The Lawrence Harpham Boxset

by Jacqueline Beard

  The voice of Mary Kelly is always with me. She beckons me still, calls me to her. I hold the knife sometimes, fingering the blade and imagine it plunging into my neck, slicing through my flesh until it hangs in ribbons. I expect it will end that way.

  February 1891

  Someone broke into my house in Gunpowder Alley recently. They ransacked it yet took nothing away. It has made me uneasy, distrustful. It might be him, though why it should be, I cannot say. Unless he knows about this letter, but even if he finds the drawer, he cannot access it without the key. As a precaution, I will move it from my house. I find myself torn between keeping his secret at all costs and preserving my life. I cannot predict which will come to pass, though I have planned for both. This letter has been cathartic. I have unburdened myself, and it helps mask the feelings of guilt. Perhaps that is enough. But for the sake of completeness, the trusted three are…

  The gas lamps ignited with a click. Lawrence gasped and dropped his lantern on the floor. Two men appeared in front of him, their faces covered by harlequin masks. “You won’t be needing that,” said a deep voice reaching for the letter. Lawrence stood and backed away.

  “Give it to me,” the man hissed.

  Lawrence looked desperately around the room. The only exit was via the door, and the two men were blocking it. If he could only reach the window, he could wrench it open and jump through before they caught up with him. But there was no chance for action. One of the men rushed towards him, catching him unawares. The man raised his hand, and Lawrence felt a crack as something slammed against his head. A searing pain crashed through his skull, and the world went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Under Attack

  Tuesday 10th March 1891

  Lawrence opened his eyes. It was daylight, but his brain couldn't rationalise what his eyes were seeing. His face was cold on one side and something wet lapped against his chin. Where was he? He tried to move his hand, but nothing happened. He could not see his arms or feel them - and he was deathly cold. He blinked again and focussed on a riverbank, white with snow. Though stiff and uncomfortable, he was mostly dry and must be under shelter. He tried to raise his head but only managed to move it an inch off the ground. It was enough to see that he was under the arch of a bridge with his head almost in the water. He concentrated. Where were his hands? Not by his sides where they should be. His heart raced and he began an internal dialogue. Stop panicking. Think. He tried to move them again - nothing. Try one finger at a time. Yes. He wiggled the thumb of his right hand and finally realised that it was behind his back. His arms wouldn't move because they were tied together. He raised his head again. It was snowing. He was numb with cold. He needed to get out of his bonds and soon.

  Lawrence tried to shuffle to one side, but his legs weren't moving either. It didn’t take long to understand that they were also bound together. He was trussed up like a turkey. How had it happened?

  He peered across the river, squinting as light stung his eyes. His head spun, and he felt sick. The indentation in the ground in which his head had been lying was red with blood - his blood. His head screamed with pain. His body was stiff and chilled to the marrow. If he didn't move soon, hypothermia would follow. He must get help. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. “Help…” The word came out, but it was inaudible. He licked his parched lips and tried again. “Help.” The word was a little louder this time, but there was nobody to hear it.

  He tried to remember how he had got to this unfamiliar destination. What was he doing? He searched in vain for his last memory, but everything was foggy. Who was he? Oh God, he couldn’t even remember his name. All he knew for sure was that he needed urgent help.

  Lawrence wriggled his toes. They were numb, but not enough to prevent movement. He forced his legs towards the ground and the ropes gave enough for his feet to touch the surface. He ploughed the front of his shoes into the muddy ground and propelled himself forward a tiny distance. Gravel gouged his chin. Inch by painful inch, he wormed forwards across the riverbank until he passed around the bridge where there was a clearer view. A woman wearing a dirty coat and a threadbare shawl mudlarked on the banks of the freezing river. She had cleared snow from a patch of earth and was scraping it with a shovel. “Help.” Lawrence croaked, but she did not hear. He tried again, but his head was swimming. He wanted to sleep. No energy - one last try. “Help.” This time she turned her head. He gazed at her as she searched the river trying to locate the source of the sound. By the time she saw him and began her cautious approach, he had closed his eyes and succumbed to the cold. He was barely alive by the time she reached him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Violet in Charge

  12th March 1891 - Violet Smith’s journal

  They dragged Lawrence half dead from The Thames yesterday and he hovers between life and death. Poor Michael had only just reached his parish in Norfolk when he received my telegram. He has returned to be by my side while we wait to see whether Lawrence will live or die. Michael is writing a sermon as I sit here updating my journal trying not to think the worst. Lawrence’s prognosis is poor. He received a terrible blow to the head and suffered from exposure to the elements during the worst week of weather we have seen for many years. Lawrence was the victim of a terrifying attack. The police think he was set upon, robbed, bound and tossed over the side of a low bridge. His attackers did not care if he lived or died. The fall could have caused fatal injuries. Instead, he escaped with a broken leg, broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Had he not fallen in the lea of the bridge, he would have died of hypothermia. But he has survived so far, and we can only hope that luck remains on his side. The doctors say we will know one way or another in the next few days.

  18th March 1891

  Lawrence woke yesterday with no memory of what had happened. In fact, he remembered nothing at all, nor did he recognise me. Doctor Naylor conducted extensive examinations and has concluded that Lawrence has amnesia. He believes it will be temporary, but only time will tell. Lawrence’s injuries are mending well, but he is frail. Michael and I have spoken to him several times, but he keeps interrupting and asking who we are. His frustration makes him angry. He threw a glass of water on the floor in temper this morning. I telephoned the Society for Psychical Research yesterday hoping to speak to Doctor Myers to ask if he could give a considered opinion on Lawrence’s prospects. Mr Barkworth will pass on my message.

  21st March 1891

  Lawrence has made some progress. He now recognises Michael and has remembered some of his earlier life. They talk together of their shared memories of Bury Saint Edmunds. Michael has steered the conversation away from the subject of Catherine. He worries that any mention of her will bring on one of Lawrence’s black moods. Arthur telephoned me a few days ago and offered useful advice about coaxing memory recall. His duties leave him tied to his hospital at present, but he will visit as soon as there is an opportunity.

  22nd March 1891

  Doctor Naylor has expressed his concern at Lawrence's lack of progress. He thinks he is unlikely to show further improvement in this hospital. His physical injuries have healed, and there is no risk in moving him, but the Doctor believes he will fare better in a more familiar place. He has telephoned The Bury and West Suffolk Hospital and they have agreed to treat Lawrence. We will join him there tomorrow. Arthur called again and said how sad he was to hear that we are leaving London. I am disappointed too - more than he knows. But he has said that he will write to me and it has eased the pain a little.

  25th April 1891

  Lawrence has been in Bury hospital for over a month. He seemed to be recovering well but caught pneumonia after a week and went rapidly downhill. The outcome of his illness was uncertain once again, and we lived in fear of his demise. He has rallied this last week and is doing well. He recognises me and has begun to discuss aspects of our earlier cases. Michael visits when he can, and Lawrence takes considerable pleasure in their meetings. I have written to Arthur twice now bu
t am yet to receive a response.

  Summer 1891

  Lawrence was moved to a nursing home in Felixstowe and will stay there through the summer. We hope he will improve enough to be discharged to his house, here in Bury. It is has become hard for me to visit as much as I would like. I have devoted all my time to the running of our business. It has been a baptism of fire. I have carried on advertising and have taken as many cases as I can manage. But with no experience and not having the benefit of Lawrence’s guidance, it has been a slow, lonely process. I have come to understand his ways better. Recently, I took a case - a theft at The Willows cafe. The manageress did not want the police involved and asked for a gentle approach. I took my time to get to know the staff and deduced, eventually, that only three were present at the probable time. But narrowing the crime from three people to one proved almost impossible. So, I mulled it over and thought about what Lawrence might do.

  I knew he would rely on instinct, but was mine the equal of his? I considered the suspects’ characters and, free from the binds of logic, only one person stood out from the rest. The next day I questioned her at length. I was firm and direct, and to my surprise, she faltered and contradicted herself. Before long, she confessed. She was not a natural lawbreaker and took the money to help her ailing mother. She is repaying it bit by bit and still works at The Willows. The outcome of the case could hardly have gone better, and I learned that there is more to the art of investigation than facts alone.

  It took several months, but Arthur replied to my letter. He had undertaken a time-consuming medical research project, hence the delay. But he has now finished and is looking forward to resuming normal duties. Mr Podmore and his SPR colleagues are still very busy, and his brother Frederick is writing another book. Henry Sidgwick and Thomas Barkworth are both well and have asked after me. The Chelmondiston investigation is now concluded and has been a great success. It is notable because the SPR members were there to witness the phenomenon making it unique in their annals. Mr Barkworth says it is a testimony to the importance of collecting first-hand accounts of paranormal experiences. A report will appear in the journal in due course, and it will remain one of their most important cases. I feel privileged to have been present.

  9th November 1891

  Lawrence returned to our offices in the Buttermarket last week. He is still too thin and walks with the aid of a stick, but it will not always be so. He sat on his chair with a cup of tea in his hand, and it was like old times. I have given him a case to look through. It is not too taxing and will not take him away from Bury Saint Edmunds. He pulled faces when I briefed him about my expectations, torn between gratitude for still having a business, and irritation about not being in control of it. His presence has lifted an enormous burden from my shoulders. I have someone to talk to, at last, and the world is not such a lonely place. The promised copy of the journal of the Society for Psychical Research arrived in the morning post and contains a full account of the Chelmondiston haunting.

  5th May 1892

  It has been many months since Lawrence’s accident, but he still remembers nothing. His amnesia has been constant, and the Doctors think it unlikely that he will ever recall the events of that night. He cannot remember being in London, only Brighton. I have kept the press clippings from the week that he unmasked The Ripper, but they are meaningless to Lawrence. He stares at them for hours on end, trying to find something familiar, but it feels like it happened to someone else. Lawrence has been under medical care for such a long time, that his part in the Ripper’s capture is mostly forgotten. The accolades went to Scotland Yard. It is for the best, and we can go about our business unrecognised. I cannot help but feel that a piece of Lawrence is missing. He is quieter, more introspective and tormented by something to which he cannot give voice. Nightmares still haunt him. They are as intense as they were in his first week in the hospital. He remembers snatches of dreams but cannot join them together. Since his return to work, he spends as much time trying to recall what happened in London as he does with our current investigations. At the beginning of the year, he fitted a cork board to the rear office wall and pinned up pages from the journal he had written in Brighton and all the Ripper press clippings that he could find. At his request, I spent endless nights recounting everything I could remember about our time there. I gave detailed accounts of all the information he told me about Roslyn D’Onston, White’s Row and Elias Haim, but it was difficult. Lawrence investigated so much without me. I was oblivious when he left The Regal Hotel that day. I cannot account for why he left and cannot imagine where he went and what he was doing there. Unfortunately, neither can he.

  10th March 1893

  It is hard to believe that it is two years to the day since they found Lawrence lying on the banks of The Thames. Harpham and Smith Private Investigators grows from strength to strength, yet we still cannot deduce how Lawrence came by his injuries. He is at his physical best since we were first acquainted. All his wounds have healed, and he received medical attention to his left hand while in hospital. His hand still bears the scars, but it is stronger than before, and he has more use from it. His memories of Catherine returned piecemeal last year. They seeped through bit by bit and Lawrence bore it with quiet resignation. The lost memories of London torment him more than Catherine now. He has tried to find Roslyn D’Onston's whereabouts but to no avail. He wanted to go back to London and seek him out, but that was a step too far for me. I would not allow it. We have grown closer, Lawrence and I, since his injury and he listens to my concerns and respects my feelings. The suggestion that he might return to London upset me, and I took no pains to hide my distress. He reluctantly agreed to conduct his enquiries in writing, but so far nothing has materialised. It is good that he takes a more measured approach. The old Lawrence would have bolted to London with no regard for the consequences. He has memorised everything that I have told him about the case and anything else that he has read. He has all the known facts at his disposal. Only his memories are lacking, but it is his memories that hold the key.

  7th January 1894

  Everything has changed. We were beginning a new case and Lawrence wanted to gain access to a property in the guise of a tradesman. He was preparing himself in our office and had located his fake beard which had been mislaid. He affixed it using the mirror next to the notice board which had come away from the wall. A carpenter had been that morning and replaced it with glue and nails. He left just before Lawrence arrived. From the moment Lawrence walked through the door, the smell of the glue bothered him. He held a handkerchief to his nose as the fumes caused him to sneeze, but donned the beard and moustache set anyway. Then he retrieved a charcoal stick from a tin in his pocket and completed his disguise. I watched him as he scanned the room. He kept wrinkling his nose and clasping his temples. He seemed in turmoil, and I pretended not to notice, fearful of what he might say. But his behaviour was so unusual that I asked him what was wrong, and he looked quizzically towards me. He approached his desk, sat down, and put his head in his hands. Filled with alarm, I put my arm around him and again asked what had upset him. He stared at me brow furrowed. “It’s the smell, Violet. The smell of the glue. I remember that smell.” I asked him where he remembered it from, and he screwed up his eyes, trying in vain to sift through his thoughts. Then he raised the collar of his coat and sniffed. “It was almost there for a moment,” he said, looking crestfallen as the memory slipped away. Lawrence hovered by the notice board all morning and did not leave the office when he should have. Then, after fruitless efforts at recall, he announced, in frustration, that he was going for a walk. The bell jangled as he stepped outside into the cold street. It had started to snow. A minute later Lawrence burst through the door, eyes sparkling, joyful. “I know,” he said. “I remember. The old coat with glue on the collar, the disguise. White’s Row. It was snowing Violet. The night they attacked me, it was snowing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Death of A Friend

  Lawrence
spent the next morning in front of the board at the rear of his office. The flood of returning memories had taken him by surprise, and he sought to fit them into an orderly sequence. As one memory triggered another, he checked it against the facts he had amassed in the intervening years. But his mind ached with the bombardment of new information.

  Lawrence sighed and stroked his chin. “What was I wearing when I left the hotel?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see you,” said Violet closing her journal. It had been an hour since Lawrence’s memory had returned and he had been asking a slew of questions ever since.

  “It probably doesn’t matter, but I think it had something to do with a coat,” he concluded. “I recall going to White’s Row, Violet. That’s why I left the hotel.”

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “Can you remember why?”

  Lawrence bit his lip. “I was looking for something,” he said slowly. “And I found it. Yes, I found a key. I found a key, and I used it to open a drawer.”

  “Where?”

  “In a desk in the library of the Headquarters of the Society for Psychical Research.”

  “You sound very certain.”

  “I am very certain. I remember now. There were documents,” Lawrence continued, narrowing his eyes as he searched for the next memory.

  “Dear God, Violet. Haim wasn’t the Ripper.”

  Violet shook her head. “He was Lawrence. There were body parts in his bedroom.”

  “No. Haim was protecting somebody else.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would he do that?”

  “Loyalty.”