“It’s good of you to see me again,” he said.
D’Onston nodded. “I was curious,” he replied.
“As I am,” said Lawrence. “Curious about Brighton, that is. You have said that you didn’t see Gurney, but I forgot to ask you if you recognised anyone else in the Hotel that night.”
“I did not,” said D’Onston. “I rarely visited The Albion and had few acquaintances there.”
“But you had been in the Hotel before?”
“Only once during that particular visit. And a few times on prior occasions. Why? Does it matter?”
“It might,” said Lawrence, trying and failing to keep the conversation going. He had to do better than this if he was going to fulfil his obligation to Henry Moore. He gazed around the room looking for inspiration and signs of a trunk. Unless it was in a cupboard or hidden beneath the bed, there was no possibility of a container in D’Onston’s room, tin or otherwise.
“Why would my prior visits be important?”
Lawrence hesitated. “Edmund Gurney spent a lot of time in Brighton, conducting his experiments. You might have run into him.”
“I have already told you that I did not.”
"Do you know anything about his experiments?"
"A little."
"Did they have any scientific value?"
“They had some merit,” said D’Onston. “I have studied the occult in depth. You could say I am something of an expert. I have acquainted myself with the methods and ideology of Gurney’s organisation.” He smiled self-importantly.
“Could I prevail upon your expertise?” said Lawrence.
“Of course.”
“Were the Ripper murders connected to the occult?”
“That is an excellent question,” said D’Onston, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. “It depends upon how many murders you credit the Ripper with.”
“Why?”
“Because if you discount the Dorset Street murder, which happened indoors, the other six form a perfect cross.”
“And what is the significance of that?”
“It was a profanity. It implies that the killer deliberately murdered according to location. The victims were incidental, or so I thought. But now I realise I must have been wrong.”
Lawrence nodded. "I agree. No reason to suppose the murders are location based."
“The locations are not the problem,” said D’Onston impatiently. “It's the other attacks that do not fit.”
“What other attacks?”
“Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson,” said D’Onston.
“Who are they?” asked Lawrence. “I admit I don't know much about the Ripper murders, but I haven’t come across these names before.”
“I told you the police were fools. They still don’t know how many women the Ripper murdered. I know without a doubt that Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson were among the first victims.”
“And how would you know that?”
D’Onston stopped talking. His mouth set in a thin line and he stared at Lawrence through narrowed eyes.
“You seem strangely curious about the Ripper murders.”
“It is hardly surprising. Half the population of London talks of nothing else.”
“Yes, well, how I came by that knowledge is immaterial. What matters is that the two attacks disrupt the pattern and do not form a new one.”
“Where did they die?”
“They found Annie Millwood in White’s Row lying in front of the lodging house where she lived. The location was logical geographically speaking if you count the death of Mary Kelly into the series. I don’t, as it happens, but 8 White’s Row is only a short distance from Dorset Street. The other murder creates a bigger problem. Ada Wilson was in Stepney when her throat was cut. She lived much further away than any other victim, and her attack is out of sequence with my theory. Ada Wilson survived, but her attacker left her for dead. She lived to tell the tale but did not know who he was or why he wanted to kill her.”
“And you are certain that she was a Ripper victim.”
“It is beyond doubt. And now there is another unexplained murder.”
“Frances Coles. Do you think she is a Ripper victim? How can that be? Jack the Ripper is dead.”
D’Onston’s face darkened. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. I do not know whether Coles fits the pattern,” said D’Onston. “It cannot be, and yet, and yet… Do they think they can make a fool of me again?” He slammed his hand onto the desk. The African mask clattered to the floor, and Lawrence jumped backwards.
“Who?”
“Get out,” shouted D’Onston. A red flush of anger stole across his face. “I cannot trust anyone.”
Lawrence opened his mouth to protest, but D’Onston was moving towards him with hatred spilling from his bloodshot eyes.
Lawrence darted from the room. He walked quickly without turning back until the Triangle Hotel was safely out of sight.
It was nine-thirty in the evening, as Lawrence turned the pages of a book in the inappropriately named reading room of the Regal Hotel. His chair was by the window and uncomfortably close to two elderly ladies who were gossiping in the corner. The other occupant of the room, a sullen young man smoking a pipe, stared balefully towards the door. The reading room was furnished with eight uncomfortable high-backed chairs, a low coffee table and a half-empty bookcase. A deck of cards, a dozen dog-eared books and a worn planchette littered the middle shelf. Lawrence picked up the only book of interest, a newly published work by Bram Stoker hoping it would prove a suitable distraction, but it was almost impossible to concentrate with all the noise and chatter in the room.
Lawrence repositioned himself in the chair in a futile attempt to get comfortable and tried to read a page for the third time. Before he had reached the end of the first paragraph, one of the women rose from her chair, grabbed the poker, and prodded at the sparse fire. “There is no more coal, Ethel,” she said.
Her companion joined her, and they both inspected the fireplace. “No dear, no more coal. And it is freezing. What will we do?”
Lawrence sighed and placed the book on his lap. “Would you like me to get some?”
“Yes, my dear - if you would be so kind.”
“I’ll do it.” The young man placed his pipe in an ashtray and left the room abruptly.
“What a nice young man,” said Mrs Guymer, the larger of the two ladies. “Isn’t he a nice young man, Ethel.”
Lawrence tried to ignore them as they spent the next five minutes extolling the virtues of the man that they had ignored for the previous half hour.
“Here he is,” said Ethel as the door swung open. A ruddy-faced man entered carrying a small bucket. He emptied a few coals into the fire, placed the bucket by the poker and left without saying a word. Ethel examined the pail. “It’s only half full, Doris,” she said.
“Oh dear, I don’t think the fire will last long.” They exchanged anxious glances.
Both Lawrence and the younger man turned away, determined not to get involved. Lawrence opened his book again and continued reading. The story was progressing. Jonathan Harker had just woken after a sleepless night and was about to board a train.
“Oh Ethel, what was that?”
Ethel shrieked. “A spider. How I hate spiders.” She held her arms protectively around her sides and shrank into the chair.
Lawrence closed his book and tossed it on the windowsill. He left the room without a backward glance and strode down the hotel steps and into the street. Marching past the hospital next door, Lawrence made his way towards an ugly commercial building when the cold hit him. He had left his coat and hat inside the hotel, and it was freezing. Lawrence wasn't going to lose face by returning, and he carried on regardless. After a few hundred yards, he began to calm down. His irritability vanished, and he felt sheepish. He was generally more tolerant and respectful of the elderly and tonight's behaviour was uncharacteristic. He was angrier with himself than he was with them. Lawrence sighed. He hadn’t
made any progress with the case, and his lack of discretion during his chat with D'Onston was unprofessional. Lawrence had been imprudent. He might as well have come clean and revealed that he was a private investigator. Remarkably, D’Onston had believed his story, or so it appeared. At least Lawrence had not indicated that he had any connection to Scotland Yard.
Lawrence had walked a circular route and was now at the back of the hospital. The conversation with D'Onston kept replaying in his mind. He hadn't found a way to introduce Mabel Collins into the discussion before D’Onston had asked him to leave. And D’Onston’s rise to anger puzzled Lawrence. He needed someone to talk to. Where was Violet? What was the point of having a partner who was gadding about when she ought to be helping? He looked at his watch. It was after ten. What on earth could she be doing at this hour? She had been out since six-thirty, and it didn't take over three hours to dine.
Lawrence continued his walk until the hotel was in sight. A Hansom cab alighted outside, and a man and woman disembarked. He peered at the couple and realised that it was Violet and her doctor friend. Lawrence watched as the doctor took Violet’s arm and guided her up the steps of the Hotel. He stood shivering in the shadows, not wanting to meet them in the foyer. It would look as if he was spying and there really wasn’t anything to see. Violet barely knew the man - there was no question of intimacy on such a short acquaintance. Lawrence wondered if Violet even thought of men romantically. She was over forty, and as far as he could tell, destined to remain a spinster.
It was too cold to stay outside, so he walked towards the hotel entrance. The door opened, and Lawrence turned away just before Violet's dinner companion left the building. The doctor climbed into the cab which sped hastily away. Lawrence negotiated the hotel steps and entered the foyer looking for Violet. She wasn’t there. He heard voices in the reading room and opened the door to find Violet chatting to the two ladies who had caused such irritation. They eyed him suspiciously and left the room.
Lawrence picked up the book he had discarded earlier and pretended to read.
"Good evening," said Violet.
Lawrence grunted. “Ah, you're back at last. You’ve been a long time.”
“I told you not to wait up.”
“Did you have a good evening?”
“Very pleasant, thank you, Lawrence. The meal was lovely and the company excellent. Mr Crookes joined us. I have had a very entertaining evening.”
“Well, perhaps you can spare a few minutes now. I need to marshal my thoughts.”
“Can’t it wait until the morning?”
“I suppose so, but I am meeting Henry for an early lunch in Regent Street. I won’t have much time.”
“That is just as well. Arthur has invited me to St Bart’s Hospital tomorrow afternoon.”
“Whatever for?”
“To look around. It is a splendid building, steeped in history.”
“You seem to be spending a lot of time with him.”
“He is a fascinating man, and it’s kind of him to offer. Besides, we won’t be in London very long. I have to make the most of it.”
“Yes, but dash it all Violet, we are here on business.”
“How much is Henry paying?”
“Don’t start that again. There will be a fee. I haven’t discussed the details yet.”
Violet removed her coat and placed it on the coffee table. She perched on the chair nearest the fire. “You can at least tell me if you have finished your investigation.”
“I don’t know,” said Lawrence. “I don’t have much to tell Henry. The conversation took an unexpected turn.”
“Did you find anything out about Mabel Collins?”
“No,” he admitted. “It was always going to be difficult. I thought there would be more opportunity to introduce her into the conversation.”
“What are you going to tell Henry?”
“I can tell him not to worry about the trunk. There's no space in the room for one,” said Lawrence.
“Could he have hidden it?”
“I don’t think so. I knelt to tie a shoelace so I could look under the bed. There was nothing but dust beneath. There were only small items of furniture in D'Onston's room. There wasn’t space to fit the smallest of trunks.”
“Your visit wasn't entirely fruitless, then.”
“Not completely, but D’Onston is a complex character and deceitful. There is something that he isn't telling me. Whether he is lying or being evasive, I'm not sure, but I wish I could have asked more questions. I doubt I'll have another chance. I have never seen a man rise to temper so quickly.”
“What did you say to upset him?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn't rude or pushy. D'Onston seemed happy to talk, at the beginning of our conversation. He is a man of great self-importance and enjoyed discussing his theories. It is obvious that he has spent a lot of time studying the Ripper murders.”
Violet grimaced. “I can’t imagine why.”
“No. Nor me, but I have learned a few things that might be of interest to Henry. D’Onston knows of two other murders but the police have not connected them to the Ripper."
"How would he know?"
“He refused to say,” said Lawrence. “He mentioned their names, though. One was Annie Millwood and the other, Ada Wilson. D'Onston says they were among the first Ripper victims. I walked back via Fleet Street and discovered that both attacks took place early in 1888.”
“Did D’Onston get angry talking about these murders?”
“No, it was when we were discussing Frances Coles?”
“The latest murder? Does he think the Ripper killed her too?"
“He does not know. He said it wasn't possible, but it was obvious that he fears it might be. I think it was the uncertainty that drove him to anger.”
"He sounds dangerous, Lawrence. Are you sure he isn't the killer?"
“He has certain characteristics that set him apart from other men. You would have to meet him to understand how sinister he is. The way he moves, his dark, unreadable eyes - and his interests, Violet. He is a self-proclaimed Satanist and has studied most of the esoteric religions in detail. But Jack the Ripper? I am not sure. Henry says he cannot be, but even Henry keeps him under surveillance. There must be some doubt.”
“You should stay away from him.”
“He wouldn't have me back now. D'Onston is a clever man though. He said the Ripper kills by location, not by choice of victim.”
“That makes no sense. Someone who uses a knife kills out of passion, not planning.”
“D'Onston plotted the locations onto a map, and they made a cross. He thinks - oh! That’s peculiar.”
“What?”
“Locations. It is about locations, Violet. D’Onston said that Annie Millwood lived in White’s Row. I knew there was something at the back of my mind. Frances Coles dossed in White’s Row too. Henry told me the other day.”
“It’s hardly surprising. There are not many places that take in women of their kind."
“It’s still a coincidence, and I don’t like coincidences. I’m going to take a look at the place tomorrow evening. There should be plenty of people who knew Frances Coles there.”
“I’m coming too.”
“No, you’re not.”
“We’ve been over this before. I am your business partner. I will go where you go.”
“Please, Violet. These are rough areas, and they are dangerous. You will stand out in your clean clothes with your nice manners. It is not safe.”
“I’ll change clothes,” she said. “You will not know me.”
Lawrence sighed. “I would prefer it if you didn’t,” he said, but if you insist, then we will have to take great care.
The door handle turned, and the young pipe-smoking man joined them. He started rifling through the bookcase.
“Time to go,” whispered Lawrence. “We’ll leave here at five tomorrow evening.”
Lawrence prepared for bed with a feeling of foreboding. He was
far from satisfied with the decisions he had made and was still not sure where it was all leading. Taking Violet into Whitechapel was foolhardy, yet what choice did he have if she insisted? His earlier request that she accompanied him had backfired. He could hardly refuse when she chose to go, just because it was too dangerous. His mind churned, and he knew he wouldn't sleep. He opened his notebook and read through. Lawrence was a disciplined note taker and had faithfully recorded the conversations with Henry Moore, Roslyn D’Onston and Kate Grove. He found the entry he was looking for and circled it - proof that he was right about White's Row. There was a definite connection between the first and last crime, even though they were committed three years apart. Lawrence set his reservations aside. They would visit White’s Row tomorrow night and take their chances among the impoverished inhabitants of Whitechapel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Monster Inside
The horror of that first night stayed with me, and other fears soon joined it. My hope that it was a singular aberration vanished late in March 1888 when I found myself outside number 19 Maidman Street, Mile End. I was holding a knife in my hand, and a woman screamed blue murder in front of me.
Once again, it started with a train journey. Once again, the hypnotic chug of the Metropolitan railway triggered a seizure. But the distance involved was fearsome. I was miles away from my home in an area of complete unfamiliarity. It was like waking from somebody else’s nightmare. I did not belong there. I had no desire to be there and no conception of how my unconscious mind had transported me to this area east of Whitechapel.
Somewhere deep inside me lurks a monster. Something unaccountable drives me to acts of violence I would not contemplate in my right mind. It brings me, unbidden, to a destination in which to commit them without detection. I cannot attribute it solely to my illness. Other men are similarly afflicted but do not resort to violence. An inner demon drives me. It must. There is no other explanation.
I may be a savage and every kind of coward, but I am a logical man. I have concluded that I must keep a journal of these events so I can prevent myself from being in a position to commit such acts again. Though sickening to endure, I scoured the local newspapers looking for reports of my crimes. I discovered that my first victim was a woman called Millwood. I killed her, though not immediately. She died later in a workhouse from her injuries. The second woman, Ada Wilson, survived, thank God. I deduced, from newspaper reports, that I had knocked upon her door. When she opened it, I burst into her room and demanded money before stabbing her twice in the throat. Do I remember any of this? Yes, there were snatches of recall. Not enough to form the whole picture but sufficient to be in no doubt of my guilt. I was conscious by the time I ran away and remember two of her friends in rapid pursuit. But I bolted towards the west and somehow escaped. Remarkable considering that I had no geographical knowledge of the area. But desperate men make good survivors, and I found my way home. There was a minimal amount of blood, not enough to make anyone look twice. It could have been my blood for all anyone knew. Of course, it was not. I had once again attacked a random stranger with no consequences.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 36
