The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  “That’s one thing I am certain of,” said Lawrence. “There was no space in his room big enough to contain a tin trunk. It is not in The Triangle Hotel if it exists at all.”

  “And neither is he,” said Henry. “Which may be for the best. I am still not wholly satisfied with his innocence, but there will come a time when we have to stop tracking his movements. Perhaps this is it.”

  “He is telling the truth,” said Lawrence. “At first I thought he had attacked Violet, but I don’t believe it now.”

  “Violet?”

  “Yes, my partner. A man attacked her the other night in the East End. She ended up with a cut across her throat.”

  “I heard about that. I did not realise you were acquainted. What has this got to do with D’Onston.”

  “I thought I saw him nearby, but he says he wasn't there.”

  “And this was Wednesday night?”

  Lawrence nodded.

  Henry rifled through the cards on his desk. “What time did it happen?”

  “It must have been between 7.30 and nine.”

  “Then it wasn’t D’Onston. He was at the hotel. He left briefly about 5 o’clock and returned within the half hour.”

  “I was certain. It looked like him.”

  “There are all sorts of thugs in the East End. They were probably after your friend’s money.”

  Lawrence opened his mouth to protest, then reconsidered. He had done his duty by telling Henry about D’Onston, less the finer details. Henry clearly didn't believe a word of it. Neither had he associated the attack on Violet with the Ripper or the SPR. Lawrence could continue investigating with a clear conscience.

  “You are probably right,” he sighed.

  “Yes. Wish Violet well from me. I think that’s all, Lawrence. If you come across D’Onston again, then have the goodness to let me know. Send me an invoice for your work. When are you going back?”

  “I’ll be here for another few days,” said Lawrence.

  “Come over for dinner before you go. Mary would love to see you.”

  “I will,” said Lawrence. “Thank you.”

  He shook Henry’s hand and left the office, before heading towards The Adelphi and the headquarters of the SPR.

  Lawrence didn’t hang around waiting for transport and hurried along the Embankment arriving in Buckingham Street, slightly overheated. He climbed the small flight of steps and banged on the front door which opened, almost immediately, to reveal a lightly tanned, dark-haired man in his early fifties. Lawrence recalled his conversation with George Smith back in Brighton. The man in front of him must be the doorman with the exceptional memory. What was his name? Lawrence searched his own less efficient faculties. Ah, yes. His name was Elias Haim.

  The doorman was an inch or two shorter than Lawrence and what remained of a receding hairline was slicked back under a layer of oil. His skin was olive and suggested Mediterranean origins.

  Lawrence doffed his hat and explained the purpose of his visit.

  “You can see Mr Podmore,” said Haim, in a deep voice bearing traces of an accent. “He will help.”

  “I met Mr Barkworth last night. Is he expected today?”

  “Mr Barkworth is in Chigwell. He won't be here until nine o'clock tomorrow.”

  “And Myers?”

  “Mr Frederick Myers or Doctor Arthur Myers?”

  “Dr Arthur Myers.”

  “He is indisposed,” said Elias.

  Lawrence hoped the problem wasn’t too trivial. He was tempted to ask why, but any further display of interest might look suspicious. “May I see Mr Podmore, then?”

  The doorman nodded and showed him to a small room containing three high backed armchairs.

  “You can wait here,” he said.

  Lawrence surveyed the room. Copies of the SPR journal lay in date order across a table. He took one and flicked through without reading it. Two minutes later a man appeared. Lawrence recognised him from the previous evening. It was Frank Podmore.

  He shook Lawrence’s hand. “Ah, Mr Blatworthy,” he said. “You are keen to join our ranks if I remember.”

  Lawrence nodded. “Yes, I want to learn more,” he said.

  “Good to hear. Anything in particular?”

  Lawrence tried to remember what Podmore had talked about the previous night. “The work on thought transference interests me most,” he said.

  The flattery worked. Podmore beamed. “Yes, I agree,” he said. “It is a subject close to my heart. Now, join me in the library. I’ll take your details there.”

  Lawrence followed. The library was empty of people, but bookcases surrounded the four back to back desks in the centre of the room. Every available shelf was full.

  “You have an impressive library,” said Lawrence.

  “Yes. It’s a testimony to our friend Edmund Gurney,” said Frank. “He was the creator.”

  “My congratulations to Mr Gurney for a fine effort.”

  “He is no longer with us,” said Frank, shortly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Frank ignored him and pulled a piece of yellowing paper from a tray near one of the desks. “Fill this in. I’ll be back shortly.” He left the room. Lawrence scribbled a fictitious address across the form. He couldn't shift the sense that he had displeased Frank Podmore. When the application was complete, he prowled the room scrutinising the bookcases. All manner of books and pamphlets about psychical research and esoteric teachings covered the shelves, enough to cure any amount of insomnia. Lawrence located a narrow desk nestled between two of the bookcases. A stack of wooden trays towered to one side. One was empty, and another contained blank subscription forms of the kind he had just completed. A third smaller tray held letters from the public. Lawrence rifled through them. There was nothing of interest, only reams of paper containing dubious accounts of spiritual manifestations. Lawrence pulled a face and put the tray away.

  He turned to the narrow desk and saw a single drawer with a keyhole, then pulled the handle anticipating a locked drawer. It slid open. Inside, was a smaller drawer with an inverted ‘J’ shaped keyhole. This time, Lawrence wasn't so lucky. The door was firmly locked and impossible to budge. He extracted a handful of folded documents from the small drawer below and located a little ledger containing contact details for the committee. Lawrence opened the pages and read their names, muttering out loud. Henry Sidgwick, President, Eleanor Sidgwick - must be his wife. Frederick Myers - no doubt the brother of Violet's infatuation, the slimy Doctor Myers. “Hello, what’s this?” Lawrence traced his finger down the page. ‘Elias Haim, doorman, Gunpowder Alley, off White’s Row, Spitalfields.’ It can't be. He held his breath. Surely a coincidence? Lawrence didn’t hesitate. He pocketed the ledger and left Alistair Blatworthy’s application form on the desk. He waited until the doorman answered the call of nature and exited swiftly through the front door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Double Event

  15th October 1888

  By the end of September, I was a fully-fledged killer. I murdered quite deliberately, and it filled a void within me I had not known existed. During the day, I behaved as usual and was professional and upstanding - trustworthy. My affliction grew worse as the day wore on, becoming uncontrollable late at night. But it was no longer necessary for an episode to occur before I left, knife in hand, to fulfil my yearning for blood. Sometimes, it worked that way, but other times, it was a purposeful act within my control.

  The murder in Hanbury Street at the beginning of September was both planned and unintentional. I had resisted the urge to carry a knife since the incident in Bucks Row at the end of August. But I grew tense and angry as the new month arrived. Only the sweet release of steel slicing flesh could reduce the urges that occupied so many of my thoughts. With this in mind, I purchased a new knife and placed it in my coat pocket. On Saturday the 8th of September, I used it.

  I recall preparing for bed that evening. I was in my night attire, and I remember ascending
the stairs and placing my hand on the door of my bedchamber. Then my tongue grew heavy and felt as if it were too big for my mouth and I knew it to be the sign of an impending attack.

  I must have dressed in an automative state, for when I came to my senses, I was wandering the streets of Spitalfields in my usual apparel. I had not, at this stage, encountered anyone else nor committed a crime as far as I could tell from the cleanliness of my knife. Glimmers of memory returned, and I sought an anchor from where I might collect my thoughts. I found myself staring at a sign in Hanbury Street. The area seemed familiar, and I concluded that Aldgate Station was near and Liverpool Street, closer still. I could have caught a train home without difficulty, yet I did not. I chose to stay. Every previous killing had begun while I was not me, but here I was in full control of my faculties, fascinated by my condition. Though parts of my psyche repulsed me, I found the idea of self-assessment irresistible. Could I commit another murder when there was no impairment to my conscious state? I tried to think of it as a scientific matter though I did not deceive myself into believing that it was entirely experimental. I longed to see blood pulsing as it spurted from a wound wrought by my knife. To watch red-black pools leech from marble skin and settle in puddles on the ground. A work of art - my creation. So, I waited on the street corner and before long, one of those women, the working kind, came weaving down the road. She couldn’t walk in a straight line.

  I stepped out of the shadows and into her path, then took off my hat and allowed her full view of my face. It was a purposeful act and meant no turning back. She greeted me and offered to perform an act of the most revolting nature. Naturally, I accepted, having no intention of committing it. I followed her into a small yard, bathed in darkness. She made towards the rear, but I steered her into a recess between the yard steps and the fence. There was just enough light for me to work, but not enough for anyone to see me.

  She was not afraid. When I stood behind her and reached for her chin, she did not suffer as my knife sliced cleanly through her throat from left to right. I am not a cruel man. I have never caused them alarm whether in my conscious or unconscious state. I have always tried to make the end quick and painless.

  The woman was dead before I placed her on the floor. I positioned her, with legs drawn up and knees turned out, so I could gaze at the expanse of flesh beneath her clothes. Her abdomen was pale and swollen. I visualised where her organs might lay beneath the skin. Then, by the light of the pale moon, I plunged my knife into the side of her stomach. It slipped through her abdominal wall, and her intestines spilt through the hole. I pulled them out, and they slid through my fingers like slippery eels as I placed them over her shoulder and out of my way. I thought about taking a kidney but decided upon her uterus which I removed from her pelvis without difficulty. I placed it in my palm and held it towards a shaft of light from a nearby window. It lay there glistening, warm and wet in my hand. I marvelled at its beauty. It was round and fat and bloody with the appendages still intact - and it was mine. I decided to keep it and wrapped it in a piece of oilskin cloth which I had in my pocket. It felt warm against my trouser leg.

  I returned my gaze to the body before me. What remained of the stomach was flat and empty and held no further interest. So, I left.

  September was a busy month. The urge came upon me once again. I pretended to fight against it, to satisfy my conscience, but there didn’t seem to be any consequences to my actions. On the last day of September, I gave in to my baser instincts.

  My first attempt was frustrating though it should have been perfect. I did not lose one single minute to somnambulistic automation. My deeds were all within my control. I had expected to lapse at some stage having experienced many blank moments that month, and not only for short periods. Several severe losses of consciousness had occurred throughout the proceeding weeks. I found it surprising that my friends did not notice. At the start of the year, they had monitored my every move. The trusted three watched me constantly, and I was rarely left alone. I can only assume that they thought my indiscretions were over. Remarkably, they did not associate the attacks on Ada Wilson and Annie Millwood with the more recent Whitechapel crimes. There was no reason why they should. The police had not connected them either. My friends discussed the Ripper crimes openly, suggesting they were the work of a monster. It was not for me to disabuse them. They would no doubt try to stop me if they knew. And I had no intention of stopping. Not yet.

  In the early hours of the 30th of September, I selected a suitable victim. We walked together to a godforsaken yard off Berner Street where I struck. I pulled her head back using her checked scarf. It was a mistake. Seconds before my blade sliced through her vocal cords she cried out. Only once, but the sound shattered the still of the night air, and I heard the sound of heavy steps. I flattened myself against the wall as three men raced towards the yard. My heart was beating through my chest. I whispered silent prayers to the God responsible for my affliction, hoping he would not let me slip into an automative state, where I was vulnerable to detection.

  One of the men saw the body and shouted to his friends in a language I did not know. Then they ran in separate directions, calling for the police. I took this opportunity to slink away, and I picked through the alleys and walkways until I was a long way from Berner Street. I loitered in front of Aldgate Station and contemplated returning home. Except I didn’t want to. I couldn’t. Cutting a throat wasn’t enough. It was worse than having done nothing at all. It was like inhaling a full-bodied port, without taking so much as a sip.

  Sweat trickled down my temples to the throb of a headache. I smelled blood, and I lusted for it. I could have, should have taken the train back west. But I had a job to finish, and I continued past the station, down Aldgate High Street and towards St Katherine Cree Church.

  The sign for Mitre Street was near the church and just beyond it a woman leaned against the corner of Mitre Square. She was waiting for someone, waiting for me, as it turned out. The woman wore a black dress, a red scarf and a black bonnet. It struck me as wholly appropriate that the slick of scarlet silk would soon glow a bloodier red. As I walked towards her, a crowd of men strolled down the road. Their presence was off-putting and might have discouraged me had she not called out in a sing-song cockney accent, “Hello me old cock.”

  I turned away from the approaching men, stopped and tipped my hat, keeping my face out of sight. I was not wearing my usual head attire, but a felt flat cap I happened upon which was eminently suitable for my visits to the East End. I exchanged a few words with the woman, and she laughed, wholly confident in her safety. The papers were rife with horror stories about the London Ripper, but not one of my victims took a modicum of care. They were reckless and thought themselves invincible. Or their need for gin was more important than their need for self-preservation. Either way, it was of no concern to me.

  The woman laughed as she placed her hand upon my chest and whispered in my ear. She made the usual proposition, and though I had no inclination for her offer, she was not unattractive. The idea did not turn my stomach inside out. I followed her into the dark square, keeping my head turned away. She reached behind and grabbed my hand. I became unbalanced and found myself looking directly into the faces of the men who, by now, were standing only a few yards away.

  Two of them ignored me, but the third stared into my eyes. His pupils bore into mine, and after a few seconds he snatched his gaze away, put his hands in his pockets and continued walking, head bowed. I knew that he would remember me. He had seen something in my eyes - something that caused concern. Somehow, he knew me for what I was, and he was afraid. It was one thing letting the women see my face, but quite another to leave witnesses. And at that moment, a wave of anger rose within me, the like of which I have never felt before or since. I put my hand upon her shoulder and pushed her further into Mitre Square. “Steady on,” she said, “show a little patience.”

  I showed neither patience nor pity. I sliced her neck left to right, nicki
ng her ear lobe as I slashed a deep wound into her throat. It was a quicker end than she deserved for making me visible. Then I set to work on the body. I wanted a kidney this time, and nothing else would do. I removed it, tossing the intestines over her shoulder, trying to quell the anger but it never left me. Her face was serene above her mutilated corpse. It was the 29th of September when I set out on my murderous mission - Michaelmas Day. St Michael the archangel defeated the antichrist and transported all souls to heaven. Well, he could have this soul once my knife had prepared her. I carved two chevrons in her cheeks, nicked her lower eyelids and took away the tip of her nose. Better, but not good enough. I finished with a cut to the bridge of her nose and removed a large part of her womb. No longer in tranquil repose, she lay savaged and torn. God forgive me, but I felt better for it. Once I imagined myself a good man, worthy of St Michael. What was I now? A human devil? A cohort of Satan? Or a psychopath? The latter was a better fit. A condition of the mind brought on by my illness. An excuse for slayings beyond my control.

  I had my fill for the evening and left her lying empty on the floor. I had taken a long time. The longest yet, and I felt calm and in control until I looked at my hands. They were wet with blood — a careless mistake. I had worn thin gloves on every prior occasion, but anger had made me thoughtless. I ripped a piece of an apron from the otherwise useless body and wiped the worst of the blood from my hands. But nothing short of water could remove the bloodstain. I couldn't use the main roads and risk detection, so I wandered through the back streets of Whitechapel until I found a trough in Goulston Street with enough water to clean off the worst of the blood. I wiped wet hands on my coat and dropped the apron to the floor. It fell on a piece of chalk stone which inspired me to mischief. The men I saw earlier had spoken a language I did not comprehend but was most likely Yiddish. The police would be out in full force looking for their killer, and the men had seen me. A little clue might divert them. I grasped the chalk and using lower class colloquial language, I wrote an ambiguous and meaningless message. ‘The Juwes are not the men to be blamed for nothing.’ Then, I made my way back home. It was dark and quiet. Quite different to usual. The metropolis of London fizzed with energy. It was full of people, full of noise and disease and poverty and wealth - busy, always busy. Except at night. It never ceased to amaze me how easy it was to glide through the city undisturbed. I arrived home, satisfied and replete. In the early hours of the morning, I unlocked the door to my home, went inside and walked to my study where I unwrapped the oilskin from its home in my pocket. I placed the kidney in a jar next to the preserved uterus for my future enjoyment.