The hall was full, and the audience occupied about seventy seats, with latecomers still arriving. Lawrence wondered at their credulity. It was hard enough to imagine twenty people interested in this nonsense, but a full hall? They would be buying snake oil next. He had upset Violet with a similar remark earlier. She tried to persuade him that the SPR investigators used scientific experimentation. Lawrence countered that by denying that any test was capable of proving the existence of spirits and had continued arguing tactlessly. It was all very well pretending that spiritualism had a basis in psychology, but what was the point? What did it achieve? In the end, Violet walked away clenching her jaw. Lawrence had no intention of considering her point of view, and she had better things to do.
The crowd in the hall came from all walks of life. Some of them dressed in utilitarian garb, and others in finery. They represented all parts of society, sharing a common interest that Lawrence was wholly unable to appreciate. He decided to ignore them.
He scanned the crowd, looking for Violet and Michael and located them on the second row where they were gazing at the stage. A handsome man in a sharp grey suit waved at Violet. Even from his vantage point at the back of the room, Lawrence saw her beam with pleasure. He frowned. Violet’s regard for the doctor was nauseating and made him feel physically ill. His heart pumped faster, and his ungloved right hand grew clammy. He felt unaccountably odd and wanted, no needed, to leave the room. His urge to flee almost got the upper hand and he had to muster every bit of will power to force himself to stay. Once the first speaker began the adrenaline rush left, and he tried to understand what had happened. Lawrence had no conscious desire for Violet Smith, so why had his body reacted so badly to her obvious admiration for another man.
The gentleman now standing on the stage sported a long, white beard and announced himself as Henry Sidgwick. The name was familiar to Lawrence from a leaflet that Violet had given him to read earlier that afternoon. Though he had only managed a paragraph, it was enough to know that Sidgwick was the President of the SPR. A natural speaker, Sidgwick addressed the crowd in a relaxed manner and joked that they were lucky to have avoided the committee meeting earlier that day which had gone on much longer than usual. Sidgwick announced the addition of another new member and nine new associate members. A further twenty-four new associates had also joined the American branch. Lawrence raised his eyes to the ceiling, then thought the better of it. He was here to observe and find a way into the organisation. Drawing attention to himself by being openly cynical, was hardly the best way to go about it.
Henry Sidgwick spoke again. “You’ve heard enough from me. Let me introduce Mr Frank Podmore. He will be talking to you about Dr Von Schrenk’s experiments in thought-transference.”
The audience clapped, and Podmore took to the stage. Lawrence watched closely. Podmore was younger than Sidgwick, wore a well-trimmed light-brown beard and spoke eloquently. There was something epicene about his appearance that Lawrence could not quite identify. Podmore's talk was long and tedious and described Von Schrenk’s experiments in clairvoyance. It was too convoluted for Lawrence to comprehend fully. In basic terms, the tests seemed to involve one person drawing pictures and another using thought transference to predict the result. Podmore seemed pleased with the test conclusions, but to Lawrence’s cynical eyes, there was little accuracy. It was all subjective. After ten minutes, Lawrence felt his eyes grow heavy and began to worry that he was in danger of falling asleep. He considered going for a short walk when Henry Sidgwick returned to the stage and thanked Frank Podmore. Sidgwick spoke of his regard for Von Schrenk and introduced the next speaker, a man called Walter Leaf who was another bearded gentleman.
Lawrence felt his clean-shaven face. He had never followed the trend for whiskers and disagreed with the doctors who prescribed facial hair for good health. Lawrence had once grown a beard and found it scratchy and unnatural. Besides, he had an excellent barber back in Bury. Claude Larke was an amiable man with a ready wit. Even in Lawrence's darkest, most introverted moments, he had always benefited from half an hour in the barber's chair. Larke had an uncanny knack of making him feel better about the world. Small wonder there was always a queue outside his shop.
Walter Leaf spoke of dual personalities. His talk was more interesting than Podmore's, and the concept seemed vaguely familiar to Lawrence. He puzzled over it for a few moments then remembered the stage play about Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Of course. The story was sheer fantasy, but it had become popular in the theatres. Violet was a fan and had tried to make Lawrence buy the book. He had resisted at first, then read a few chapters to please her before discarding it halfway through. It was a waste of his time, but very much Violet’s chosen reading matter. She would enjoy this talk.
Lawrence was glad when Walter Leaf finished speaking, but his relief was short-lived. He assumed it would mark the end of the meeting, but Henry Sidgwick returned to the stage and announced a second half. Lawrence bolted for the exit and into the gentleman’s room. He finished his ablutions before returning to the foyer of the Town Hall. Sidgwick had announced a ten-minute recess, in his absence. Most attendees, including Violet and Michael, were directed to a side room for tea and biscuits. Lawrence could not bring himself to join them. The thought of watching Violet fawn over her SPR friends and Doctor Myers, in particular, was too much to bear. He stayed where he was and contemplated his next move. Fate intervened when a dark-haired man, carrying too many books to negotiate the step into the foyer, stumbled. Books and journals tumbled to the floor. Lawrence detached himself from the wall on which he had been leaning and went to his aid. He collected the fallen books and passed them to the flustered man.
“Here you are Mr …” His voice trailed away.
“Barkworth. Thomas Barkworth. Thank you for your help.”
Lawrence picked up an SPR journal which lay splayed open on the floor. He examined it before placing it on top of the pile of books held by Barkworth. “Ah. Another article about double personality. I enjoyed the talk - fascinating and persuasive.”
“Hmmm,” said Barkworth. “It depends on how you approach it. I fear that Myers and I will come to blows on the matter of multiplicity of personality before long.”
“Dr Myers?” asked Lawrence.
Barkworth stared at him. “Frederick Myers, of course. He is too reliant upon the testimony of those with recognised mental conditions. Well, outside the study of automatic writing, that is. Personality does not vary on a whim, you know.”
Lawrence didn’t know. The man in front of him could have been speaking Swahili, and it would have made more sense. But, now was not the time for honesty.
“Oh, I agree,” said Lawrence, “though I only have a layman’s understanding of the subject. That’s why I came tonight.”
“You’re not a member?” asked Barkworth. “You should be if you want to know more. It is a difficult subject.”
“I don’t live in London,” said Lawrence.
“Our members come from all over the country.”
“Indeed? Well, in that case, I will consider it.”
Lawrence was about to ask how to become a member when Violet and Michael entered the foyer together with Doctor Myers and Frank Podmore. Lawrence recognised Myers and scowled, glad that he was undercover and not required to acknowledge his presence or be polite.
“Ah, Barkworth,” said Frank Podmore. “There you are. Are you speaking tonight?”
“No. I can’t stay until the end. I have an appointment in Kensington.”
“Bad luck, old man. There’s a fine example of veridical hallucination in this month’s reports.”
Lawrence watched Violet as the men spoke. She had barely taken her eyes of Doctor Myers. Michael had almost given the game away by raising his hand. He realised his mistake in time and lowered it without waving, but he could not meet Lawrence’s eyes.
“Were you interested in a membership?” asked Barkworth, resuming the conversation.
“Yes. I want to join
if it's not too much trouble.”
“Why don’t you wait until after the case readings and I’ll look you out a form,” said Podmore.
“Oh, that’s a shame. I have to go now,” said Lawrence. “I say, I’m in town for a few days. Can I collect it from your Headquarters instead?”
“I suppose so,” said Podmore. “Yes, why not. We’re at the Adelphi, Mr, sorry. I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Blatworthy,” said Lawrence. “Alistair Blatworthy. Pleased to meet you.”
Violet glared at Lawrence. She did not approve of his alias. The first rule of good detection was that pseudonyms should be commonplace. She had never met a Blatworthy, much less one who masqueraded as a quantity surveyor, whatever that was. Lawrence acknowledged her look of disgust. At least she had managed to tear her eyes away from Myers chiselled features.
“Come now,” Arthur Myers had taken Violet’s arm and was guiding her into the hall. Michael followed redundantly behind.
“Right,” said Frank, “We’ll see you over the next few days. It doesn’t matter when you come as long as it's during the day. The doorman will let you in.”
Lawrence nodded. He moved a few feet away before bending to tie a shoelace.
Podmore and Barkworth continued to talk about their movements for the rest of the week. Both were due at HQ within the next few days, and Lawrence grinned as he heard Frank Podmore discuss his plans for tomorrow. Podmore was going to Kew gardens which implied that he had invited himself to join Violet and Myers. Lawrence wondered how Violet would react. It was a small glimmer of levity in an otherwise tedious evening. At least he had managed to gain legitimate access to the SPR HQ which meant he could avoid the rest of the meeting. Lawrence whistled as he began the walk back to Lambeth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Pseudonym
Saturday 7th March 1891
The weekend did not get off to a good start. A heavy knocking at the hotel room door disturbed Lawrence just after dawn. It took a few moments for him to wake from a deep sleep. He peeled the bedclothes away, shrugged on a dressing gown and answered the door. It opened to reveal a plainclothes policeman.
“My guv’nor wants to see you,” he said.
“Who is your governor?”
“Inspector Moore, and you’d better make it snappy”.
“Tell him I’ll be there by 8.30.”
The policeman pursed his lips and nodded. “You’d better be,” he said.
Lawrence mulled it over as he dressed. There were many ways he could have dealt with telling Henry about the D'Onston situation, any of which were better than the choice he had made. Lawrence's decision to say nothing left him in a quandary. On the one hand, he had promised to keep Henry informed. On the other, connecting the Ripper to the SPR might jeopardise his investigation. Not that he could count on Henry to believe any of it. The story scarcely seemed credible to Lawrence. And another thing. Lawrence couldn't remember telling Henry about Violet's attack which was bound to annoy him. He decided to stop speculating about why Henry had summoned him and put all his efforts into getting dressed.
Half an hour later, Lawrence arrived at Scotland Yard. It was quieter than usual. The policeman behind the reception desk waved him through, and he climbed the stairs, cleared his throat and knocked on Henry Moore’s door.
“Come.”
He entered.
“Where the blazes is D’Onston?” asked Henry, without his usual affable greeting.
“Ah,” said Lawrence. “Has he gone?”
“You know damn well he has. Not completely. He obviously intends to return at some stage, but he’s taken enough possessions to cover a lengthy stay somewhere else. I haven’t the least idea where that could be.”
“What makes you think I know?”
“We’ve been tailing him. You were the last person to see him. And I have it on good authority that you forced your way into his room. You haven’t harmed him?”
“Of course not. He’s probably gone to ground.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks he knows something. He believes there’s a connection between the Ripper murders and the case I have been investigating in Brighton.”
“Well I don’t,” said Henry. “Even Edmund Reid is having doubts about this last murder. The more time that passes, the less likely it seems. What did D'Onston have to say.”
Lawrence unburdened himself. He abandoned his intention to avoid telling Henry Moore anything he didn't need to know. There seemed little point now he was sitting here in front of him. The story came out in a rush of words.
“So, you’re telling me that D’Onston blackmailed the SPR because one of them killed a man who died an accidental death."
Lawrence nodded.
"And an inquest recorded this verdict."
"Yes."
“Furthermore, this man killed two women who we do not recognise as Ripper victims?”
“Yes…”
“And certain members of the society have conspired to protect their reputation, which they have done by concealing the identity of the so-called murderer…”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“It’s preposterous, Lawrence. I am surprised at you.”
“It’s no more unlikely than the suggestion that D’Onston was in possession of half a dozen bloodied neckties.”
Henry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Miss Johnson withdrew the accusation yesterday,” he said. “Her friend, Miss Collins, said she had made it up out of spite.”
“That’s one thing I am certain of,” said Lawrence. “There was no space in his room big enough to contain a tin trunk. It is not in The Triangle Hotel if it exists at all.”
“And neither is he,” said Henry. “Which may be for the best. I am still not wholly satisfied with his innocence, but there will come a time when we have to stop tracking his movements. Perhaps this is it.”
“He is telling the truth,” said Lawrence. “At first I thought he had attacked Violet, but I don’t believe it now.”
“Violet?”
“Yes, my partner. A man attacked her the other night in the East End. She ended up with a cut across her throat.”
“I heard about that. I did not realise you were acquainted. What has this got to do with D’Onston.”
“I thought I saw him nearby, but he says he wasn't there.”
“And this was Wednesday night?”
Lawrence nodded.
Henry rifled through the cards on his desk. “What time did it happen?”
“It must have been between 7.30 and nine.”
“Then it wasn’t D’Onston. He was at the hotel. He left briefly about 5 o’clock and returned within the half hour.”
“I was certain. It looked like him.”
“There are all sorts of thugs in the East End. They were probably after your friend’s money.”
Lawrence opened his mouth to protest, then reconsidered. He had done his duty by telling Henry about D’Onston, less the finer details. Henry clearly didn't believe a word of it. Neither had he associated the attack on Violet with the Ripper or the SPR. Lawrence could continue investigating with a clear conscience.
“You are probably right,” he sighed.
“Yes. Wish Violet well from me. I think that’s all, Lawrence. If you come across D’Onston again, then have the goodness to let me know. Send me an invoice for your work. When are you going back?”
“I’ll be here for another few days,” said Lawrence.
“Come over for dinner before you go. Mary would love to see you.”
“I will,” said Lawrence. “Thank you.”
He shook Henry’s hand and left the office, before heading towards The Adelphi and the headquarters of the SPR.
Lawrence didn’t hang around waiting for transport and hurried along the Embankment arriving in Buckingham Street, slightly overheated. He climbed the small flight of steps and banged on the front door which opened, almost immediately, to
reveal a lightly tanned, dark-haired man in his early fifties. Lawrence recalled his conversation with George Smith back in Brighton. The man in front of him must be the doorman with the exceptional memory. What was his name? Lawrence searched his own less efficient faculties. Ah, yes. His name was Elias Haim.
The doorman was an inch or two shorter than Lawrence and what remained of a receding hairline was slicked back under a layer of oil. His skin was olive and suggested Mediterranean origins.
Lawrence doffed his hat and explained the purpose of his visit.
“You can see Mr Podmore,” said Haim, in a deep voice bearing traces of an accent. “He will help.”
“I met Mr Barkworth last night. Is he expected today?”
“Mr Barkworth is in Chigwell. He won't be here until nine o'clock tomorrow.”
“And Myers?”
“Mr Frederick Myers or Doctor Arthur Myers?”
“Dr Arthur Myers.”
“He is indisposed,” said Elias.
Lawrence hoped the problem wasn’t too trivial. He was tempted to ask why, but any further display of interest might look suspicious. “May I see Mr Podmore, then?”
The doorman nodded and showed him to a small room containing three high backed armchairs.
“You can wait here,” he said.
Lawrence surveyed the room. Copies of the SPR journal lay in date order across a table. He took one and flicked through without reading it. Two minutes later a man appeared. Lawrence recognised him from the previous evening. It was Frank Podmore.
He shook Lawrence’s hand. “Ah, Mr Blatworthy,” he said. “You are keen to join our ranks if I remember.”
Lawrence nodded. “Yes, I want to learn more,” he said.
“Good to hear. Anything in particular?”
Lawrence tried to remember what Podmore had talked about the previous night. “The work on thought transference interests me most,” he said.
The flattery worked. Podmore beamed. “Yes, I agree,” he said. “It is a subject close to my heart. Now, join me in the library. I’ll take your details there.”
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