I ran towards her and knelt by her side. Her face was sallow and lined, her breathing laboured. I gasped as I saw her rucked-up skirts, mottled and smeared with a dark substance. Slashes marked her woollen stockings leaving bare flesh exposed. Something metal glinted in the light, and I scooped it up. Its comfortable, familiar weight triggered a memory that seared through my passive observations. Oh, God. It was a clasp knife. It was mine and the last time I had seen it I was plunging it downwards in a frenzy, with no idea why. One chilling memory after another returned interconnecting into a mesh that did not form a whole but allowed an insight into what had occurred. Boarding a train at Baker Street station, feeling normal, a train ride and a strange taste. A glimpse of Aldgate Station, running, quiet, dark, quiet, walking, walking, thirsty. Stop. A sign, white paint flaking away from a rotten wooden plank. ‘White’s Row, memories ebbing and flowing - gone again. A woman, middle-aged, asking for something, disgust, revulsion, raging anger, a scream, silence.
The woman was still alive. Injured, but alive. I should have assisted. I am a good man, and I could have helped her. But I ran. And one way or another, I have been running ever since.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Sinister Man
The quickest route to D’Onston's hotel was by train, but after yesterday's incident with the dachshund, Lawrence was in no rush to repeat the experience. He decided, instead, to walk along the Embankment before turning north to his destination in Charterhouse Street. It was a crisp, clear day and Lawrence did not detect any fear or panic in the people he passed on his route. Men and women went about their business as always. Young ladies walked without chaperones while shopkeepers enjoyed robust trade. Barrow boys whistled as they carted their produce and the streets were busy with horses and carriages. The day was like any other day. Though Lawrence's journey took him through an affluent part of London, he still expected to hear something about the Ripper horror. But there was not so much as one newspaper boy shouting about the killing in a bid to sell his wares. The concerns of Scotland Yard had not yet reached the good people of the Parish of Saint Sephulcre.
Lawrence continued along Charterhouse Street on his way to Charterhouse Square. As he reached the square, a structure ahead caught his eye. He stared at it, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. The building was narrow, its span no more than the width of the front door. Three arched windows stacked one above another, formed a tall triangle with a stone balcony enclosing the first window. Lawrence subconsciously widened his arms as he walked towards it, wondering if he could touch either side if he tried. He reached into his pocket for the piece of paper Henry Moore had given him earlier that day. The scrawled note gave D'Onston's address as The Triangle Hotel, 88 Charterhouse Street, St Sephulcre. The name of the hotel could hardly be more appropriate.
The closer Lawrence got, the more he could see of the right-hand side. The hotel looked like a wedge of cheese and fitted snugly between two roads veering off at forty-five-degree angles. From the front of the hotel, it was impossible to imagine a functioning boarding house, but from the side, it became viable.
Lawrence opened the door and found himself in a small triangular room. He approached a shabby dark wooden desk, upon which sat an unpolished brass bell. Lawrence waited for a while, but nobody came. He pressed the bell adding his fingerprint to many others. Moments later a white-haired man shambled in accompanied by a young boy. The man yawned as he asked Lawrence how he could help. Lawrence leaned across the counter. "Is Mr D'Onston resident here?"
The hotel manager raised an eyebrow. "He might be."
"Can I see him?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
The Manager stared at Lawrence. After a few moments of silence, Lawrence understood the man's intent. He sighed, removed a note from his pocket and placed it on the desk. The man's grubby fingers closed over the money. "Tell number five he's got a visitor."
The boy returned a few moments later and nodded to the Manager.
"You can go up," he said. Lawrence approached the stairs and stepped on the fraying carpet.
"Wait," barked the Manager. "Tommy will show you."
He retreated and waited for the boy who glowered as he squeezed past.
The boy stopped outside a door midway along the landing on the first floor and held his hand out. Lawrence felt inside his pocket for the smallest denomination coin he could find and dropped it in the boy’s palm.
He stood for a few moments before knocking on the door wondering what on earth he was going to say.
He did not have long to wait before a deep voice boomed, “come,” and Lawrence entered the dark and dingy room. Though D’Onston’s room spanned two large windows, he had purposely excluded the outside. Both window shutters were drawn across, allowing only a chink of sunlight to enter. D’Onston relied on other means of illumination. Several misshapen candles of dubious provenance burned in saucers on a wooden desk. D'Onston was sitting in a worn red leather armchair. A white walrus moustache dominated his square face, hiding his lips and dark bushy eyebrows sprouted over deep-set eyes. Lifeless eyes. Soulless eyes. Lawrence approached him and offered his hand, avoiding eye contact. D’Onston stood to greet him and accepted it. His grasp was firm, his hands clammy. He gestured towards the chair in which he had been sitting. There was no other seating in the room, and D’Onston repositioned himself on the corner of the bed regarding Lawrence curiously.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
Lawrence declined. He still wasn’t sure how to approach the conversation, but alcohol was unlikely to help. Besides, he did not trust D’Onston. There was something sinister about his demeanour which would have been evident in daylight, but in the manufactured dimness of the room with the flickering candlelight, was almost other-worldly.
“What do you want with me?” D’Onston’s voice was low with the merest trace of an accent that could have been northern.
“I have been in Brighton,” said Lawrence. “I want to talk to you about an incident that occurred in the Royal Albion Hotel.”
The half-smile fell away from D’Onston’s face. “What incident?”
Lawrence opened his mouth to reply but noticed a copy of the Pall Mall Gazette laying folded across D'Onston's desk. 'Another Whitechapel Horror,' the headline screamed. 'A woman brutally murdered this morning'.
Lawrence hesitated, and D’Onston followed his gaze.
“Ah. Have you heard about our latest murder?” D’Onston leaned forward, animated.
“A little,” said Lawrence.
“Bloody fools,” said D’Onston. “The police, I mean. They know nothing.”
“Indeed,” Lawrence agreed. “Otherwise, they would have apprehended him long ago.”
“Not at all,” said D’Onston. “They have avoided every well-meaning attempt to guide them.”
“Understandably,” said Lawrence. “The general public is a little too accommodating when it comes to murder. They flood the police force with suggestions and theories, and Scotland Yard lacks the manpower to deal with it.”
“And there are not enough intelligent policemen to follow a perfectly obvious trail of evidence.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They only process what they see, and they do not think like the Ripper. They complain that they cannot catch him and lament their poor luck. But they let a blood-stained man escape repeatedly without ever considering how.”
“Go on.” Lawrence’s suspicion had turned to interest.
“Because there was very little blood on him.”
“There must have been,” said Lawrence. “The Ripper used a knife. The murders were bloody and visceral, and the perpetrator would have been covered.”
“There was no blood on him,” D’Onston repeated. “He cut their throats from behind, do you see. He grasped them from the rear and drew his knife across their throats as they faced away. The blood spilt down their bodies leaving his clothes clean. Then he stepped backwards and placed
them upon the ground.”
“Good lord.” Lawrence fidgeted with his gloved hand as he visualised the scene. Perspiration prickled his brow. The atmosphere in the room had changed again. D’Onston was less sinister and more energised, animated by the discussion. “But how do you know?” asked Lawrence.
“Common sense,” said D’Onston. “The police should have worked it out themselves. It was no surprise to find that they had not even considered it when I made the suggestion.”
“You spoke to them?”
“Yes, I helped with their enquiries.”
Lawrence waited for him to continue, but D’Onston stopped talking. His gaze wandered towards the window, and his eyes became dull again.
Lawrence coughed bringing D’Onston back from his reverie. “You haven’t told me the reason for your visit,” he said coldly. "I believe you mentioned something about Brighton.”
“Yes,” said Lawrence. “I would like to ask you…”
He did not finish the sentence. D’Onston stood abruptly and walked over to the desk. He pulled out several drawers, scrabbling for something and cursed under his breath. He rooted inside the third drawer and retrieved a small, brown glass-stoppered bottle. His hands shook as he poured the contents into a glass and he swigged the mixture in one swallow.
“You were saying,” he continued as if nothing had happened.
“I was trying to ask you about the Royal Albion Hotel.”
“What about it?”
“The evening of the 22nd June 1888. You were there.”
“If you say so.”
“Well, your name is in the visitor’s book.”
“Then I must have been there.”
“May I ask why?”
D’Onston’s eyes narrowed. “What business is it of yours. I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m from Suffolk,” said Lawrence. “A woman I know died recently in Ipswich. We found items in her room relating to the death of Edmund Gurney.”
“Gurney…” The word slithered from D’Onston’s mouth. “Was that the date he died?”
Lawrence nodded. “You were there that night. Did you see him?”
“No, I did not.”
“Would you have recognised him?”
“No. We were not acquainted, and I only stayed at the Hotel for an hour.”
“Why?”
“I was due to meet a woman. A fellow journalist. She did not keep the appointment, so I left.”
Lawrence sighed. “Then it seems I have wasted your time.”
D’Onston forced a smile and stood. His deportment indicated a military background, but the image was marred by his shabby suit. “It is as well that I have plenty of it,” he said. “Time, that is.”
Lawrence thanked him and left the room, relieved to be free of the oppressive atmosphere. Lawrence retraced his earlier path down Charterhouse Street not noticing the young man who had been loitering by the Hotel as he followed behind.
CHAPTER NINE
Setting the Scene
13th February 1891
Dusk was falling as Violet reclined in the armchair of the rectory drawing room, half-listening as Frank Podmore explained how the evening’s proceedings would develop. They had eaten heartily at luncheon with high tea delivered within a few hours. The remnants of the cake selection were still on the cake stand directly in Violet’s eye line. Her self-control wavered as she fought to avoid the temptation of another slice of fruitcake. Anne Durrell had excelled herself. The cake she produced was one of the best Violet had tasted. For all the mess Anne made, she was a competent cook.
Violet's gaze wandered outdoors where bats swooped low over the orchard. Their movement was hypnotic, and she began to feel sleepy. It would not do to drop off in front of Mrs Woodward, so she turned her attention back to Frank Podmore.
“We will measure everything,” he said. “Every sight, sound and detail. We will even record the temperature. I have already drawn a detailed floor plan of the upstairs rooms.”
“What can I do?” asked Reverend Woodward.
“Nothing,” said Frank Podmore. “You must go about your business as if it were any other night. Tomorrow morning, I will interview you all, assuming you have no objection. We will include your version of events in our research as well as my observations and those of Dr Myers.”
“It sounds very scientific,” said the Reverend, nodding approvingly.
“It is,” agreed Podmore. “We are impartial and only want to arrive at the truth of the matter. People are sceptical about our organisation. It's unfair. We conduct our examinations in forensic detail and disprove as many claims of spirit activity as those we deem genuine.”
“That is why I asked you in the first place,” said George Woodward. “You came highly recommended.”
“What about the servants?” asked Mrs Woodward.
“The same applies,” said Frank. “We will also ask for their accounts in the morning, but they should carry on as usual until then. Have you prepared the guest room as discussed?”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Mr Myers has the blue room overlooking the garden. I have put Ms Smith in the other. But that leaves one of you without a room. Where do you intend to spend the night?”
“Myers and I will take turns sitting on the armchair at the end of the passageway, so we have a clear view. We will swap from time to time. Whichever one of us occupies the guest bedroom will keep the door ajar. I asked for that particular room because it gives a generous view of the upstairs landing.”
“I see.” Alice nodded, her mouth set somewhere between a smile and a grimace. It was clear to Violet that her hostess was struggling to contain her scepticism.
“Excuse me, but I must leave you for a moment.” Violet cleared her throat and put her teacup on the table. She left the room and proceeded upstairs. Her drowsiness had not passed, and her frequent yawns were becoming embarrassing. A quick splash of water on her face should improve matters. She walked towards her room and met the housemaid coming out of the bathroom.
“Ooh you made me jump,” gasped Kate. “I was away with the fairies.”
“I’m sorry,” said Violet. “Have you got a few moments?”
“Yes, Miss,” Kate replied. “What do you want?”
“I wondered if you could tell me a little more about this ghost.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “I can tell you plenty. I have seen him several times.”
“Him?”
“Most definitely. An old man, he is. Old and sad.”
“Is his spirit clear?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Violet tried to find the right words. “I mean, does he look like a person or an apparition?”
“He looks the same as the ghosts you see at a seance. Have you ever been to one?”
“No,” said Violet. "I know it is very much in fashion, but a friend of mine went to one in Bury Saint Edmunds recently. She thought that the so-called spirit looked more like a piece of cheesecloth.”
“Well, the ones I saw were real.” Kate protested. A frisson of hostility settled between them.
“I dare say she chose a disreputable medium,” said Violet, trying to diffuse the situation.
“I dare say,” said Kate sullenly.
Violet changed the subject. “Tell me, has your gardener or young Frederick seen the ghost?”
“Not that they’ve mentioned. You’ll have to ask them.”
“Will they be here tomorrow?”
“Yes,” said Kate. “Mr Daldry will be here early in the morning and Fred soon after. You may have seen the ghost yourself by then, “she continued darkly.
“Thank you, Kate,” said Violet. She left the housemaid outside the bathroom and went to her room to fill the china basin on her dressing table. She washed her face and considered the housemaid’s parting words as she towelled herself dry. Violet had not contemplated the possibility of witnessing a manifestation herself. She did not believe in spirits. It was evident that Kat
e did and might well be suggestible. Violet felt that she was in no position to judge Kate's character, having known her such a short time. Instinctively, she felt Kate was unlikely to be the cause of the disturbances. Whether she was influential in prolonging the stories through gossip, was another matter.
Violet abandoned her assessment of Kate and returned to the drawing room. Another member of the SPR had arrived while she was upstairs. She opened the door, and he jumped to his feet followed by the Reverend and Frank Podmore. “Ah, this is Miss Smith,” said the Reverend. “Miss Smith, this gentleman is Dr Arthur Myers.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said the Doctor offering his hand. He smiled at Violet, and his grey eyes twinkled. He was about forty years old and dressed in a crisp grey suit with detailed gold cufflinks shaped in the symbol of Caduceus. He waited until Violet was sitting down before joining Frank Podmore on the sofa. They chatted enthusiastically about the work of the SPR. The splash of water had done the trick, and Violet’s drowsiness had finally vanished. She listened to their accounts of telepathy and found herself unexpectedly interested. Both men were engaging, and Violet became more sympathetic to the aims of the Society. Time slipped by and the clock chiming ten came as a surprise. The evening had flashed by. Violet felt a flicker of disappointment when Alice bade them all a good night. Good manners meant following the lead of her hostess, and she reluctantly retired to bed.
As soon as she was back in her bedroom, Violet located a box of matches and placed candles in various strategic positions until the room was free from shadows. The biggest candle she saved for her bedside table hoping it would give enough light with which to read. She tried to occupy herself while the household settled for the night, unnecessarily tidying and rearranging clothes. Violet thought about getting into her nightdress and decided against it. She did not expect to hear or see anything untoward but wanted a quick and easy exit from the room, if necessary. She also wanted to keep watch over the hallway. Though Podmore and Myers were unaware of her role, Violet had as much to investigate as they did. She needed to be awake and alert to witness any trickery that might occur.
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