The Ripper Deception

by Jacqueline Beard

  “I do not know. She would not let me in. She put her hand through the door and paid the money when I asked her for it. But she refused to tell me her name, and she did not want to make my acquaintance. As long as she paid her rent, I did not care. Is that everything?”

  Theresa Welton smiled apologetically. “Come now, Auntie. Let’s get you back to your room. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Feel free to carry on,” she said over her shoulder as she closed the door behind them.

  Lawrence was closest to the door. He pushed it open using the highly polished brass finger plate set incongruously above the broken hasp. Lawrence walked inside and peered through the gloom. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed.

  The deceased woman lay on top of the bed in a room best described as squalid. The bedroom was sizeable which made the absence of furniture more incongruous. Except for the wooden bedstead and one small trestle table upon which a spirit lamp stood, the room was devoid of furnishings. A tiled fireplace surrounded an empty, unlit fire which had not been in use for many months. Five photographs, faded to the point of anonymity, were perched on top of the mantlepiece. The room was malodorous, smelling of destitution and decay.

  The woman, confirmed by Edith as Miss Moss, lay directly on a stained mattress. A dirty, threadbare blanket covered her from feet to midriff, and her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Inspector Fernleigh leaned over the body and tried to prise her hands apart. Her fingers were rigid and cold.

  “She’s been dead for some time,” he said unnecessarily. All three men had a wealth of experience when it came to death and were familiar with the effects of rigor mortis.

  PC Shalders walked towards the window. Heavy curtains blocked the daylight from the half of the room not illuminated by the open door. He pulled them apart and heaved the window open. It was winter, but no less cold outside than in the unheated room they now occupied. Letting the outside in might, at least, dispel the unpleasant smell, he thought.

  “Hello, what’s all this?” Shalders stubbed his toe against a row of boxes stacked beneath the window. He rubbed one of the dusty labels. It read “London & County Banking Company.”

  “Have you ever seen such a miserable room?” Lawrence exclaimed. “How did she live? There are no candles, no matches. What an awful existence.”

  “Worse than I have ever seen,” said Shalders. “Including the East End of London where the poverty is almost unimaginable.”

  “Foul.” Inspector Fernleigh curled his lip as he spoke. He had opened a canister by the spirit lamp while Shalders was talking and found a mouldy piece of cheese and two rotting chops. The inspector shoved the lid back on and prodded at a lump of bread in a nearby basket.

  “Stale,” he grimaced.

  “She does not seem emaciated,” said Lawrence looking at the body. The woman was pallid, but her cheeks were not sunken nor did her arms appear spindly.

  “That's because she’s wearing several sets of clothes.” Inspector Fernleigh had joined Lawrence near the body and lifted the blanket. "It must be how she kept herself warm."

  "How unpleasant," said Lawrence. "Two layers of clothes wouldn't offer much protection against the freezing winter temperatures. Poverty is deplorable,” he continued, shaking his head. “What terrible conditions this poor woman endured."

  “She wasn’t poor,” said Shalders. “Quite the opposite.” While the other two men were inspecting the body, Shalders had opened one of the boxes. “Look at this," he said. "This box is full of financial paperwork. Consols, whatever they are, and dividends. There’s even a handkerchief full of coins in here. Well over two pounds in small change.”

  “Consolidated stocks,” said Fernleigh moving towards the window. He picked up a handful of documents and rifled through. “You are right. She wasn’t poor. I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” he continued. “Miss Moss was a miser.”

  “Awful way to live,” said Lawrence gruffly. He was pacing the room and trying to avoid looking at the dead body. Like the decaying food, it was imparting an unpleasant smell. He suspected that Miss Moss had avoided bathing in the same way she had avoided the rest of life’s necessities.

  He stopped by the fireplace and examined the chimney breast. A framed sampler hung from the wall.

  "Curious," he said aloud. The other two men ignored him. They were still discussing the contents of the box and left Lawrence to his musings.

  He peered at the discoloured glass again. Its presence was at odds with the rest of the room which was sparse and ill-kept. The dead woman had not spent a penny if she could avoid it. She did not waste money on necessities, never mind trinkets. Even the faces in the row of photographs across the mantle looked more like the dead than the living. Why would she bother to hang a sampler?

  Lawrence reached into his pocket and located his handkerchief. He unhooked the sampler from the wall and cleaned the dirty glass.

  “Physical comforts serve me ill, in Purgatory by God’s own will, relinquish chattels, give me peace, ease my conscience, make it cease.”

  Shalders and Fernleigh stopped what they were doing. “What did you say?” asked Fernleigh.

  Lawrence re-read the verse.

  “What do you suppose that means?” asked Shalders.

  “It seems like she has deliberately chosen to live this way. She has settled on this half-life, not by necessity, but by inclination.” Lawrence stroked his chin as he considered the implications.

  “She’s probably religious,” said Fernleigh, “and has renounced her worldly possessions.”

  “Except she hasn’t, sir, has she?” said Shalders who had resumed his inspection of the boxes.

  “I don’t follow,” said Fernleigh.

  “She is still using the money,” said Shalders. “I don’t know much about stocks and shares, but she has cashed in some of her assets, and some are current. She still has access to a lot of money and uses it when she needs to. I wonder if Mrs Jones knows any more about it?”

  “What are you talking about?” Inspector Fernleigh was tiring of the squalid room now. It was evident that the woman had died a natural death — not much reason for them to be there at all.

  “Mrs Sybil Jones,” said Shalders brandishing an envelope. He passed it to the Inspector.

  “I see,” said Fernleigh. He scrutinised the letter. “It's from Mrs Sybil Jones of Montpellier Street, Brighton to Miss Ruth Moss of Chelmsford. Good. We now have confirmation of her name. The girl was right about that, at least. There's something else in the envelope — a clipping of The Royal Albion Hotel in Brighton. ‘There's a room number on the reverse. 'Number 27’.”

  Lawrence reached for the envelope. “Now, what’s all that about?” he mused.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Fernleigh. “There will be an inquest, of course, but regardless of her lifestyle, this woman died naturally. There is no need to spend any more time on it.”

  “The circumstances feel wrong,” said Lawrence. “The sampler is out of kilter with the rest of the room. It does not fit. We are missing something.”

  “But no crime has taken place here, Lawrence,” said Fernleigh. “I cannot justify an investigation. We are hard pressed in the force, and there are never enough resources.”

  “Then let me look into it,” said Lawrence.

  “Look at what, though?”

  “Let me check into the background of Miss Moss and find out why she sacrificed a life of comfort for this. If it turns out that she is religious or a little senile, I will drop it at once. I could go to Brighton and speak to Sybil Jones, and while I am there, I can find out the significance of Room 27.”

  "I would rather you didn't."

  "What harm can it do?"

  Fernleigh considered the matter. "Very well,” he said. It was a pointless task, but it might be beneficial to Lawrence, and it provided an excuse for keeping in contact, which had to be a good thing. “Three days only, Lawrence. I will not be able to authorise any longer than that.”

  “Three day
s is all I need.” Lawrence smiled and shook Fernleigh's hand. An investigation that interested him was just what he needed. Lawrence left the dismal room with renewed purpose.

  Tuesday 10th February 1891 - Evening

  “What do you mean you are going to Brighton? You’ve only just got back.” Violet Smith was sitting behind a sturdy oak desk in the offices of Harpham & Smith. She was holding an ink pen which had leaked. Indigo ink pooled across the ledger which rested on her blotting pad and occupied most of her desk.

  “It’s a new case,” said Lawrence, “and an interesting one.”

  “But you know we’re supposed to be going to Chelmondiston in two days. Will you be back in time?”

  “No, of course not. Can’t Chelmondiston wait?”

  Violet pushed back a curl of hair with an inky finger. “No, the psychic researcher arrives on Thursday. It really won’t do, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence sighed. “Remind me of the purpose of this Chelmondiston case?” he asked.

  “The haunting,” said Violet, “except it isn’t really a haunting. It can’t be. That’s why the Woodward’s have asked for our help. We’re going to find out who’s been playing silly tricks on the household. At least that's what Mrs Woodward wants. The Reverend is taking it seriously. He thinks there is a ghost and has arranged for a member of The Society for Psychical Research to investigate. It’s all set for two days’ time.”

  “Well, it sounds ridiculous,” said Lawrence. “How much are they paying us for this nonsense?”

  “How much is Inspector Fernleigh paying you?” Violet retorted.

  Lawrence pursed his lips and turned away. He did not know how much, if anything, he would receive for his trouble. And he wasn’t going to tell Violet that curiosity had got the better of his financial interests, yet again.

  “Can’t you delay the Brighton job?” asked Violet. “You may not approve of the Chelmondiston investigation, but Mrs Woodward has agreed to pay our fees immediately. The rent is due next week, and we need the money.”

  “Not possible,” said Lawrence. “I have only got three days to investigate. I must go tomorrow. There is no choice.”

  “What am I supposed to say to Mrs Woodward?”

  “Nothing,” said Lawrence. “You can go to Chelmondiston, and I will go to Brighton.”

  “And who will mind the shop?”

  “Who would have minded it if we had both gone ghost-hunting?”

  “I was going to ask Annie,” said Violet.

  “Annie Hutchinson? The girl who cleans the office? Do you think she’s up to it?”

  “She’s very bright,” said Violet. “All she has to do is take messages if someone calls.”

  “Doesn’t she have other cleaning jobs to go to?”

  “Yes, but her sister Mary Ann Bird is living with them while her husband is in London. She will help out when Annie is busy.”

  “You seem to have it all in hand,” said Lawrence. “There shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Lawrence, you aren’t listening.” Violet slammed her pen onto the blotting pad. It bounced across the desk leaving a spatter of ink.

  “What on earth is wrong, Violet?” Lawrence put his paper down and stared at her. A red flush had settled across her cheeks, and she pursed her lips angrily. “Sorry, but I don’t understand why this plan causes a problem.”

  Violet paused. She was trying not to cry and trying equally hard not to slap him. “You have been a private detective for years,” she said. “I was still a lady’s companion this time last year. Investigating is new to me. I have never taken a case of my own before.”

  “Oh, I see.” Lawrence’s gaze softened. He nodded. “I’m sorry, I did not think. Of course, this is still very new to you. But you know a great deal more about the haunting case than I do, and you are good with people and a sound judge of character. One solves this type of case by asking questions. It's a matter of talking to people and establishing whether their answers are truthful. It is an ideal first case.”

  “But what if they won’t talk freely, or if I cannot tell when they are lying?”

  “Then Mrs Woodward is no worse off than she was before. But you will get them to talk. You excel at gaining confidences.”

  Violet sighed. “I suppose so,” she said. “Very well. I will go to Chelmondiston, and you can pursue the Brighton case if you must. When will you be back?”

  “Two or three days, at the most,” said Lawrence. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. Good luck on your first solo case.” Lawrence beamed, and Violet returned a weak smile. The scenario was not what she had envisaged when they opened Harpham and Smith Investigators nine short months ago. For the first time since they began working together, she wondered whether there was any longevity in the partnership.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brighton Revisited

  Wednesday 11th February 1891

  Lawrence arrived at Brighton Railway station feeling tired and irritable. He had underestimated the amount of travelling time involved and failed to consider the early hour he would need to rise. Fatigue had set in, and his stomach was empty. He had given a passing thought to food when he left his rooms at cock-crow and grabbed a piece of fruit of indeterminable age which he thrust into his pocket. He later supplemented it with a bread roll bought from a stall outside the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Headquarters. Hungry and tired, he was beginning to wish he had joined Violet on her Suffolk investigation.

  Lawrence hailed a cab from the station and soon arrived outside The Royal Albion Hotel in Brighton. It was a handsome building positioned close to the sea. The rear of the Hotel overlooked the coast and a broad road passed between it and the aquarium directly opposite. A further open area to the front of the porch provided a pleasant outlook. Lawrence inhaled the sea air and began to relax. He paid the cabman, collected his case and sauntered into the hotel to find a woman standing on a chair in the foyer.

  Nora Knight was slight in build and a shade over five foot tall. As Lawrence entered the reception area, he watched her stand on tiptoes, trying in vain to reach a paper dart. The missile protruded from the top of a tall cabinet filled with pigeon holes. Keys and messages were sparsely scattered inside, with many compartments empty, indicative of the slow winter season.

  “Can I help you reach that?” Lawrence asked.

  Nora wobbled precariously on the chair as she turned to face him. “Sorry sir,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt as she steadied herself before getting down. “What must you think of me?" she continued.

  “I can reach it if you like,” offered Lawrence.

  “No thank you, sir,” she said. “I’ll be in enough trouble if old angry wasp sees it up there. Miss Crosby, I mean. Thomas and I were larking around, and it got stuck. Still, she won’t know who it was, will she? Can we start again?” Nora flashed a broad smile. “How can I help you, sir,” she asked.

  “I need a room for two nights,” said Lawrence.

  “Of course,” Nora replied. “You can have your choice. It is out of Season, and we are half empty. What floor would you like?”

  “It's not so much a matter of what floor I'm on,” said Lawrence, “but I would particularly like Room 27.”

  “That's impossible,” said Nora, biting her lip. “I would have let you have it, but someone has already taken Room 27.”

  “I see.” Lawrence steepled his hands while Nora tried to ignore the disconcerting sight of one gloved hand and the other bare.

  “Why do you want Room 27, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Lawrence debated whether to evoke her sympathy by making up a story. A sad story, about a beloved aunt who had a particular penchant for Room 27. A sadly deceased beloved aunt who liked nothing more than to watch the ocean from the window of the aforesaid room. But what if Room 27 faced away from the sea? He settled on the truth instead. “Something happened in Room 27 a few years ago. I don't suppose you happen to know what it was?”

  “Oh, but I do,” s
aid Nora. “I remember very well. My friend, Milly, found him.”

  Lawrence set down his suitcase in Room 23, which was the nearest he could get to Room 27. He peered out of the window and considered the information given by Nora. The young woman appeared remarkably well-informed about the death of Edmund Gurney. She had been a close friend of the girl who found him. The sight of a dead guest had so upset her friend, Millicent, that she fled the hotel in search of Nora. A dutiful friend, Nora had offered comfort and consolation before escorting Milly home. Her obligations fulfilled, she had returned to the Hotel and joined the deputy Manager and Manageress. Between them, they relocated the body to a downstairs room where it was discretely collected by the Coroner’s staff later that day. Nora's next half day fell on the day of the inquest. Being something of an inquisitive girl, she decided to attend. She was not called to give evidence but was keen to find out more about the deceased guest and how inquests worked.

  Nora had a good memory and recounted the story to Lawrence in detail. The dead man was Edmund Gurney, and he had been a talented musician and philosopher. When Nora mentioned that Gurney had been a founder member of the Society for Psychical Research, Lawrence raised an eyebrow. By unexpected coincidence, Violet was also working with the SPR in Chelmondiston.

  According to Nora, Gurney's death was unusual. He had suffered from neuralgia and was in the habit of self-medicating. On the night of his death, he had strapped a mask to his face, inhaled a substance believed to be chloroform and had consequently overdosed. The hotel staff contacted one of his colleagues who later gave evidence at the inquest. The man, a doctor, had confirmed Gurneys’ use of opiates for pain relief and the Coroner ruled his death accidental. And that had been the end of it, as far as the authorities were concerned.

  Having established the basic facts, Lawrence grilled Nora at length about the details. She seemed happy to talk and held nothing back. Gurney, she said, hadn't registered at reception and it had been the devil of a job to find out who he was. There was no identification on his body, but a later search produced an undelivered letter written on SPR headed paper. Names of the primary committee members were printed across the top of the letter. After a little investigation, they tracked down Doctor Myers and summoned him to the Hotel. Myers identified the body and organised its removal to London.