“I mean it,” said Lawrence. They watched the night watchman and the little girl fade into the night. Violet removed the blood-stained handkerchief from her neck. Her legs almost gave way at the sight of her blood. She had been seconds away from death, and it was no random attack. “Stay away,” the man had said. It was personal.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Prevention Is Better Than Cure
Thursday 5th April 1888
Thank God I keep a journal. There has been another attack on a woman in Whitechapel, this time in Wentworth Street. It is only a short distance from the place that the unfortunate Annie Millwood met her fate. Or rather, that she met me. Not the real me, but the brute that wakes during the attacks.
I have spent the short time since the last event, cataloguing my memories, such as they are and continue to analyse my behaviour and my symptoms. I have always found my condition fascinating right from the early days when it was of short duration and barely noticeable. I have never been afraid of it and even now, knowing the full extent of my actions, I no longer rail or panic as the memories return. Instead, I am passive, almost detached. The self-loathing comes later, usually as a result of reading newspaper reports.
But I digress. I had not killed this time which meant that the preventative measures I employed were working. I no longer carry a knife, and I keep the tools I use in the course of my trade at work. They are not taken with me, as was my custom. I have stopped using the railway and, most usefully, I keep a detailed log of my movements. I note the time I leave, where I go and even how long I take to get there. It is all in my journal.
The murder in Whitechapel took place on Tuesday. Another fallen woman, another alcoholic, felled by an unspeakable act in the dead of night. I heard about it as I walked through Holborn yesterday. The newspaper boys were chanting ‘another Ripper murder’ in their high-pitched cockney voices. Men and women flocked towards them to buy a paper and indulge in their unsavoury thrills. I was one of them, of course. I do not enjoy gratuitous violence, which might seem like a strange thing to say after recent events. I purchased the paper only because I needed to glean enough details to rule out my potential involvement.
I felt sure of my innocence this time. There were no snatches of memory, nor recollections of my journey home from somewhere unfamiliar. I bought a paper and took it into the coffee room of the nearby Crown Hotel and spread it across the table while drinking the steaming liquid to steel myself. I scoured the paper, looking for the time of day for which I would need to account. When I found it, I took the journal, which I kept with me all times for obvious reasons, from my coat pocket. It was the work of a moment to establish that I was, as I’d already thought, at home that night. Not only had I stayed at home, but I’d even recorded the time that I retired to bed, which was a little after ten o'clock. I was not involved in the murder of Emma Smith, and it came as an enormous relief.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Missing Page
Wednesday 20th June 1888
Something dreadful has occurred - a calamity, a dire situation that I cannot see a way through. It was all going so well. My journal keeping, avoiding the railway - everything worked as I planned. There were no further repetitions of the incidents of February and March.
My illness lay mostly dormant with only one or two new episodes lasting a few seconds at most. I was in full control of my faculties until this afternoon.
I travelled to Westminster, as usual, walking instead of using transportation. I had come to deplore transport of any kind. It might have been an overreaction on my part, but I concluded that the sounds and motion of mechanical carriers precipitated my attacks. The most severe incidents had happened during train travel, and it struck me that they could be similarly induced in a tram or carriage by the clip-clop of hooves. It was possible, and I wasn’t prepared to take the chance.
I arrived at my destination in good time and joined the meeting, alert and interested. The June weather was fine and sunny. The windows were open, but I found my eyelids growing heavy, and my concentration began to lapse. I removed my jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, immediately feeling much better. The talk was fascinating, and at the end, I met the speaker, and we discussed the merits of his theories. We talked for half an hour, and one by one the other members slipped away until there were only four of us left in the room.
I said goodbye and went to retrieve my jacket. Fear slithered through my chest as I saw that the journal had fallen from my pocket and lay splayed across the floor underneath the chair. I grabbed it and frantically stowed loose newspaper articles back into the notebook. I turned to see if anyone had noticed. Nobody was facing me. As my heartbeat slowed, I realised that it wouldn't matter if they had. There was nothing untoward about the journal, and it would not have looked suspicious even if they had seen it on the floor. I was panicking for nothing.
I put my hat on and said farewell, before returning home once again, by foot. And here I am now, in my bedroom in my night attire, pen in hand about to journal the day’s events. My notebook is intact and exactly as it should be, but one of the three newspaper articles is missing. And it is damning. It was the first, the death of Annie Millwood and I noted my movements around the outside of the newspaper text. I jotted all my loose thoughts on that piece of paper. Untidy speculation in spider scrawl filled the empty spaces. And now it is gone. It can only be where it fell from my jacket. The speaker is unlikely to find it, and another man followed me out leaving only one other in the building. He is the only man who could locate the cutting tonight.
What is the worst that would happen if he did? I cannot remember precisely what I wrote, but I am sure that I did not identify myself. I may have referred to my affliction in passing, but I did not name it. I scribbled my notes in a frenzy, and they bear little resemblance to my usual writing. So, what chance is there of detection?
I have concluded that it is not worth the risk and I will return this evening. I have a key of my own. We all do. It will be late by the time I get there. Everyone will be long gone, and the building will be empty. I will find the clipping, or I will not. And if I don't, I can be reasonably sure who took it.
Of one thing I am certain. Though my conscience pains me, I will do everything I can to prevent an intrusion into my written thoughts. If the wrong man reads my journal, he may talk. I will be shut away and examined like an animal at a zoo. I will do whatever it takes to remain at liberty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Difficult Decision
Prowling around London in the middle of the night bought back painful memories of my initial foray into the East End earlier that year. I remember feeling disorientated and frightened with no real idea of how to get home. Tonight brought back those feelings of guilt and wrong-doing, but this time I had prepared. I knew where I was going and how to get there without drawing undue attention to myself. And even if someone saw me, I had a ready explanation at hand. Still, preferring to remain undetected, I slipped down side streets and cut-throughs. Before long, I found myself outside the Society Headquarters determined to find the newspaper cutting.
I crept around the outside and established that it was empty, as anticipated. I located my key, unlocked the door and stepped inside. I had never been alone in the building that late at night. Despite the familiarity of the rooms and layout, I found the emptiness unsettling. I opened the door to the meeting room and lit the gas lamp nearest the door. My stomach knotted when I saw two stacks of chairs at the end of the room. Someone had taken the time to clear up at the end of the meeting. It did not bode well.
I discarded any further concern about the possibility of detection and lit every gas lamp in the room so I could see without impediment. I searched the floor, behind the curtains, and under the circular mat in the centre. I even unstacked the chairs, hoping against hope that the clipping had fluttered onto the seat and become sandwiched between two of them. It was a waste of time and energy. The cutting had gone.
I extinguished the lamps and slammed the door then opened another and collapsed on the settee with my head in my hands. There were people I could rely on to protect my best interests, regardless of my actions, but if the wrong person found the clipping, the game was up. The man I left in the building was as straight as a die and law abiding. He was unlikely to keep any misgivings provoked by the article to himself. Even if he did not mention his suspicions immediately, he would be sure to discuss them sooner or later. It was in his nature to deliberate and consult.
I sat in the darkness for half an hour, wrestling with my conscience. The man was my friend. But something had altered in me, and my overriding aim was to avoid detection, come what may. The man was past his best. He had not enjoyed the success or renown he might have expected from his latest venture. He had feared, for some time, that he has been defrauded and made a fool. The thought of these things made my decision bearable.
A plan was formulating in my head. I discarded it at first, but after fifteen minutes of deliberation, I realised it was the only way. I could not achieve it alone and would need help. Could I reasonably expect to get it? I was adept at understanding the nuances of human nature and had built strong friendships. The men I knew had seen me through difficult times. They might be ready to help without the need for explanation. They already knew of my affliction and were protective, as true friends ought to be.
More importantly, it was in their interests to help. They were intelligent men. The less they knew, the better. I could credit them with the sense to know that they should not ask questions for which they would undoubtedly regret knowing the answers. There would be safety in numbers. I decided to rally their support as soon as I could. But first I needed to write a letter.
I moved across the hallway and into the library then sat at one of the reading desks where I lit a lamp. An inkwell was in front of me. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my fountain pen. I opened the box in the centre of the desks, extracted a sheet of headed paper and began my missive. “My dear Edmund,” I wrote.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
What D'Onston Knew
Thursday 5th March 1891
Lawrence paced the floor in the bedroom of the hotel he had grown to loathe. It was drab, noisy, and full of people for whom he had no time. It was only the presence of Violet that made the place bearable, and she had spent the night in a hospital. He could not face the reading room again and kept to his bedroom, forcing himself to remember details of every conversation that had taken place over the last few days. Why was Violet attacked? Was it a random event? She maintained otherwise. Violet said that the menacing man in the top hat had warned her to stay away, but Violet had been disorientated and fearful of losing her life. Now that she was out of the oppressive darkness and no longer terrified, could he rely on her memory? Lawrence felt there was room for doubt.
Even so, he would treat the matter as she had reported it. He would assume that the assailant had lured her to the alley as she supposed, but he could already see flaws in the scenario. How would the man know she would be there all, never mind alone? And how would he know there would be a child conveniently available at that time of night?
Lawrence drew the curtains and watched a horse plod along the lane below. A boy in a flat cap wandered ahead of it, pulling the rope on its halter without ever looking behind. The boy's ill-fitting attire was threadbare, and though it was February, he was not wearing a coat. His head was down, he did not smile, and his demeanour suggested that he was carrying an unendurable burden. The horse appeared equally defeated by life. The disheartening scene reminded Lawrence of his first impression of the East End. There were groups of people everywhere, come rain or shine, by day or deep into the night. The pavement life had been one of the most noticeable features of the area. Whole communities congregated on front doorsteps outside their lodgings. It would be easy to find a child, even at night. The hour hadn’t been especially late. In Spring, it would have been light. True, some of the smaller streets they had passed through were empty. But once they reached the larger roads, there were many more people, particularly near the public house. Violet’s attack was opportunistic. It had to be. The man used the child because she was there. Had she not been, he would have found another means of enticing Violet away. Which suggested that he was already in the vicinity before they arrived.
Now Lawrence considered it Violet had mentioned hearing footsteps several times. He had dismissed her fears as an overactive imagination, but perhaps she was right? Who knew of their intention to journey to the East End? Who could have followed them? Well, Henry Moore knew, because Lawrence had discussed it over dinner. Henry was not at all keen on the idea, but he would not have intervened and had no wish to see Violet harmed. Had Violet told anyone? Lawrence did not know and could not ask, not until she left hospital anyway. Oh dear. Violet may not have said anything, but now he came to think of it, he might have done. He remembered asking the hotel porter about stations and railway lines, though he could not recall whether he had mentioned White’s Row. But he certainly asked for directions to Aldgate which placed them in the East End. And there was the small matter of a map, which the porter had drawn. Not only did the porter know where they were going, but any one of the guests could have overheard the conversation. Not that there was any reason for them to take an interest in Lawrence's business, but it was fair to say that other people had known where they were going.
And D’Onston was aware, wasn’t he? He had given Lawrence plenty of information about White’s Row. Could he have deduced that Lawrence would visit? And what was D’Onston doing in The Paul’s Head? Lawrence raised his eyes at the memory of that nuisance woman in the Public House. He had tried to get closer to D’Onston at the back of the room before she waylaid him by the door. He could not shake her off in time to identify the man before hearing Violet's screams. Lawrence screwed his eyes tightly and tried to visualise the scene from the previous night. He couldn’t remember seeing the man who resembled D’Onston again, after he encountered the over-friendly woman.
Lawrence sat on the bed and picked at the candlewick bedspread. He wondered whether The Paul’s Head had a back door and concluded it must. The public house was located on the corner and would need a rear entrance to take delivery of stock. D’Onston could have slipped outside undetected and attacked Violet in the alley. It all made sense. God, he could have killed her. Lawrence didn’t give much thought to Violet half the time, and she irritated him the rest. It had taken the attack for him to appreciate the extent of his regard. It wasn’t a romantic interest, at least he didn’t think so, but she meant a lot more to him than he had realised. And someone had hurt her — possibly a man who looked like D'Onston.
Lawrence gritted his teeth as anger rose in his breast like the first flush of fever. How dare D’Onston think he could behave like this and get away with it. Lawrence flung open his wardrobe and extracted his coat and hat. He strode from the room, slamming the door behind him and exited the hotel almost walking into the path of a hansom cab. The driver pulled up.
“Going somewhere, gov’nor?” asked the cabman.
“The Triangle Hotel,” snarled Lawrence, “and make it quick.”
Lawrence jumped from the cab and pressed a few coins into the driver’s hand without checking how much it was. Value for money was the last thing on his mind as he stormed into the entrance of the hotel. Lawrence strode past the man at the desk without acknowledging his presence and ran up the stairs two at a time. He hammered on the door of D’Onston’s room and waited a few seconds listening for signs of life. Nothing happened and he hit the door again. It opened, and D’Onston stood there, pallid and with a puzzled expression on his face.
“Mr Harpham, again. What can I do for you this time?”
“Why did you attack Violet? What has she done to you?”
“What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind? Leave me alone.”
D’Onston tried to close the door, but Lawrence put his foo
t between the door and the jamb. “Oh no, you don’t.”
“Get out.”
Lawrence lost his temper, grabbed D’Onston by the throat and pushed him into the room. He shoved D'Onston backwards and pinned him to the wall by his throat, just like the girl he had seen at The Paul’s Head.
“I have had enough of your lies,” spat Lawrence. “You nearly killed her, you bastard.”
D’Onston gasped. He tried to speak, but Lawrence's hand constricted his throat, and all he could do was splutter. Lawrence released his grip, still incandescent with rage.
“You had better start talking, D’Onston.”
“I would if I had the first idea what you are speaking about,” he said hoarsely.
“You know perfectly well. You were at The Paul’s Head last night.”
“I was not.”
“I saw you.”
“You did not, I tell you. I never left this room. Whoever you saw, it was not me.”
“I don’t believe you. You have been lying to me since the moment we met. The White’s Row connection was your idea, not mine. But for you, I wouldn’t have been anywhere near the place.”
“Why did you go? I thought your interest was with Gurney?”
“Start talking now.” Lawrence forced D’Onston deeper into the wall and glared at him. Their faces were almost touching.
“Let me go. I’ll tell you what I know, but I can’t talk like this.”
Lawrence released his grip, and D’Onston coughed and rubbed his throat. Lawrence picked up a walking stick which was propped up by the window and pushed it towards D’Onston’s chest. “Sit on the bed,” he commanded. “And start talking.”
Lawrence backed towards the open bedroom door and shut it. He did not take his eyes from D’Onston as he brandished the walking stick in front.
“Put it down,” whispered D’Onston, his voice still hoarse. “There is no need.”
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 38
