The Ripper Deception

by Jacqueline Beard

  “Oh yes, I think you mentioned it, but I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. Purely coincidental though.”

  “I’m making a cup of tea. Do you want one?”

  Lawrence nodded. Violet walked towards the stove in the rear kitchen that they shared with Mrs Wise who sold millinery in the other half of the shop. It was a useful division of space that kept both their bills low.

  Lawrence had opened his copy of the Bury press and was scanning the headlines when the doorbell rang. An errand boy burst through the door, panting. “Telegram for you, Sir,” he said.

  Lawrence dropped a few coins in the boy's sweating palm and watched him leave the shop. He gazed at the telegram. It had been a long time since Lawrence had received one in the course of his work. He slit it open, read the contents and hot-footed it into the back room.

  “It’s nearly ready,” said Violet.

  “I don’t care about the tea,” Lawrence replied. “This is a telegram from Henry Moore.” He brandished the message in the air. “He wants me to go back to London and speak to Roslyn D’Onston again.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve released James Sadler. He is not the Ripper, and he did not kill Frances Coles. The hunt is on, and they don’t trust D’Onston anymore than I do.”

  “You’re not going, are you?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about me?”

  “You can stay here and mind the office.”

  “No.” Violet put her hands on her hips feeling an unfamiliar surge of anger. “I am not staying here on my own again,” she snapped. “We are either a partnership, or we are not. Make up your mind.”

  “Fine, come with me then. We’ve finished Challoner’s case. Get your girl to look in on the office and join me. It's important, Violet, just you wait and see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  An Unannounced Visit

  Tuesday 3rd March 1891

  Lawrence hailed a cab outside The Regal Hotel on the Lambeth side of Westminster Bridge. The Hotel in which they were staying was not at all regal, more closely resembling an upmarket lodging house, but it was respectable, clean and cheap. The cab driver acknowledged Lawrence’s raised hand with a nod and stopped the carriage. Lawrence opened the door and helped Violet inside before exchanging a few words with the driver. They climbed on board and set off for a brief journey terminating at Montpellier Square in Westminster.

  “Where are we?” asked Violet, suspiciously. “This doesn’t look like the Embankment.”

  “Slight detour,” Lawrence replied, fishing in his pocket for change. He paid the cabman and gestured to the black door of a large four storey building. “This way.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Violet.

  “Don't worry. It’s just an idea I had.”

  “Who lives here?”

  Lawrence sighed. Violet had proved an amiable and interesting travelling companion. The strained exchanges they had become accustomed to of late, vanished as soon as they left Bury and the train journey was unexpectedly enjoyable. He had purposely delayed telling Violet about the visit because he knew she would not approve.

  “It's Kate Grove’s house.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Edmund Gurney’s wife. Or rather she was. She’s Archibald Grove’s wife now.”

  “Does she know we are coming? I can’t imagine what you want with her, and I’m surprised she has agreed to it.”

  “She hasn’t, exactly.”

  “She doesn’t know, does she?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t believe you, Lawrence. What do you hope to find out from her?”

  “I want to know what was in the letter summoning Gurney to Brighton. The one that went missing.”

  “Oh really.” Violet’s tone was terse again. “You’re not working on that case. It’s over. Forget it.”

  “I can’t yet. I will if nothing more comes of it. I want to find out why Gurney went to Brighton before I see D’Onston again.”

  “But D'Onston doesn’t know anything about Brighton.”

  “I know. I know. Speaking to Kate Gurney, I mean Grove, is too good an opportunity to miss. The more facts we uncover, the more we can find out.”

  “This is turning into an obsession,” Violet complained. “Not to mention embarrassing. Calling without notice - it’s too much.”

  “You will come with me though? I need your help. She’s much more likely to speak in the presence of a woman.”

  Violet shook her head. “If I help you, can we go straight to Scotland Yard without any more distractions?”

  “I promise,” said Lawrence solemnly. He strode to the door, rang the bell and waited. A butler wearing tails appeared in the doorway. Violet bit her lip - the encounter was going to be worse than she thought.

  “Yes?” said the butler in a strongly accented voice.

  Lawrence offered his card. “Is Mrs Grove at home?” he asked.

  “One moment,” said the butler, leaving them standing on the doorstep.

  “French?” asked Lawrence.

  “I think so,” said Violet. “Not that it makes things any less awkward. I can’t bear it.”

  “You’ll have to,” said Lawrence. “He’s coming back.”

  “Mrs Grove will not see you,” said the butler.

  “It’s important.”

  “She is unwell. She does not know you and will not see you. Kindly leave.”

  The butler pushed the door too.

  “Please,” said Violet. “It concerns the health of an old lady.”

  “Wait,” a voice boomed from inside. “Inghelaine, you can leave this to me.”

  The butler nodded and retreated. A handsome, fair-haired man in a brown suit replaced him in the doorway.

  “Archibald Grove,” he said, offering a hand.

  “I am Lawrence Harpham, and this is Violet Smith.”

  “You seem eager to see my wife. May I ask why.”

  Lawrence opened his mouth, but Violet spoke. “It’s in connection with an elderly lady,” she said. “A friend of ours. She recently became quite distressed about a matter concerning the death of Edmund Gurney. She knew him well when she lived in Brighton, and we hoped to give her some reassurance.”

  “Kate, my wife, she’s not in good health,” said Archibald, “and she doesn’t like talking about her late husband’s death. It was a difficult time.”

  “We understand,” said Violet. “But Ruth is ailing and….” She looked downcast as if she might cry.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Archibald. “Come and wait inside.” He directed them to an occasional room at the front of the house.

  Lawrence turned to Violet. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m sorry. It was an awful thing to do. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Violet, it was perfect. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Neither did I,” Violet admitted. “I don't like lying.”

  The door squeaked open, and Inghelaine appeared. “Come this way,” he said, directing them to an opulent drawing room. Archibald stood as they entered while his wife reclined on a chaise lounge.

  Lawrence approached him and shook his hand again. “Thank you for this,” he said.

  “Kate has agreed to speak with you, but only for five minutes. That is all. Please do not overtire her. I have to leave now. Inghelaine will see you out when you have finished.”

  Violet smiled at her host. He was a pleasant looking man, well-mannered and amiable, though a good deal shorter than Lawrence.

  “Sit down,” commanded Kate Grove, gesturing to the armchairs opposite. Her appearance was markedly different from that of her husband. His face was open, with a full, generous mouth and he exuded charisma. She was sallow-skinned with dark patches under her eyes and bristled with undisguised resentment.

  “Archie has asked me to help you,” she said querulously. “He says it would be public-spirited, which matters to him. It matters less to me
.”

  “We understand,” said Lawrence. “This will be quick.”

  “Very well.”

  “Our friend, Ruth Moss, knew your former husband in Brighton. His death upset her, and now she is older and coming to the end of her life, it has become a terrible burden. We don't know why, but she feels responsible.”

  “I cannot see any reason why she should,” said Mrs Grove.

  “Nor we,” said Lawrence. “But when we said we were coming to London, she asked if we could contact you. She hopes you can answer a question that would put her mind at rest.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Ruth said Edmund received a letter asking him to come to Brighton. Do you remember anything about it?”

  “A little. Edmund had been out to dinner with Mr Flower. Do you know him? He is the Liberal Member of Parliament. They dined at the House of Commons, that night. Edmund came home to find a letter waiting for him which he read in the hallway. He didn’t even pause to exchange pleasantries but had the maid pack a bag. He left for Brighton early the next day.”

  “Do you know who sent the letter?”

  “I assumed that it was George Smith. He often wrote, but I later learned that Smith was on his honeymoon at the time so it couldn’t have been him.”

  “And you don’t know who it was?”

  “Sorry, I do not.”

  “And you can’t think of anyone it might have been?”

  Kate sighed. “This is getting tedious,” she said. “Are you finished?”

  “If that is all you know,” said Lawrence, “then, yes.”

  “Thank you for trying to help our friend,” said Violet. “We appreciate your kindness.”

  Kate Grove's stern face relaxed for a moment. “I don’t know who sent the letter,” she said. “This may not help, but I am certain that it came from someone well known to Edmund, most definitely not a stranger.”

  “How do you know?” asked Lawrence.

  “I caught a glimpse while it was in his hand,” she said. “The salutation was to ‘My Dear Edmund'.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Headquarters of the SPR

  “I still don’t understand why we had to go through that charade,” said Violet. “What have we gained?”

  “Something we did not know before,” said Lawrence. “Definite proof that a stranger did not write the letter.”

  “I would not have considered otherwise. Why would he leave home within a few hours of receiving a letter from someone he didn’t know?”

  “He might go if it involved a professional matter,” said Lawrence. “It would be perfectly reasonable to investigate something interesting at short notice.”

  “But surely his colleagues were also his friends? It makes very little difference.”

  “Violet, please don't be so obstructive.”

  “I am using logic, which is why you asked me to be your business partner in the first place. And there is another thing I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “How many letters were there?”

  “Only two. I have told you often enough. The first letter summoned Gurney to Brighton. We now know that it was from a close friend or colleague. This letter is missing. It was not on his body when they found him. Gurney himself composed the second letter and never took the opportunity to post it. He had written the letter on headed notepaper. It bore the SPR crest and address, and more importantly, the names of each member of the council. The Hotel staff used this letter to contact a colleague to help identify him.”

  “What was in the second letter?”

  “Nora did not say,” replied Lawrence, “but she made it clear that the letter was routine and unimportant.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “I have no idea. Does it matter?”

  “Probably not, said Violet, “but I think I will pay a visit to the Society for Psychical Research. I would like to know more.”

  “You can’t just go wandering in there,” said Lawrence.

  “I can. I was invited to visit.”

  “When? By whom?”

  “In Chelmondiston, and by Doctor Myers. He asked me to look him up if I was ever in London.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, Lawrence. You have already delayed your appointment long enough. Henry Moore is expecting you at Scotland Yard.”

  “But I know more about this business with Gurney than you do.”

  “Then you will have to trust me, won’t you? I am the one with the invitation, and you are not.”

  “Where is their building? I can meet you when I have finished with Henry.”

  “It is in Buckingham Street, Adelphi.”

  “That is only a short distance from Scotland Yard. You go, and we'll compare notes later.”

  Half an hour later Violet left Lawrence at the entrance to Scotland Yard and walked the short distance to the Adelphi district. The Society's headquarters took up most of an imposing flat fronted terraced house - a grand building with expansive sash windows and wrought iron railings. Violet approached the entrance. The door was wood panelled with side windows and a fanlight, both set beneath an archway. She rapped on the brass door knocker, but nobody replied. Violet peered into the arched window on her left. A bald man with a neatly trimmed beard gestured as he walked around the room. She raised her hand and waved gingerly. He saw her, left the room and moments later the door opened.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said. “Our doorman is unavailable today. Can I help?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Violet, “but I met Mr Podmore and Doctor Myers recently. They asked me to call in if I was ever passing, and I am. I hope it isn’t inconvenient.”

  “No, not at all,” said the man, “although neither Frank nor my brother is here, and I do not know whether to expect them today. I only called in on the off chance that Arthur would around. I am going back to Cambridge tonight and won't be available for a few days. Come this way. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Under normal circumstances, the door would be open, but Elias is unwell, and we lock ourselves inside.”

  The man ushered her into the room with the arched window where a second man was reading a newspaper while he reclined on the sofa. He was smartly dressed and also wore a beard.

  Violet spoke. “If you are Arthur’s brother, you must be Frederick Myers. Arthur mentioned you.”

  “Did he now? Yes, I am Frederick Myers, and this is William Crookes. Pleased to meet you Miss - sorry I don’t think you mentioned your name?”

  “I didn’t. I’m Violet Smith. I was in Chelmondiston when they conducted the investigation last month. I found it very interesting and hoped to learn more about your organisation.”

  “Ah, yes. The Chelmondiston case was quite unusual. I don’t know if Frank explained, but we dedicate much of our work to the psychology of spiritualism. The cases we investigate are those involving participants of flawless reputation. There must be no evidence of suggestibility or any intellectual infirmity. As you will know by now, we cross-examine everyone and take as much empirical proof as possible. This method sometimes results in the detection of trickery.”

  “Yes, I am unfamiliar with your methods, but I greatly admire their scientific basis.”

  Frederick Myers nodded. “We take steps to understand the psychology of error and perception. Not all trickery is intentional, and we have found no evidence of it in Chelmondiston. The events at the Rectory have so far proved inexplicable. It is rare for us to witness a manifestation. Our involvement usually comes afterwards when we collect and analyse the evidence. William examines much of the documentation when he is not busy with other matters. He is a Professor of Chemistry but still finds a great deal of time for us.”

  William lowered his paper and smiled. “I have not spent as much time as I would like on the Rectory case,” he said, “but I am aware of it. There is undoubtedly something worthy of explanation.”

  Violet turned to Frederick.
“Do you believe there is a ghost at the Rectory?”

  “It is too soon to be sure. First, we must rule out all non-paranormal explanations. As I said, we are confident that we have ruled out fakery, but we must conduct further research before ruling out misperception.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “It’s too big a question to answer quickly, Miss Smith,” said Frederick. “I have limited time at my disposal today. As I said, I only dropped in to see my brother and borrow a few books from our library. I must return to Cambridge in an hour. Please allow me to lend you a book on the subject. We will need it back eventually, but you may keep it as long as you need.”

  “Thank you. I would like that. Do you have a big library?”

  “It has grown every year,” said Frederick Meyers. “My great friend, Edmund Gurney, founded the library. Keeping it well stocked with books has always been an important part of our work. Since his death, it has assumed even greater significance.”

  “Edmund Gurney? Oh, that’s interesting. My friend met a man in Brighton who knew Mr Gurney.”

  “Edmund spent a lot of time in Brighton. He knew many people. Did your friend mention a name?”

  “George Smith,” said Violet.

  “Oh, yes. Smith was one of Edmund’s young men. Quite the expert on mesmerism. He is still part of the SPR, but we don’t see much of him in London, now.”

  “That is a pity. Lawrence found him charming, though saddened by the death of your mutual friend.”

  “Poor Edmund. We still feel his loss. It was a testing time for all.”

  “He died unexpectedly?”

  “A tragic accident,” said Frederick. “Anyway, time marches on and so must I. Now, William, would you mind showing this young lady to the library? She might find one of our methodology guides useful. Please excuse me, Miss Smith.”

  Frederick Myers gave a little bow and disappeared across the hallway.

  “This way,” said William Crookes. Violet followed him down a small flight of steps and into the rear of the building.

  “I hope I am not taking up too much of your valuable time,” said Violet. “You all appear to be very busy.”