The Ripper Deception

by Jacqueline Beard

  “I suppose not,” said Violet, uncertainly. “Although I am a Christian, yet I could never believe in spirits or apparitions. It does not make logical sense.”

  “We are of the same mind, then,” smiled Alice Woodward. "Nothing will convince me that this is anything other than a prank. But it is useful that we are in the hands of reputable investigators. They have already carried out a lot of work on the effects of shared hallucinations. There will be a rational explanation for the disturbances in this rectory, I am certain.”

  “What have you told the Reverend about me?”

  “Oh, he thinks you are an old school friend from Little Walsingham, the village I grew up in.”

  “That is ideal,” smiled Violet. “I lived in Norfolk for many years myself. I know the area well.”

  “Isn’t that marvellous.” Alice Woodward’s eyes sparkled. ”I could hardly have planned it better. Now, let me tell you about the household. There are only a few suspects to consider. The Reverend and I rattle around the property alone. We have no children, and the house is, for the most, quiet. Anne Durrell is our cook and Kate Harris, our housemaid. A gardener by the name of John Daldy comes from the village most days. Finally, there is Frederick - Frederick Lucas. He is our odd job boy and turns up here only when asked. It is Frederick who has raised the most suspicion as far as I am concerned. He is a typical young boy, always up to mischief and without much in the way of a conscience. It will not surprise me in the least if he has some part in this. You should speak to him as soon as possible.”

  Violet was busy scribbling in her notepad while Alice spoke.

  “I will,” she said. “I will speak to everyone.”

  “But covertly,” Alice warned, “the Reverend must not know.”

  Violet nodded and replaced the notebook in her bag.

  “Come,” said Alice, rising to her feet. “Let me introduce you to my husband.”

  They walked the short distance to Saint Andrews parish church, chatting as they meandered through the graveyard. The church, set in a tranquil location, was unexpectedly full of people and was anything but quiet. Two workmen sawed panels of wood on a large bench outside the porch, scattering flecks of sawdust over the grass. Another group of workers were sitting cross-legged by the corner of the tower and drinking from wooden cups. Clad only in shirt sleeves, their jackets lay in a jumbled heap on the ground. Violet shivered. It was February and not at all warm.

  “Good day, Ma’am,” said the older carpenter as Violet and Alice approached the church.

  Alice smiled and nodded, then opened the porch door and went inside.

  The Reverend George Woodward was halfway up a ladder, pointing to the roof over the chancel. An auburn-haired man, who Violet took to be a carpenter, was stroking his chin and nodding.

  “Is it still leaking, dear?” asked Alice as she approached them.

  “Yes,” sighed the Reverend, as he dismounted from his ladder.

  “George, this is Violet, the old school friend I was telling you about.” Alice Woodward smiled as she made the introduction.

  “Delighted to meet you.” The Reverend thrust his hand towards Violet and shook hers firmly. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  “I did,” said Violet, gazing towards the font. “Your church is lovely.”

  “It’s in a beautiful location,” said the Reverend, “but it's terribly run down. We have finally raised enough money to replace the chancel. And it won’t be long before our new oak communion rails, and choir stalls arrive. Such kind gentlemen, such generosity.”

  He did not elaborate on who had displayed the generosity, but his enthusiasm was infectious.

  “Now,” he said, “give me a moment to talk to Mr Andrews. He pointed at a middle-aged man seated on the front pew. I must schedule bell-ringing practice.

  Reverend Woodward strode towards the altar and conveyed his message. He returned to the ladies and checked the time on his fob watch. “Ah, Mr Podmore is due to arrive shortly. You will know about our ghost,” he continued as if it was an everyday occurrence.

  Violet nodded, mindful not to reveal too much to the Reverend.

  “We should go,” he said, waving them towards the porch.

  They walked the short distance back to the Rectory, while the Reverend regaled them with stories about the church repairs. There had been some disagreement between the different groups of workers, which had ended in fisticuffs the previous day. The Reverend had separated the warring carpenters and given them a good dressing down. All was well today, and they were cooperating again.

  By the time they reached the Rectory, Frank Podmore had arrived. The housemaid was waiting by the driveway to tell them that she had directed him to the sitting room. Alice Woodward asked for tea and cake, then joined the Rector to meet their guest.

  “Welcome,” said the Reverend offering his hand. Frank Podmore stood to greet him.

  Podmore was a slight man with a full head of hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “My coach arrived early,” he said in a softly spoken voice.

  “You are very welcome, Mr Podmore, very welcome indeed,” said the Reverend. “This nuisance has gone on long enough. Will you be staying long?”

  “Two days should be enough,” said Podmore. “My colleague, Arthur Myers, will be joining us. He is travelling up from London on Friday evening and will help with the investigation. I hope this fits in with your plans.”

  “Admirably,” said The Reverend.

  Alice Woodward stayed long enough to greet their guest and supervise the tea. Then she made her excuses. “Please carry on,” she said politely, before turning to Violet. “We have a few errands to run.”

  Violet took the hint and joined her.

  “I’m sure you don’t want to hear lots of scientific mumbo-jumbo,” said Alice. “It’s better to leave them to it.”

  “Thank you,” said Violet. “I ought to make a start on my investigation. I’ll begin in the kitchen if you don't mind.”

  From the moment she opened her mouth to greet Violet, there was no mistaking where the Woodward’s cook came from. Her accent was a warm north Norfolk burr of the kind Alice Woodward might have possessed, had she enjoyed a less privileged upbringing. Anne Durrell was a large woman, not only overweight but bordering on obese. Violet had entered the kitchen to find Anne chopping fat into a bowl of flour, oblivious to Violet’s presence. Violet coughed, and Anne visibly jumped. “My heart alive, who are you?” she asked.

  Violet apologised. “I am sorry to have disturbed you," she said. "My name is Violet Smith. I'm a friend of Mrs Woodward.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Anne, nodding her head. “She said you would be arriving today. We don’t often get visitors in the kitchen, though. It quite threw me.”

  Violet wondered what to say. It had not occurred to her to concoct a story for the benefit of the domestics, but Anne was right. It wasn't the done thing to go wandering into a kitchen and start questioning the staff without explanation. She chewed her lip. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but Mrs Woodward told me about your ghost, and I'm a little afraid. I don’t want to worry her with my silly fears, but it's an unusual situation. I wondered if you might tell me what has been happening and what I can expect to see.”

  Anne Durrell listened while she chopped fat into a bowl of flour. She worked chaotically with clouds of flour billowing from the bowl onto her plump arms. “It’s something and nothing,” she said. “I hear strange knockings and slamming, mostly after nightfall, but I have never seen anything odd. The house is noisy, that’s for sure, but it doesn’t frighten me. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, I thought it would be much worse when I heard that a man was coming to investigate. It sounded very frightening. He has already arrived.”

  “He’s not the first one,” said the cook. “Another man looked into it a few months ago. The disturbances have been going on for quite a while, you see. They are annoying, but that is all. It is much worse for the Reverend. Th
e ghost troubles him more than anyone.”

  “Mrs Woodward doesn’t seem worried about it,” said Violet.

  “She is very practical,” said the cook. “She would need a lot of convincing.”

  “Do you believe in it?”

  “No. There are no such things as ghosts. I cannot deny the noises and disturbances, though.” Anne Durrell slopped water into the flour mix as spoke, moulding it into a large ball of dough. She slapped it on the kitchen table, brandished a rolling pin and began to roll it out.

  “Could it be trickery?” Violet asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone playing a practical joke, perhaps?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a thought.”

  Anne placed the rolled-out pastry over a pie tin. “I cannot see how,” she said. “As I told you, most of the disturbances are at night. There are only a few of us in the household. The Reverend and Mrs Woodward sleep in the big room and Kate and I have a small room each in the west wing. It is not one of us, I can assure you.”

  “But if it's not trickery, then it must be a spirit?”

  “No. There must be some other explanation.”

  Anne spooned a red mixture into the pie dish from a large stone jar. She was about to speak again when the door opened. A young woman wearing a black dress and white apron rushed in.

  “The cat has been sick in the parlour,” she said. “Where is the floor cloth? I must get it up before Mrs Woodward sees it. She got quite cross with poor Monty last time.”

  The cook gestured toward the sink. The housemaid lifted a gingham curtain, pulled out an old rag and dropped it into a wooden pail by the door.

  “This is Miss Smith,” said the cook, pointing to Violet. “She was asking about the ghost. I have told her I do not believe in it.”

  Kate stopped what she was doing and grabbed the soggy rag. Water trickled through her fingers. “Think what you like,” she said looking at Anne. She turned to Violet. “You make up your own mind, Miss, once you’ve stayed here a night or two. There is a ghost for sure. I saw it again yesterday.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Suspicions of Mr Smith

  Thursday 12th February 1891

  Lawrence woke with a start and rubbed his eyes. An unfamiliar noise like a fog horn sounded outside his window. Bleary-eyed, he reached for his watch and found it on the bedside cabinet. He flicked open the cover - half past nine. Lawrence leapt out of bed, muttering beneath his breath. He had intended to wake long before this. The girl in reception would soon be getting a piece of his mind. Then he remembered. He was going to ask for an early morning wake-up call but nodded off while reading the newspaper in front of the coffee room fire. Later, to his embarrassment, a waiter gently roused him by shaking his shoulder. He had retired to bed immediately.

  Lawrence flung open the curtains to reveal the source of the noise. A large passenger vessel was manoeuvring past a row of fishing boats. The horn sounded every few minutes, warning of potential danger ahead. Lawrence sighed again. The seaside was supposed to be peaceful, but it was as noisy as Bury Saint Edmunds on market day. Lawrence washed, dressed and coated his damaged left hand in Atkinson’s cold cream which he applied from a white stone jar. Then, he placed his ever-present tan glove over the offending hand. Grabbing his coat and hat from the armchair he had draped them on the night before, Lawrence walked downstairs to the entrance hall.

  Nora Knight was standing behind the reception desk, as she had been the previous morning and later the same evening.

  “Don’t you ever get a day off?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” she replied, “though it feels like a long time since I have.” She smiled at Lawrence. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but the arrival of a young man interrupted him.

  “Telegram, Miss,” he said.

  Nora thanked him and glanced at the missive. She pressed three times on the reception bell, and a smartly dressed porter appeared. “Please give this to Miss Crosby,” she asked.

  Lawrence was pretending to examine a grandfather clock set beneath a high arched window in the foyer. He waited for Nora to finish her task, but she had already noticed that he was loitering. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Only if you know anything else about the death of Edmund Gurney,” he replied.

  “I told you all about it yesterday”.

  “I know,” sighed Lawrence. “I hoped there would be more. I am investigating a case which may or may not be connected to his death, but I am running out of reasons to stay.”

  “Are you a detective?” Nora’s eyes widened.

  “I am a private detective,” said Lawrence.

  “How marvellous. What are you investigating?”

  “I'm not entirely sure,” said Lawrence, frankly. “It may all be a huge waste of time.”

  “Perhaps not. I've told you everything I know about Mr Gurney, but if you need more information for your case, I know a man who can help. And he just happens to be back in Brighton for the week.”

  "Really?" Lawrence watched the pretty girl with renewed interest. Her face lit up, and she seemed keen to assist.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “The man's name is Mr Smith. He moved away from Brighton, but he is back again. I used to watch him on the stage when he lived here. He was one of the greatest performers I have ever seen.”

  “Was he a musician or an actor?”

  Nora laughed. “Neither. He was a hypnotist. He used to get up on stage and put his partner in a trance. Then he would ask his partner to describe things that couldn’t be seen.”

  Lawrence raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m not explaining myself very well,” said Nora. “A few years ago, I walked out with a young man called Henry. He was keen on stage shows and often took me to music halls and theatres. Mr Smith and Mr Blackburn were a double act. Mr Smith would blindfold Mr Blackburn, then hide something in the theatre. Mr Blackburn always found it, even though he didn’t know where it had been put. The hypnotic trance caused him to think that he had second sight.”

  “Right,” said Lawrence, doubtfully. “But what has that got to do with Edmund Gurney?”

  “A great deal,” said Nora, crossing her arms and leaning forward over the reception counter. “You see, Mr Smith was Mr Gurneys’ private secretary. And not only that,” she continued, “but they carried out a lot of experiments together for their Society.”

  “Did they, now.” Lawrence was alert and interested. “And where can I find Mr Smith?”

  "He will be in Saint Anne’s Well gardens," said Nora. "He has business there.”

  “Do you think he will talk to me,” mused Lawrence.

  “Oh, I am sure he will. He is a very nice man, friendly and not at all self-important. He signed a place card for me last year when I saw him at the Aquarium. I didn’t like to trouble him myself, but Henry walked right up and asked if he could sign it and he did not hesitate. Anyway, he turned up at the hotel a few days ago, and I asked after his health. We chatted for a while and he said he had been in Kent for the last few months. He has booked his hotel room until the end of the week, so it looks like you are in luck.”

  “That's very helpful," said Lawrence, "I am grateful. “Just one more thing before I go. Do you keep a record of hotel visitors?"

  “Of course,” said Nora. “There's a guest register over there.” She gestured toward the right side of the counter. “Who are you looking for?”

  Lawrence had no opportunity to reply before a waitress bustled into the hallway. She mouthed something at Nora that Lawrence couldn't interpret.

  “I'll be back in a minute,” said Nora.

  Lawrence sidled over to the reception desk. Two large day books lay stacked beside by the bell. He opened the first. It was a register of guests, with space to record names, addresses and comments. It was new, and only the first two pages had been written on. He opened a second book and found a similar register - this time o
lder and crammed to capacity. Lawrence scanned the first page. The date was 1884. Good. He licked his finger and leafed through until he reached the entries for June 1886. Edmund Gurney had died on the 22nd or 23rd of June. Lawrence located the relevant page and reached in his breast pocket for his fountain pen. It was not there. He patted his coat and trouser pockets, searching in vain for a writing tool. He checked behind the counter - nothing. Lawrence sighed, irritated at his inability to locate a pen on a desk, of all places. He was not prepared to waste the opportunity to glean more information and stole a furtive glance around the lobby. There was nobody in sight, so Lawrence ripped out the page, folded it in two and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

  The momentary pang of guilt he suffered, did not prevent his mouth creasing into a smile. Something felt different - a glimmer of hope, perhaps. The thought of going back to Bury Saint Edmunds with his tail between his legs, having followed another false trail, was behind him for the moment. Lawrence felt motivated again and determined to pursue the investigation with renewed vigour. Stopping only to ask a passer-by for directions, he set off towards Saint Anne’s Well gardens.

  Lawrence was ten minutes into his walk when it dawned on him that he was re-tracing yesterday's route. He realised that he must be close to Montpellier Street, judging it only a short distance away. If he walked to St Anne's Well gardens as the crow flies, he would miss the opportunity to see the house Sybil Jones had pointed out the previous day. A glimpse of Ruth's home might give him an insight into how she had lived.

  He found his way to Montpellier Street and searched for Number 41. It was a handsome white rendered property almost identical to Sybil’s house. Only the bay window surrounds were different, with the ones on Ruth's side painted black. Other than that, the two houses seemed the same shape and size and likely had similar interiors. Lawrence slowed his pace and loitered outside, pretending to check his watch. He saw no signs of life in the property, and, standing on tiptoes, he peered inside.