the double doors. The opaque glass panes allowed Lawrence a view of his route upstairs.
“Are you going to tell me who has died?”
“It wouldn’t mean anything to you if I did,” said the policeman. “Although you will, no doubt, be familiar with the method of killing.”
"Explain?"
“He cut her with a knife. It’s another ripping,” he replied, grimly.
A thrill of adrenaline coursed through Lawrence making his skin crawl with tension. He felt dizzy, disorientated.
“Are you sure?”
The constable was about to answer when the doors opened again, and Henry Moore appeared. “Lawrence Harpham, as I live and breathe. Do my eyes deceive me?” He grasped Lawrence’s hand and shook it warmly.
“It appears my timing is poor,” smiled Lawrence.
“Dreadful,” agreed Henry. “You have exactly ten minutes of my time this morning, but I’ll see if I can correct that later depending upon your plans. Come.”
The speed with which Henry Moore ascended the stairs, left Lawrence out of breath by the time he caught him up. He followed Henry into an office further down the corridor.
Henry sat behind his desk, and Lawrence sank into the opposite chair. “I would offer you a drink,” said Henry, “but I have to be at Swallow Gardens in half an hour.”
“I can come back another time,” offered Lawrence.
“You must,” said Henry. “Tell me your plans. We will get together.”
“I will come straight to the point, as you are so busy. I am looking for somebody,” said Lawrence.
“A missing person?”
“No, not missing. But I need to find a man. Two, actually; both residents of London. I have got an address for one, but not the other, and I don’t know where to begin to look for it. I’ve found in the past, that the local police station is a good starting point.”
“Always wise,” agreed Henry. “Give me the name, and I’ll pass it to Fred. He’s a never-ending fount of local knowledge. If he can’t help, he will know someone who can.”
Lawrence removed the torn hotel register from his pocket. “Can I borrow a pen and paper?” he asked.
Henry retrieved a pen from the polished wooden holder in front of him. He pushed a scrap of paper across the desk.
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed as he watched Lawrence write the first name.
“What?”
“You are about to write D’Onston. Roslyn D’Onston.”
“You know him?”
Henry nodded. “Oh yes. That complicates matters.”
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. “How?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you, but first I need to know why you are asking. It’s important, Lawrence. Official business.”
“It’s probably nothing,” said Lawrence. “I am investigating a death in Brighton. It happened a few years ago. The coroner ruled it as an accidental death, but I’m not so sure.”
Henry Moore leaned forward. “How does this concern D’Onston?”
“It probably doesn’t,” Lawrence admitted. “But he was in the building on the night Gurney died.”
“Edmund Gurney?”
“Yes, you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” said Henry. “He was well known in London. What makes you think this death was suspicious?”
“Nothing I can summarise in the five minutes we have left,” said Lawrence, looking at his watch. “I’ll tell you everything when there’s more time.”
Henry nodded. “Fine, and in return, I will use the next few minutes to tell you some of what I know about Roslyn D’Onston and give you his address. We keep tracks on the man - he's under surveillance. My help is conditional on your cooperation. You must tell me everything, and I mean every single detail, of the conversation that takes place. Now or at any other time. Is that clear?”
Lawrence glanced at his friend, momentarily taken aback. Henry was uncharacteristically curt. His clenched jaw and stony face bore no trace of his usual good humour. “Of course,” Lawrence replied.
Henry sat back in his chair and sighed. “Have you heard about the latest ripping?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, your man D’Onston became embroiled in the 1888 murders. For a while, we thought he might be the Ripper. We have subsequently settled on a series of more likely candidates and have removed D'Onston from the list.”
Lawrence whistled. “I didn’t know.”
“No reason why you should,” said Henry. “D’Onston is a journalist. He dabbles in esoteric mysteries and spiritualism. He came to our notice while we were investigating the Ripper murders due to his bizarre theories. Were it not for the fact that he was in a hospital during some of the murders, he could have found himself at the end of a rope.”
“But he is no longer a suspect?” asked Lawrence.
“No,” said Henry. “He couldn’t have done it.”
“Then why is he under observation?”
“He is a trouble-maker, always stirring up public opinion with his strange ideas. He knows more about it than he ought. Keeping track of him is precautionary. There was a theory that the Ripper may have been more than one person, you see.”
“But the Rippings stopped years ago, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “And the Ripper is most likely dead, but until we have proof of this, D’Onston and a few others remain under watch.”
“What is the nature of this latest incident?”
“In the early hours of this morning, a young woman by the name of Frances Coles met a violent end. Someone cut her throat from ear to ear. God knows it’s only been a few hours, yet every blasted reporter in the district seems to know of it. They have attributed it to Jack.”
“With justification?”
“No. Because it sells newspapers.”
“So, you won't re-open the investigation?”
“Quite the opposite. We have no choice,” said Henry. “We cannot satisfy public opinion unless we start from scratch and investigate the slaying as if it was a Ripper murder. It is imperative that we find the killer. Otherwise, we will end up squandering all our resources on this crime for months to come.”
“What sort of young woman was Florence Coles?”
“I take your meaning. Florence was the usual type. She had fallen on hard times and was a drinker. She dossed in a common lodging house in White’s Row and sold herself for money.”
Lawrence nodded. “I see. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. I'll track D'Onston down and speak with him later today. Can we meet tomorrow morning?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Come back here. I would like to know what he has to say for himself.”
Henry Moore pulled out a desk drawer and removed a box of cards. He thumbed through them, selected one and copied the contents onto a piece of paper. He pushed it across the desk towards Lawrence.
"Here is D'Onston's most recent address."
Lawrence folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He smiled at Henry as he walked towards the door. “Until tomorrow,” he said.
“Indeed.” Henry held the door open and watched as Lawrence walked down the corridor. He still held the card containing D’Onston’s location. Henry sighed and put the card back in the box. The Ripper killings were over - D’Onston was no longer a suspect. But the prospect of Lawrence engaging with the sinister oddball journalist left Henry Moore feeling uneasy. Uneasy and powerless. He decided to re-establish control by setting the nearest available constable to keep watch outside D’Onston’s hotel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Beginning
Everything starts with a first. The first breath of a new-born baby, the first snow of winter, the first shattering realisation that life and time are out of control. The first time that I acted unconsciously, my memories returned gradually - not in a sudden rush of recall, but one recollection after another. They dripped back like drops of fetid water forming a puddle of interminable horror. Every single memory felt safe in its individuality. Alone, they were passive, offering false hope and masking the inevitable. It is hard to describe the point at which the memories become complete, so slowly do they recombine. But they always do, and the horror sends a cold dread coursing through my veins. My heart hurts with the pain of remembering. I am a peaceful man. I am not what the memories suggest - I am not.
Was I always so afflicted? Not from birth, but from a young age. The first time I felt different, I was still youthful, still in education. Harry Kersey found me slumped against a wall - upright, but pallid, and confused. He asked what was wrong and I could not find the words to tell him. If I knew then, what I know now, I could have said that my mind had temporarily absented itself from my body. I could have revealed how I fought, in vain, to fill the void with the memories I knew should be there. They returned, eventually, taking far longer to come back than they took to disappear. The attacks have continued haphazardly ever since. Once, an entire eighteen months passed without a seizure, but in 1888 they increased with appalling regularity. Attacks rushed by in waves, month after painful month, recall after horrifying recall.
The automatisms were less frequent when I was younger. Their prevalence has increased with age, culminating in the events of the last few years. They worsened late in 1887, when I took a regular journey on the Metropolitan Railway. I was due to meet friends which involved disembarking at a train stop and walking a short distance to the venue. I recall staring out of the carriage window while listening to the train conductor as he spoke to a young lady a few seats along. His voice, normal at first, began to echo. The girl's voice slowed down. Words dripped from her mouth like sap down a tree. The now familiar feeling of déjà vu came upon me, then nothing.
Nothing, until the next recollection when I reached into my pocket for my watch and saw that it was quarter past seven in the evening. Last time I checked my watch on board the train, the time had been twenty past six. I recalled this because my appointment was just before seven o'clock and I remember thinking there would be more than enough time to get to my destination. As the memories seeped back, I realised that I was walking on an unfamiliar road. I put my watch back in my pocket and searched for my train ticket, but it was gone. It occurred to me that I must have handed it in at the ticket station without remembering. I reached the end of the road and found myself in Smithfield Market. Logic suggested that I must have exited the train at Farringdon Street Station and given my ticket up there. Had I spoken to anyone? A few vague recollections filtered back. My jacket smelled musty, generating snippets of memory. I recall
ed the slam of a carriage door and the acrid smell of smoke. But was it a recent memory? I often travel by train. They are frequently crowded, buzzing with sounds. The air is stale, clogged by choking fumes. I could not sort this memory into past or present and had to accept that my recall would never be complete.
And so, it continued. I experienced instances of automatisms during which I could be anywhere with no memory or control. There were also lesser events, which I called blanks. Blanks occurred for short periods lasting no more than a few minutes. During these, I had scant, if any, memory, and I was always immobile. My profession could have made my affliction untenable, but I was frank with those who needed to know, including a few loyal friends. Though perplexing and at times irritating, it did not cause my colleagues undue anxiety. Their acceptance made me less fearful. Until one particular Saturday in 1888 when the full horror of my illness manifested itself.
Quite how I arrived in Spitalfields, I cannot say, for I had never ventured that far before. And what passed at Aldgate railway station is still a mystery. My first recollection was the cold. It was dark, and I was standing beneath a gas lamp in another unfamiliar area. Through force of habit, I pulled out my pocket watch and checked the time, trying to adjust my eyes to the gloomy light. It was seven forty-five on a cold February evening, and I had lost over an hour of memory. As I returned my watch to my jacket pocket, my fingers closed over the ticket I had purchased earlier that day. I had not surrendered it at the ticket office as I had in the past. It was damp, and I surmised that it must have been raining, but as shards of consciousness returned, I realised that I was not wet. Cold, indeed, but not wet. I held the ticket closer to the light and scrutinised the brown marks covering it. Blood spotted the pale card. I felt the sleeves of my jacket - they were damp with blood too.
I raised my hands to my face and touched my skin - nothing. The blood was not coming from my body, so I removed my hat and examined my head for a bump. Perhaps I had fallen over, but there was no pain or any sign of a wound. Then I tried to make some sense of my surroundings; to work out where I was and how I would get home. The alleyway in which I was standing was deathly quiet, the only sign of life a skeletal alley cat with one torn ear and patches in its fur. To the right of me, in the light of the next gas lamp along, I noticed a bundle of rags illuminated in the hazy glow. Then it moved and emitted a low moan. I gasped. It was a person, a woman.
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