The man retreated. “Good day,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
“What on earth is going on?” asked Lawrence.
“Only another murder,” said the policeman.
“Where? who?”
“Tell me who you are first.” The young Constable closed his ledger and watched Lawrence through narrowed eyes.
“I’m a private investigator,” said Lawrence.
The policeman raised his eyes heavenward. “Then you can hop it too.”
“I’m a friend of Henry Moore’s,” Lawrence continued. “And a former Police Inspector. It's the truth. Please let him know that I am here.”
The policemen did not reply but pressed a bell on the desk.
“Name?” he asked curtly.
“Lawrence Harpham”.
Another uniformed policeman appeared. “Ask Inspector Moore if he knows a Lawrence Harpham.”
The second policeman walked through the double doors. The opaque glass panes allowed Lawrence a view of his route upstairs.
“Are you going to tell me who has died?”
“It wouldn’t mean anything to you if I did,” said the policeman. “Although you will, no doubt, be familiar with the method of killing.”
"Explain?"
“He cut her with a knife. It’s another ripping,” he replied, grimly.
A thrill of adrenaline coursed through Lawrence making his skin crawl with tension. He felt dizzy, disorientated.
“Are you sure?”
The constable was about to answer when the doors opened again, and Henry Moore appeared. “Lawrence Harpham, as I live and breathe. Do my eyes deceive me?” He grasped Lawrence’s hand and shook it warmly.
“It appears my timing is poor,” smiled Lawrence.
“Dreadful,” agreed Henry. “You have exactly ten minutes of my time this morning, but I’ll see if I can correct that later depending upon your plans. Come.”
The speed with which Henry Moore ascended the stairs, left Lawrence out of breath by the time he caught him up. He followed Henry into an office further down the corridor.
Henry sat behind his desk, and Lawrence sank into the opposite chair. “I would offer you a drink,” said Henry, “but I have to be at Swallow Gardens in half an hour.”
“I can come back another time,” offered Lawrence.
“You must,” said Henry. “Tell me your plans. We will get together.”
“I will come straight to the point, as you are so busy. I am looking for somebody,” said Lawrence.
“A missing person?”
“No, not missing. But I need to find a man. Two, actually; both residents of London. I have got an address for one, but not the other, and I don’t know where to begin to look for it. I’ve found in the past, that the local police station is a good starting point.”
“Always wise,” agreed Henry. “Give me the name, and I’ll pass it to Fred. He’s a never-ending fount of local knowledge. If he can’t help, he will know someone who can.”
Lawrence removed the torn hotel register from his pocket. “Can I borrow a pen and paper?” he asked.
Henry retrieved a pen from the polished wooden holder in front of him. He pushed a scrap of paper across the desk.
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed as he watched Lawrence write the first name.
“What?”
“You are about to write D’Onston. Roslyn D’Onston.”
“You know him?”
Henry nodded. “Oh yes. That complicates matters.”
Lawrence raised an eyebrow. “How?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you, but first I need to know why you are asking. It’s important, Lawrence. Official business.”
“It’s probably nothing,” said Lawrence. “I am investigating a death in Brighton. It happened a few years ago. The coroner ruled it as an accidental death, but I’m not so sure.”
Henry Moore leaned forward. “How does this concern D’Onston?”
“It probably doesn’t,” Lawrence admitted. “But he was in the building on the night Gurney died.”
“Edmund Gurney?”
“Yes, you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” said Henry. “He was well known in London. What makes you think this death was suspicious?”
“Nothing I can summarise in the five minutes we have left,” said Lawrence, looking at his watch. “I’ll tell you everything when there’s more time.”
Henry nodded. “Fine, and in return, I will use the next few minutes to tell you some of what I know about Roslyn D’Onston and give you his address. We keep tracks on the man - he's under surveillance. My help is conditional on your cooperation. You must tell me everything, and I mean every single detail, of the conversation that takes place. Now or at any other time. Is that clear?”
Lawrence glanced at his friend, momentarily taken aback. Henry was uncharacteristically curt. His clenched jaw and stony face bore no trace of his usual good humour. “Of course,” Lawrence replied.
Henry sat back in his chair and sighed. “Have you heard about the latest ripping?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, your man D’Onston became embroiled in the 1888 murders. For a while, we thought he might be the Ripper. We have subsequently settled on a series of more likely candidates and have removed D'Onston from the list.”
Lawrence whistled. “I didn’t know.”
“No reason why you should,” said Henry. “D’Onston is a journalist. He dabbles in esoteric mysteries and spiritualism. He came to our notice while we were investigating the Ripper murders due to his bizarre theories. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was in a hospital during some of the murders, he could have found himself at the end of a rope.”
“But he is no longer a suspect?” asked Lawrence.
“No,” said Henry. “He couldn’t have done it.”
“Then why is he under observation?”
“He is a trouble maker, always stirring up public opinion with his strange ideas. He knows more about it than he ought. Keeping track of him is precautionary. There was a theory that the Ripper may have been more than one person, you see.”
“But the Rippings stopped years ago, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “And the Ripper is most likely dead, but until we have proof of this, D’Onston and a few others remain under watch.”
“What is the nature of this latest incident?”
“In the early hours of this morning, a young woman by the name of Frances Coles met a violent end. Someone cut her throat from ear to ear. God knows it’s only been a few hours, yet every blasted reporter in the district seems to know of it. They have attributed it to Jack.”
“With justification?”
“No. Because it sells newspapers.”
“So, you won't re-open the investigation?”
“Quite the opposite. We have no choice,” said Henry. “We cannot satisfy public opinion unless we start from scratch and investigate the slaying as if it was a Ripper murder. It is imperative that we find the killer. Otherwise, we will end up squandering all our resources on this crime for months to come.”
“What sort of young woman was Florence Coles?”
“I take your meaning. Florence was the usual type. She had fallen on hard times and was a drinker. She dossed in a common lodging house in White’s Row and sold herself for money.”
Lawrence nodded. “I see. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. I'll track D'Onston down and speak with him later today. Can we meet tomorrow morning?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Come back here. I would like to know what he has to say for himself.”
Henry Moore pulled out a desk drawer and removed a box of cards. He thumbed through them, selected one and copied the contents onto a piece of paper. He pushed it across the desk towards Lawrence.
"Here is D'Onston's most recent address."
Lawrence folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He smiled at Henry as he walked towards the door. “U
ntil tomorrow,” he said.
“Indeed.” Henry held the door open and watched as Lawrence walked down the corridor. He still held the card containing D’Onston’s location. Henry sighed and put the card back in the box. The Ripper killings were over - D’Onston was no longer a suspect. But the prospect of Lawrence engaging with the sinister oddball journalist left Henry Moore feeling uneasy. Uneasy and powerless. He decided to re-establish control by setting the nearest available constable to keep watch outside D’Onston’s hotel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Beginning
Everything starts with a first. The first breath of a new born baby, the first snow of winter, the first shattering realisation that life and time are out of control. The first time that I acted unconsciously, my memories returned gradually - not in a sudden rush of recall, but one recollection after another. They dripped back like drops of fetid water forming a puddle of interminable horror. Every single memory felt safe in its individuality. Alone, they were passive, offering false hope and masking the inevitable. It is hard to describe the point at which the memories become complete, so slowly do they recombine. But they always do, and the horror sends a cold dread coursing through my veins. My heart hurts with the pain of remembering. I am a peaceful man. I am not what the memories suggest - I am not.
Was I always so afflicted? Not from birth, but from a young age. The first time I felt different, I was still youthful, still in education. Harry Kersey found me slumped against a wall - upright, but pallid, and confused. He asked what was wrong and I could not find the words to tell him. If I knew then, what I know now, I could have said that my mind had temporarily absented itself from my body. I could have revealed how I fought, in vain, to fill the void with the memories I knew should be there. They returned, eventually, taking far longer to come back than they took to disappear. The attacks have continued haphazardly ever since. Once, an entire eighteen months passed without a seizure, but in 1888 they increased with appalling regularity. Attacks rushed by in waves, month after painful month, recall after horrifying recall.
The automatisms were less frequent when I was younger. Their prevalence has increased with age, culminating in the events of the last few years. They worsened late in 1887, when I took a regular journey on the Metropolitan Railway. I was due to meet friends which involved disembarking at a train stop and walking a short distance to the venue. I recall staring out of the carriage window while listening to the train conductor as he spoke to a young lady a few seats along. His voice, normal at first, began to echo. The girl's voice slowed down. Words dripped from her mouth like sap down a tree. The now familiar feeling of déjà vu came upon me, then nothing.
Nothing, until the next recollection when I reached into my pocket for my watch and saw that it was quarter past seven in the evening. Last time I checked my watch on board the train, the time had been twenty past six. I recalled this because my appointment was just before seven o'clock and I remember thinking there would be more than enough time to get to my destination. As the memories seeped back, I realised that I was walking on an unfamiliar road. I put my watch back in my pocket and searched for my train ticket, but it was gone. It occurred to me that I must have handed it in at the ticket station without remembering. I reached the end of the road and found myself in Smithfield Market. Logic suggested that I must have exited the train at Farringdon Street Station and given my ticket up there. Had I spoken to anyone? A few vague recollections filtered back. My jacket smelled musty, generating snippets of memory. I recalled the slam of a carriage door and the acrid smell of smoke. But was it a recent memory? I often travel by train. They are frequently crowded, buzzing with sounds. The air is stale, clogged by choking fumes. I could not sort this memory into past or present and had to accept that my recall would never be complete.
And so, it continued. I experienced instances of automatisms during which I could be anywhere with no memory or control. There were also lesser events, which I called blanks. Blanks occurred for short periods lasting no more than a few minutes. During these, I had scant, if any, memory and I was always immobile. My profession could have made my affliction untenable, but I was frank with those who needed to know, including a few loyal friends. Though perplexing and at times irritating, it did not cause my colleagues undue anxiety. Their acceptance made me less fearful. Until a particular Saturday in 1888, when the full horror of my illness manifested itself.
Quite how I arrived in Spitalfields, I cannot say, for I had never ventured that far before. And what passed at Aldgate railway station is still a mystery. My first recollection was the cold. It was dark, and I was standing beneath a gas lamp in another unfamiliar area. Through force of habit, I pulled out my pocket watch and checked the time, trying to adjust my eyes to the gloomy light. It was seven forty-five on a cold February evening, and I had lost over an hour of memory. As I returned my watch to my jacket pocket, my fingers closed over the ticket I had purchased earlier that day. I had not surrendered it at the ticket office as I had in the past. It was damp, and I surmised that it must have been raining, but as shards of consciousness returned, I realised that I was not wet. Cold, indeed, but not wet. I held the ticket closer to the light and scrutinised the brown marks covering it. Blood spotted the pale card. I felt the sleeves of my jacket - they were damp with blood too.
I raised my hands to my face and touched my skin - nothing. The blood was not coming from my body, so I removed my hat and examined my head for a bump. Perhaps I had fallen over, but there was no pain or any sign of a wound. Then I tried to make some sense of my surroundings; to work out where I was and how I would get home. The alleyway in which I was standing was deathly quiet, the only sign of life a skeletal alley cat with one torn ear and patches in its fur. To the right of me, in the light of the next gas lamp along, I noticed a bundle of rags illuminated in the hazy glow. Then it moved and emitted a low moan. I gasped. It was a person, a woman.
I ran towards her and knelt by her side. Her face was sallow and lined, her breathing laboured. I gasped as I saw her rucked-up skirts, mottled and smeared with a dark substance. Slashes marked her woollen stockings leaving bare flesh exposed. Something metal glinted in the light, and I scooped it up. Its comfortable, familiar weight triggered a memory that seared through my passive observations. Oh, God. It was a clasp knife. It was mine and the last time I had seen it I was plunging it downwards in a frenzy, with no idea why. One chilling memory after another returned interconnecting into a mesh that did not form a whole but allowed an insight into what had occurred. Boarding a train at Baker Street station, feeling normal, a train ride and a strange taste. A glimpse of Aldgate Station, running, quiet, dark, quiet, walking, walking, thirsty. Stop. A sign, white paint flaking away from a rotten wooden plank. ‘White’s Row, memories ebbing and flowing - gone again. A woman, middle-aged, asking for something, disgust, revulsion, raging anger, a scream, silence.
The woman was still alive. Injured, but alive. I should have assisted. I am a good man, and I could have helped her. But I ran. And one way or another, I have been running ever since.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Sinister Man
The quickest route to D’Onston's hotel was by train, but after yesterday's incident with the dachshund, Lawrence was in no rush to repeat the experience. He decided, instead, to walk along the Embankment before turning north to his destination in Charterhouse Street. It was a crisp, clear day and Lawrence did not detect any fear or panic in the people he passed on his route. Men and women went about their business as always. Young ladies walked without chaperones while shopkeepers enjoyed robust trade. Barrow boys whistled as they carted their produce and the streets were busy with horses and carriages. The day was like any other day. Though Lawrence's journey took him through an affluent part of London, he still expected to hear something about the Ripper horror. But there was not so much as one newspaper boy shouting about the killing in a bid to sell his wares. The concerns of Scotland Yard had not yet reached the good people of t
he Parish of Saint Sephulcre.
Lawrence continued along Charterhouse Street on his way to Charterhouse Square. As he reached the square, a structure ahead caught his eye. He stared at it, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. The building was narrow, its span no more than the width of the front door. Three arched windows stacked one above another, formed a tall triangle with a stone balcony enclosing the first window. Lawrence subconsciously widened his arms as he walked towards it, wondering if he could touch either side if he tried. He reached into his pocket for the piece of paper Henry Moore had given him earlier that day. The scrawled note gave D'Onston's address as The Triangle Hotel, 88 Charterhouse Street, Saint Sephulcre. The name of the hotel could hardly be more appropriate.
The closer Lawrence got, the more he could see of the right-hand side. The hotel looked like a wedge of cheese and fitted snugly between two roads veering off at forty-five-degree angles. From the front of the hotel, it was impossible to imagine a functioning boarding house, but from the side, it became viable.
Lawrence opened the door and found himself in a small triangular room. He approached a shabby dark wooden desk, upon which sat an unpolished brass bell. Lawrence waited for a while, but nobody came. He pressed the bell adding his fingerprint to many others. Moments later a white-haired man shambled in accompanied by a young boy. The man yawned as he asked Lawrence how he could help. Lawrence leaned across the counter. "Is Mr D'Onston resident here?"
The hotel manager raised an eyebrow. "He might be."
"Can I see him?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
The Manager stared at Lawrence. After a few moments of silence, Lawrence understood the man's intent. He sighed, removed a note from his pocket and placed it on the desk. The man's grubby fingers closed over the money. "Tell number five he's got a visitor."
The boy returned a few moments later and nodded to the Manager.
"You can go up," he said. Lawrence approached the stairs and stepped on the fraying carpet.
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