The Ripper Deception

by Jacqueline Beard

  As he had anticipated, the living room was at the front of the house. It was a long, thin room with an unremarkable fireplace. The decor was drab, utilitarian and unwelcoming. Heavy drapes masked the large bay window, leaving it cloaked in shadow. Lawrence strained to see beyond the front room, but the poor light impeded his view. Even so, he could see enough to form an opinion. Despite the daylight, the room was sombre, and it was evident from the tired looking wallpaper and faded carpet, that the house was in need of redecoration. He must be seeing the room as it was in Ruth's time. The tired building could have been warm and welcoming, like Sybil's house. It had the potential.

  Lawrence imagined how Ruth must have felt living alone in this large, soulless house. He thought of her cowering in a locked room, frightened in fear of her sinister guest. The experience must have been unnerving. If Sybil Jones was right, it was understandable that the memory had remained with her.

  Lawrence turned away from the drab room. He would learn nothing more from watching the house and he set off for St Anne’s Well gardens.

  Ten minutes and a steep hill later, Lawrence arrived at the entrance to the gardens on Furze Road. An attractive steeply-gabled cottage stood beside the park gate. Nearby, was a wrought iron signpost inscribed ‘private’. Lawrence ignored it. He was in no mood for impediments. He strolled down the path towards a large stone structure, built incongruously in the shape of a temple. By the side of the building, a wizened man moved boulders with the aid of a wheelbarrow. He saw Lawrence, stopped and placed his hand in the small of his back.

  “That looks like hard work,” said Lawrence, trying to start a conversation. The man grunted and grasped the handles of the barrow.

  Lawrence tried again. “Do you know if Mr George Smith is here today?”

  The man nodded towards the far side of the building and turned away. Lawrence followed his direction to see a curly haired man standing by a large sash window. He was scribbling in a notebook. As Lawrence drew closer, he realised that it was actually a sketch pad. The man was making detailed drawings of the structure in front.

  “Good morning,” said Lawrence, holding out his hand. “My name is Lawrence Harpham. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr George Smith?”

  The man reached for Lawrence’s hand and shook it tentatively. “You do,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  Lawrence took a deep breath and began the tricky task of conveying the reason for his visit using the least amount of words. He struggled to express himself, cognisant of the uncertainty of his position. He had still not discovered what crime, if any, had taken place and had no expectation of Smith's cooperation. But George Smith was intelligent and grasped the situation before Lawrence became too tongue-tied. His eyes misted as Lawrence spoke of Edmund Gurney and a tic pulsed above his cheekbone.

  “The matter of which you speak is painful,” he said when Lawrence had finished. “Painful indeed. Edmund Gurney was my friend. I will tell you what I know, and you can decide for yourself. It’s chilly out here. Come inside.”

  They walked through the ionic columns clustered with creeping ivy and entered the building. George directed Lawrence downstairs to the basement. “It’s not much warmer here,” he said, “but we are out of the wind and away from prying eyes. You know these gardens are private, don’t you?”

  Lawrence nodded. “I saw the sign,” he admitted, “but I wanted to speak with you”. He glanced around the room. A circular stone trough housed a bowl into which water bubbled up from a fissure in the rock. “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “It’s the Chalybeate water,” said George. “It’s a natural mineral spring. People come from far and wide to partake. It’s supposed to be very good for you. Try some.”

  He reached for a glass from a selection lined up on a trestle table by the basement wall.

  Lawrence collected a tumbler of water and sniffed. It smelled of sulphur. He took a few sips to be polite, but it tasted as bad as he expected.

  “I’m thinking of leasing it,” said George Smith.

  Lawrence arched an eyebrow.

  “The gardens, I mean. I make films. I need somewhere to use as a studio.”

  “Is that why you are here?”

  “Yes. I’ve been negotiating with the Goldsmid’s. They own this place. They have allowed me free access to the gardens while I work it all out. It should do very well.”

  “So, you have a legitimate reason to be here, unlike me,” smiled Lawrence.

  George laughed. “Yes, and it’s tricky negotiating so it would be helpful if they don’t assume that I’ve condoned trespassing on their land. “Take a seat,” he said walking over to one of several wrought iron tables surrounding the well. “It’s always devilishly cold in this part of the pump room, but no worse than being outside. Now, tell me what you want to know.”

  “I understand you weren’t here when Edmund Gurney died?”

  “No. I had only married a short time before. My wife and I were honeymooning in the Isle of Wight.”

  “So, you did not see him at any time?”

  George Smith shook his head. “He arrived long after we had left Brighton.”

  “And you never found out why he came here?”

  “No. It is a mystery."

  "Did he often visit Brighton?"

  "Only when he came to see me. I was his Private Secretary, but as I have already said, I was not here.

  I heard that he received a letter summoning him to Brighton. Nobody knows why. There were other letters in his possession when he died, but not that one.”

  "When did you see him last?"

  "A few months before he died."

  “Was his behaviour normal?”

  “In a manner of speaking."

  "Explain."

  "He had lost his usual ebullience and he seemed burdened, in some way. I do not know what troubled him, but there was a change in the weeks before his death. He was uncharacteristically quiet.”

  “Could he have killed himself?”

  “It is not inconceivable, but I doubt it. No man was more dedicated to his work than Edmund. There was so much that he wanted to do, to prove. I cannot imagine him giving it all up.”

  “So, the verdict of accidental death seems most likely.”

  “Most unlikely.” George Smith leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “I do not recognise any of the behaviour attributed to Edmund that justifies a verdict of accidental narcotic poisoning.”

  A frisson of excitement coursed through Lawrence. “If his death was not a suicide and not an accident, then what was it?”

  “You tell me,” said George Smith. “I cannot account for it.”

  “His use of narcotics to ease pain was well known,” said Lawrence.

  "Pain?"

  “Yes, neuralgia.”

  “What neuralgia?”

  “Did you not know of it?”

  “He did not complain of neuralgia in the whole time I knew him,” said George firmly. His piercing, clear eyes never wavered from Lawrence’s face. “And as far as I know, he did not take opiates. It makes no sense.”

  “You knew him well enough to make that judgement?”

  “Yes, but it's more than that. We conducted many experiments over the years and used hypnotism for the relief of toothaches and headaches. The sessions went very well indeed. We made real progress. If Edmund Gurney had long-standing neuralgia, as they say, he would have tried hypnotism.”

  “He may have tried, and it failed.”

  “He would have asked me.” George Smith raised his voice and tilted his head. He sighed and leaned forward again, clutching his brow. Unruly curls fell across his face. He sat in silence for a moment.

  Lawrence waited for him to begin speaking again.

  “I take it you know that we were all members of the Society for Psychical Research,” he said.

  “I do,” said Lawrence.

  “Edmund was a founder member,” George continued. “A few years ago, he wrote a paper called ‘Removal
of pain by suggestion.’ The article concentrated on mesmerism and hypnotism. He had absolute faith in the power of suggestion. There is not a question in my mind that he would have come to me if he was suffering.”

  “But you were away,” said Lawrence.

  "Several men participated in the Brighton experiments," said George. "Anyone of us could have helped him."

  “To be clear, you do not think he was a habitual user of narcotics?”

  “To be even more clear, I do not believe he used them at all.”

  Lawrence exhaled. He realised he had been holding his breath while George was speaking. The passionate manner in which the young man argued against the verdict of accidental death, indicated he was on to something at last.

  “I am leaving the SPR,” said Smith. “I have made up my mind. I have obligations towards them until the end of the year, but I will resign immediately after.”

  “Why?” asked Lawrence.

  “I cannot tell you,” said George. “Something I cannot explain is making me uneasy. If you want to know more about the SPR, you should go to London and speak to some of the Society members. They all knew Edmund well. Ask for Frederick Myers or Frank Podmore. If you are lucky, Elias will be around.”

  “Elias?”

  “Our doorman, although he is so much more. Elias is loyal to the organisation and with an almost eidetic memory. He is the man to ask and will always be able to reach the others.”

  “I thought eidetic memory was a myth.”

  “In its pure sense, it is rare. All members of the SPR have a speciality no matter what function they serve. Elias has spent a lifetime learning mnemonic techniques to improve his memory. He has trained himself to have an almost photographic recall.”

  “London sounds like a good place to start then,” said Lawrence. “I’ll go there and search them out.”

  George stared towards the bubbling water and pulled distractedly at his tie. After a few moments, he looked up. “There is something wrong with the way they reached the verdict, Mr Harpham,” he said. “The coroner was veering towards suicide but was heavily influenced against it. Some of my colleagues thought it was an accident. I sometimes wonder whether it was in their interests for the verdict to go that way. After all, it was important not to tarnish the Society's reputation. Or their own. But in the conflict between accident and suicide, was something else was overlooked? Could Edmund Gurney have been murdered?”

  Lawrence walked in a daze as he retraced his route to The Royal Albion hotel. It was dusk, and darkness descended swiftly. The rising moon cast the merest trace of light and a murky soup of clouds concealed the stars. The streets of Brighton had become strangers, made hostile by the ghoulish glow of gas lamps. In the distance, a lamplighter hauled his ladder through an alleyway, trudging along frosty streets as he contemplated the laborious task ahead. Lawrence followed in silence considering George Smith's final words. “Could Edmund Gurney have been murdered?”

  Lawrence was distracted as he turned into a passageway and found himself in a maze of tiny streets leading towards Black Lion Street. The welcoming lights of The Cricketers Inn appeared a short distance away. Lawrence peered through the windows into the well-lit interior. The glass was clear, but Lawrence could not see inside. His mind played tricks as the word ‘murder’ appeared and disappeared from the bevelled glass. One minute it was emblazoned in foot-high letters, the next, only a figment of his imagination. He walked the length of Black Lion Street until he reached the seafront. Accusatory voices surrounded him. Lawrence tried to block the sounds, but they echoed in a whisper of 'murder' again and again. Even the waves joined in, sloshing their criminations against the shore. Was murder an option? Why had it not been considered?

  By the time Lawrence reached the hotel, he was exhausted, and his mind was ablaze. He decided to buy a glass of brandy to drink before he retired. It would be more effective than counting sheep. He opened his wallet, but instead of extracting money, he grasped the piece of paper egregiously torn from the register earlier that day. He unfolded it without a flicker of guilt.

  Some of the names inside were registered against room numbers indicating that they were guests, not visitors. The remaining records were poor, only containing a surname twinned with a town. But two entries looked promising and were annotated with the word, ‘visitor’. One of them was belonged to a dentist called Daniel Browning. He had given his address as 27 Upper Montague Street, Marylebone. The second man had appended two locations by his name. Roslyn D’Onston was a journalist who lived in London, but was currently staying at the Cricketers Inn, Brighton.

  Lawrence stared at the register. He did not believe in coincidences, and he had been standing in front of the Cricketers Inn not more than half an hour ago. Was it a sign? It did not matter whether it was, or not - it was a lead. Pausing only to consider whether he should tell Violet of his plans, Lawrence abandoned the idea of a pre-bedtime drink. He crossed the entrance hall and climbed the stairs, two at a time. The excitement had dissipated by the time he reached his room and practicalities had set in. Lawrence wished he could speak to Violet. Her opinion would be useful. He missed sharing ideas with her, and she was wise in a way that his natural impulsiveness prohibited. But she was in that village whose name he could not pronounce, or even remember. And the thought of her ghost-hunting still set his teeth on edge. It wasn't easy to contact her, and it was risky to try. She might attempt to persuade him to return to Suffolk. No, every lead pointed in one direction only. Tomorrow morning, at the earliest opportunity, he would take the train to London.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Approaching Scotland Yard

  13th February 1891

  Lawrence alighted at Victoria Station feeling a sense of relief. He vacated the train almost before it stopped and darted up the platform with an unaccustomed lick of speed. He had been sitting, for what seemed like hours, with a large woman and her elderly dachshund. Lawrence liked well-behaved dogs as much as the next man, but this dog was disobedient and overindulged, and had barked through the entire journey. The jarring, yappy noise penetrated his ears like a hammer on wood, and when he politely asked her to quieten the animal, she glowered at him and called him a brute. Worse still, the dog urinated in the middle of the carriage. Every time the train halted and re-started, the puddle of urine edged closer. In the end, Lawrence moved, but not before the woman had the audacity to complain to the conductor about Lawrence’s behaviour. The conductor ignored her, skirting past Lawrence with a nod of sympathy.

  Lawrence walked past the ticket office and into the Victoria tube station, a short distance below ground. He purchased a ticket, hopped on the brownish-crimson carriage and managed to find a seat with no other people in the immediate vicinity. He watched the walls of the tube station pass by as the steam train whistled and chugged. Travelling by train was lazy. It would have been easy to walk, but it had been years since he had used the underground and he was eager to try it again. Lawrence appreciated good craftsmanship. It was abundant in the handsome glossy locomotives with their matching gold lined carriages. He stretched his legs and smiled, enjoying every moment of the short journey. After two stops, he alighted at Westminster Bridge.

  Lawrence was in a good mood as he sauntered along the Embankment to his destination at New Scotland Yard. He had made an overnight decision to begin the London part of his investigation by visiting Inspector Henry Moore. Henry was an old friend who he met during training, and their paths had crossed many times over the years. Though several counties separated them, their friendship endured. Henry had always been more ambitious than Lawrence and carved a name for himself in the Metropolitan Police early in his career. This led to his current position in the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard. Lawrence considered how little he had seen of Henry during that time. It had been due, in part, to the distance between them. But also, a reflection of Lawrence’s inability to face people after the loss of his family. As Lawrence considered his friendship with Henry,
it occurred to him that it had been several days since he had last thought about Catherine. He bit his lip, ashamed of his neglect for her memory and his good mood retreated.

  As Lawrence approached his destination, vast chimney stacks from the building ahead dominated the skyline. The towering seven-story red-bricked building was gothic in appearance and exuded authority. The architecture was exquisite. White stone bands contrasted against tiers of red bricks on top of which were three levels of attics, graced by steep slate roofs. Lawrence had never visited Scotland Yard, but he had followed the relocation with interest. He was confident that the building ahead of him was the correct location and he could expect to find Henry Moore ensconced somewhere inside.

  Lawrence walked towards the imposing structure and through a wrought-iron gate. He looked up. An intricately painted Royal Crest illuminated by two large lanterns either side lent further grandeur. Giant urns topped the columns adding another layer of magnificence. Lawrence passed through feeling somewhat intimidated and approached the polished reception desk where a young constable, clad in shirt sleeves, was scribbling into a ledger. Lawrence coughed, and the constable looked up. “I would like to speak to Inspector Moore," said Lawrence.

  “You and half the rest of the press,” the young man replied. “You’ll be lucky if you get to see him this side of Easter.”

  “Busy, is he?” asked Lawrence.

  The policeman put his pen down and looked at Lawrence incredulously. “Are you trying to be funny? Clear off back to Fleet Street with your gutter press friends.”

  “I’m not from the press if that’s what you are thinking.”

  “Good,” said the young man. “If one more reporter comes in today, I swear I’ll swing for him.”

  Two double doors into the main building burst open, and a group of half a dozen men swarmed through. They were talking heatedly but stopped at the sight of Lawrence. A dark-skinned moustached man walked menacingly towards him.

  “Leave him alone,” said the uniformed policeman. “He’s not from The Press.”