Lawrence walked briskly towards the hotel hoping that Violet would have returned, but knowing that it was unlikely, given the length of the journey to Kew. His thoughts turned to Haim. What did he know about the man and what was speculation? The newspaper clippings were factual. While they did not name D’Onston, they were personal advertisements written as D'Onston described. Then there was the scalpel with the blood on the handle. But was the blood human or animal? And was the weapon used on poor Frances Coles a scalpel or a knife? As far as Lawrence could remember, Doctor Phillips hadn’t specified the type of blade that slashed her throat three times. And that was all the evidence he had against Haim. The fact that the man dwelled in White’s Row was circumstantial. He was sure of Haim's guilt but needed more proof and the best way to get it was from Scotland Yard.
Lawrence doubled back from Westminster Bridge and made his way towards the Embankment. He entered the open building and asked for Henry Moore. Henry was not available nor was he expected back that day. Lawrence asked to speak to Fred, who Henry had deemed the fount of all knowledge. But the young policeman behind the desk was uncooperative and viewed Lawrence as a nuisance. He refused to answer any questions or allow Lawrence to speak with a senior officer and there was no choice but to leave. Lawrence arrived back at The Regal, frustrated and angry. He paced the floor of his bedroom waiting for time to pass. desperate to make use of Violet’s logic. She knew nothing about Haim. The opportunity to tell her had not arisen but Lawrence felt sure she would have something sensible to contribute. Perhaps a plan for what to do next.
At half past four, he ventured downstairs and sat fidgeting in an armchair until tiredness overcame him and he fell asleep. Michael roused him an hour later by gently shaking his shoulder.
“You were snoring,” he said amiably.
Lawrence rubbed his eyes and focussed.
“Where’s Violet?”
“I don’t know. I hoped you did.”
“But you went to Kew together.”
“I know. We’ve been back for almost an hour. I popped upstairs to change. Violet was talking to the Hotel Manager when I left, but she’s not in her room, and I can’t find her anywhere else.”
“Have you asked the Manager if he knows where she is?” Lawrence was on his feet now, pulling at the curtain as he peered out of the window. The street was empty.
“I can’t find him either.”
“Come with me.”
Lawrence burst through the double doors to the dining room. A young lady was setting the tables for dinner.
“Where is Mr Brookbank?”
She pointed outside. Lawrence exited via the rear door with Michael following behind.
Brookbank was cooperative and told them that he had seen Violet and had given her a telegram which arrived just after she returned from Kew. She had asked him for directions to the nearest telephone and was sent to a nearby street containing the larger of the local hotels.
“So, she could be anywhere,” Lawrence hissed when they were back inside.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be back soon,” said Michael reasonably.
But she wasn’t. They waited half an hour and then another hour, and at six o’clock, Lawrence pulled his watch from his pocket, checked the time and snapped it shut.
“I’m not waiting any longer. Follow me.” He stepped into the street and hailed a cab. As they crossed Westminster Bridge, Lawrence told Michael about his encounter with Haim. He pulled the scalpel from his pocket and showed it to Michael who recoiled in disgust. They pulled up outside the Headquarters of the SPR and Lawrence jumped from the cab and knocked at the door. The building was unlit, and he remembered Barkworth saying that it would close at 3 o’clock. It had been a long shot, but Lawrence needed to rule out the possibility of Violet going to the building to see her new friends.
He turned to the driver. “Take us to Leman Street,” he ordered.
The cabman nodded.
“Quickly,” said Lawrence, and they sped off into the night.
The hansom cab pulled up outside Leman Street police station. Lawrence flung the door open and vaulted down, without waiting for Michael. He strode through the door of the police station and over to a red-bearded constable who was sitting behind a desk. “Yes?” he asked.
“Is Henry Moore here? Or Edmund Reid?”
“Inspector Reid is around,” said the policeman.
“Well, fetch him then.”
“And who might you be?”
Lawrence sighed impatiently. “Tell him Lawrence Harpham is here. I’m a friend of Henry Moore’s.”
The policeman left and returned moments later with Inspector Reid. “Mr Harpham,” he said, extending a hand. “How can I help?”
“My business partner, Miss Smith, was the victim of an attack near The Paul’s Head a few nights ago.”
Edmund nodded. “I remember. One of my constables was first to the scene. I trust she has recovered.”
“Yes, she is well. The cut was superficial, as you know, but she is missing. I cannot go into details, Reid. There is not enough time. But I am working on a case, and it concerns an individual, Elias Haim. He may have Violet. I recovered this from his house last night.” Lawrence produced the scalpel. Edmund took it and turned it over in his hand.
“Those marks are bloodstains,” said Lawrence.
“It is possible,” Edmund said. “But why do you think he wishes to harm your friend?”
“I have reason to suppose that the organisation Haim works for has been protecting him. I believe he killed Edmund Gurney and it is possible that he's involved in the Ripper killings.”
Edmund Reid raised his eyebrows. “That is a bold statement to make. Have you proof?”
“No. The only evidence I have is circumstantial. But I cannot risk it. Violet is missing, and I am going to search Haim’s house, with or without your help. I would prefer it to be with your help. The man is dangerous.”
“You have given me no justification.”
“Look Reid. I was in the force for a long time. You know as well as I do that sometimes you have to take a chance. I am giving you justification. I am about to break into the house of a man against his will. You can come and arrest me if you want to justify your presence.”
Edmund Reid sighed. “Where are we going?”
“Gunpowder Alley. The first house on the left.”
“Peters, McCarthy - you heard the man. Get up there now.”
Michael was waiting in the cab with the door open. He squeezed towards the window allowing enough room for Edmund Reid to join them.”
The cab driver scowled. “Where are we going now?” he asked, defeatedly.
“White’s Row, quick as you can.”
The cabman cracked the whip, and the horses thundered up Leman Street. The three men held onto the seat and the window frame as the cab rocked from side to side.
“Michael, when we leave, get the cab driver to run you back to the hotel, just in case.”
Michael nodded. Moments later, they arrived by the archway leading to Gunpowder Alley. Lawrence and Reid leapt from the cab and ran towards the terraced house.
Haim had locked the front door, and the rooms were dark. Lawrence peered through the front window but couldn’t see anything. The house was silent.
“Come with me,” he said, running towards the gate in the centre of the terrace of properties.
The back of the house lay in darkness save for a sliver of light from the pale moon casting shadows of spectral branches across Haim’s yard. Lawrence opened the gate, and the latch clicked loudly in the still of the night. Both men stood side by side, surveying the cold, dead house and Lawrence pulled up his collar. It was freezing, and a glassy frost was settling on the footpath to the back door.
Neither man spoke as they walked toward the house. Edmund Reid gripped the door handle and pulled, but it did not give. Lawrence approached the kitchen window, took his scarf and wiped the newly formed frost from the glass. He peered inside.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they gravitated towards the floor. A pile of metal crisscrossed the tiles. He looked again, then turned to Reid.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Reid stared inside. “Stand back,” he growled, then bent over and picked up a stone from beneath the window. He rapped it sharply against the glass, and the window exploded in a burst of sparkling shards. Reid put his hand through the jagged hole and opened the window latch, pulling the window to its fullest extent. He climbed inside. A few moments later, Lawrence heard the click of the back door, and Reid stood in the moonlight with an unfathomable expression on his face. Lawrence entered and crouched over the heap of metal on the kitchen floor. It was a pile of knives - a grotesque selection of every kind of blade from penknives to cleavers. They lay in a jumbled mess across the tiles.
“Haim must be out,” whispered Lawrence. “He could not fail to hear that glass break.”
"Find some light," said Reid.
“Follow me.” Lawrence located the door to the dining room and opened it. The matches and a candle were where they had been yesterday.
“I don’t know what you expect to find,” said Reid. “The house is empty. Your young woman is not here.”
“I don’t trust him,” said Lawrence, “and I’m not leaving until I’ve searched every inch of this house. He might have a basement.”
Reid stamped his foot on the dining room floor. He repeated it in the kitchen.
“There’s no basement,” he said. “The floor is solid.”
Lawrence opened the door to the parlour. It was cold and his breath misted in the air. “He’s not been in here tonight.”
They climbed the stairs, treading lightly and walked past the closed bedroom doors. Lawrence opened the door to the larger bedroom. “Dear God,” he exclaimed.
“What is it?”
Lawrence took a step into the room allowing Reid a clear view. In the middle of the bed, in the flickering candlelight was the bloodied body of Elias Haim. A savage wound gaped across his throat. Scrawled above the bed in red writing were the words ‘God forgive me.’
Edmund Reid stood stationery. The enormity of the scene before him was sinking in. “Bring over more light, Harpham, for God’s sake.”
Lawrence returned to his hiding place from the night before. The lamp was where he had left it behind the door. He lit it using the candle and placed it on the large chest of drawers.
Reid approached Haim’s body and lifted his hand to check for a pulse. Congealed blood covered both wrists. “Dead,” he said, unnecessarily. “And he wasn’t taking any chances. He cut his wrists and slashed his throat. Not long ago either - the body is still warm.”
A glint of steel glimmered in the lamplight. Lawrence leaned over with his candle and pointed to a large, bloody kitchen knife.
Reid followed his gaze. “He did it himself?”
“So it would appear. What’s this?” Lawrence’s candle had illuminated a note tucked inside the book on the crate. Reid put his hand out to pick it up. At that moment, footsteps thundered up the stairs making the two men jump.
Edmund Reid wiped his brow. “About time, McCarthy,” he said. “What kept you?”
McCarthy glared. He was panting so hard he couldn't speak then he looked past Reid and towards the dead man on the bed. He crossed himself. “Holy mother of God.”
“Get a doctor. Bagster Phillips, if you can.”
Peters had followed McCarthy up the stairs and was staring at the body. It took a few moments before his brain comprehended what his eyes were seeing. He put his hand to his mouth and retched. “Come on,” said McCarthy and they escaped downstairs and set off to find a doctor.
“What does it say?” Lawrence gestured towards the note. Edmund Reid slid it out of the book and opened it. “It can’t be…” his voice trailed away. Almost at the same time, Lawrence spied a glint of glass through a gap in the bedroom curtains. He approached the window and flung the curtains back. Two jars stood side by side on the window ledge. The lamplight did not stretch close enough for Lawrence to see their contents. He took the candle over and set it down by the jars. They were full of liquid, and a muddled, brown substance occupied the lower half of each. Lawrence opened the lid of the closest jar and recoiled at the smell of formaldehyde. He peered at the contents and almost dropped the candle. “Good Lord Reid, it’s a kidney.”
Reid nodded. “I would imagine that the jar next to it contains a preserved uterus. He waved the letter. It's a confession, Harpham. A signed confession. We’ve caught Jack the Ripper.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Nagging Doubt
Monday 9th March 1891
The Ripper’s death made the front page of every London newspaper. Reporters besieged The Regal Hotel, and everyone wanted to know more about the man who had found Jack. Henry Moore had arrived, triumphantly, and congratulated Lawrence on his success. In a private moment, he admitted that he would not have pursued the case any further left to his own devices. Lawrence’s instinct was remarkable. His intuition had stopped the fiend of Whitechapel in his tracks. Lawrence was a hero and the most revered policeman in the whole of London. Lawrence listened to all the accolades, and yet, and yet…
It should have been perfect. Lawrence had spent his whole career waiting for a moment like this. A case not only successful but widely admired. And Violet was back. She had been waiting for Michael when he returned. The telegram she had received was from Bury Saint Edmunds. A new customer wanted to use their services and proposed a payment too good to ignore. Violet had left immediately to find a telephone with which to confirm arrangements. One call had led to another and another. By the time she returned, the situation had become so confused that she wasn’t sure there was a case at all - more like a wild goose chase. But she was safe, and that was all that mattered. And Haim was gone and with him the threat of danger to Violet.
Lawrence prowled the hotel searching for peace. He was proud of the part he had played in exposing Haim but hated the attention. Violet coped better, holding court in the coffee room on their behalf and protecting him from intrusive questions. She was a natural with the Press and made the most of the opportunity to promote their business. Lawrence contemplated leaving for Bury. There was no point in extending their stay in London. Better to move sooner rather than later. He went to his room and pulled open his wardrobe wondering how much time it would take to pack. Not long, he decided. He could be out of London within the hour. He peered through the window. Some of the crowd had dispersed, but he didn’t think he would be able to leave without attracting attention. It was windy outside, and the sky was heavy with dark clouds. It felt like a storm was brewing. He should go as soon as possible and hope that he could dodge the weather - and hope that life would be quieter back in Bury. No doubt the fuss would die away soon.
Lawrence slid his suitcase from under the bed and decided to give Violet another half an hour before telling her of his intentions. She might choose to stay in London a while longer, but more likely would join him. Michael had already taken the early morning train to Norfolk, content in the knowledge that Violet was safe. There was little left to make her stay unless she chose to spend time with her SPR friends.
Lawrence removed a spare pair of trousers from the wardrobe, folded them and put them in the bottom of the suitcase. Then he reached for the next item before realising that it did not belong to him. It was the hotel caretakers coat. He searched for the hat and found it on top of the wardrobe and decided to return both items without delay. Lawrence placed the jacket over his arm and walked towards the door wrinkling his nose as the familiar smell of glue wafted from the collar. It was a smell he associated with waiting - waiting for Haim to leave his house and waiting for sleep to come during his last visit to Spitalfields Chambers. How ironic that his sleep had been so fitful on the second occasion when he slept soundly on the first. Perhaps it was because he had occupied a different bedroom. Or that joining Sarah Fleming for a drink
in the kitchen on the first occasion, had created a soporific effect. Spitalfields Chambers may have been a low doss house, but Lawrence had been warm, and the company had been friendly - and Sarah told a good story. They had chatted together for the best part of an hour. What was it she had told him? He had almost forgotten, but wasn’t there something about a dead doorman? Yes, that was it. Charlie had died, and before he died, a well-dressed man had been poking around the doss house looking for something. Something left in a bed occupied by a swarthy, sinister man the night before. What could that be? For a moment, Lawrence considered dropping by White’s Row for another look. Then he stopped himself. They had caught the Ripper, and there was nothing further to do. He shook his head and left the room, making for the basement. Who could the man be? Elias Haim was swarthy. In hindsight, he was sinister. But why would he use a doss house only a few yards from his own home?
Lawrence reached the Caretaker’s door and tried the handle. It was open, and he went inside. It would be sensible to hide the coat rather than leave it in full view where the caretaker would see it and wonder where it had been. Lawrence paused to think. Concealing something in an abode or place of work didn’t make it well hidden. Far better to put it somewhere wholly unexpected - like the end bed of a doss house dormitory. Stop it. Lawrence rebuked himself as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He didn’t like leaving loose ends, but Charlie’s death wasn't a matter for him.
Charlie had died of apoplexy — natural causes. Only Sarah’s conviction suggested otherwise - and what did she know? Instinct, he thought. She had known Charlie better than the coroner, better than the doctor. If it was good enough for Lawrence to trust his intuition, then it was good enough to believe in hers. All he had to do, was go back to the doss house and check the end bed. If there was nothing there, then he could go back to Suffolk. It would only take a couple of hours. And he didn’t have to pretend anymore. There was no need to dress up. He would do exactly what Charlie’s gentleman had done, slip upstairs when the coast was clear and check the bed. Lawrence felt more comfortable having made the decision. He hung the coat on the door hook and left the hotel by the rear entrance.
The Lawrence Harpham Boxset Page 46