The Ripper Deception Page 10

  “I thought I recognised you,” he said. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  Violet smiled. “It will be lovely to have some company,” she said, glad of the distraction. She was becoming despondent about the investigation and losing faith in her ability to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion.

  “Where are you heading?” asked Myers.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’m not familiar with Chelmondiston.”

  “The Rector suggested a walk by the river when we spoke last night,” said Arthur. “It’s quite a long way, but well worthwhile, if you fancy it.”

  “That sounds ideal,” said Violet. “A long walk might keep out the cold. I have managed to leave my gloves behind.”

  “Have mine,” said Arthur Myers removing them from his hands. “They may be a little large, but they will keep you warm.”

  Violet started to speak, but Myers interrupted. “Please take them. I won’t enjoy our walk knowing you are cold, and I do not feel it myself. Besides, I have deep pockets.”

  Violet accepted the gloves and thanked the doctor. They turned off the narrow lane and walked together onto another straight path that stretched into the distance.

  “Tell me about your work,” asked Violet. “A life spent in medicine must be fascinating.”

  “Oh, it is,” Myers agreed. “I always wanted to become a Doctor, although it was a close-run thing between that and being a professional sportsman.”

  “They are two very different occupations,” said Violet.

  “Indeed. But I always enjoyed cricket and had some success at tennis,” said Myers. “I played at Wimbledon when I was a younger man in better health.”

  “How fascinating,” said Violet. Her walking companion was slim and wiry. She could easily imagine him participating in sporting events. His demeanour suggested that he was of a similar age to Violet and probably in his forties. He showed no signs of middle age spread or any outward sign of aches or pains. His hair was grey and slightly receding and his complexion fresh, although bags beneath his eyes suggested a lack of sleep. Violet could see no evidence of poor health and his appearance suggested otherwise.

  “But you chose to become a Doctor,” said Violet.

  “I did, and I am glad of it,” Myers replied. “A sporting occupation is a short-lived thing, so I studied medicine and became a physician. I am currently working at the Belgrave Hospital for Children,” he continued.

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “I do.” Myers smiled warmly. “It gives me the opportunity to practice medicine and conduct my research. It is a good life.”

  “What do you study?”

  “Have you heard of Raynaud’s disease?”

  “Is that something to do with your hands?”

  “Yes. It is a condition causing pain to the extremities.”

  “Is that why you gave me your gloves?”

  Meyers laughed. “I gave you my gloves because you were cold. There is no evidence of Reynaud’s disease in your hands.”

  “Oh, look.” Violet pointed ahead. They were nearing the end of the road, and the River Orwell was in sight. A small clutch of thatched cottages and an Inn bordered the lane and a brick-built boathouse nestled on the bank to their left. Wooden boats dotted the shore, some intact and some lying broken on the river bank. The choppy waters of the Orwell were murky blue. The riverside was bitterly cold yet bursting with life. Ahead, a young boy steered a rowboat to the shore where a woman was waiting, arms folded over her stiff white apron. Cattle grazed in a field which reached almost to the river banks where they were tended by a farmer, clad in layers of patched up clothes.

  Violet and Arthur reached the river's edge and surveyed the scene in silence. The Orwell heaved and churned to the rhythm of the wind as dark clouds rolled across the sky. Violet brushed a drop of spray from her face and then another before realising that it was a gentle scattering of snowflakes.

  “We had better go back,” said Doctor Myers.

  They returned up Pin Mill Lane, each distracted by their thoughts. Violet broke the comfortable silence that descended. "What made you interested in Psychical Research", she said. “It is so very different from science. It's nebulous, illogical and relies entirely on faith.”

  “No, it doesn't,” said Myers. “I became involved because of Frederick, my older brother. He has had a lifelong fascination with spiritualism. But our research isn't illogical and is quite compatible with my medical experience. There are scientific grounds for the study of hypnotism and more than adequate proof of the powers of faith healing. The mind is a powerful engine and belief in a cure can aid most conditions.”

  “Do you believe in spirits?” asked Violet.

  “It is not important one way or the other,” said Meyers. “I believe in scientific study and quantifiable results. It is important to approach these matters without prejudice and be circumspect and rational.”

  They were back in the village now and walking towards the Rectory. It was bitingly cold, but the snowflakes had petered out almost as soon as they began. Since they left, a shabbily dressed man had appeared in the front garden of the Rectory and was squatting by the side gate oiling a pair of shears.

  “Are you Mr Daldy, the gardener?” asked Violet.

  “That I am,” he replied.

  “Good morning. I am Violet,” she said, “and this is Doctor Myers.”

  She hesitated. This might be her only opportunity to question the gardener, and she was going to have to do it in front of the doctor without arousing suspicion. In the short time, she had known him Violet had already decided that she liked Doctor Myers. She hoped to portray curiosity rather than nosiness while appearing amiable instead of a gossip.

  The gardener stood and faced Violet. A web of crow’s feet surrounded his pale blue eyes, and his tanned skin was almost leathery. Deep laughter lines furrowed his face. “John Daldy, Ma’am. What do you need?”

  “Doctor Myers and his companion are investigating the noises in the Rectory,” said Violet. “I have found their accounts very interesting. Have you have ever heard any strange sounds yourself?”

  “I have heard them all right,” said Daldy, “and a worst night’s sleep I have never had in all my life.”

  “You stayed in the Rectory overnight?” asked Violet.

  “For one night only,” said Daldy. “Never again. It was just before Kitty left,” he continued. “Last year, before your lot came for the first time.”

  “Yes,” said Myers, “I remember reading the report. I believe Barkworth wrote it. I don’t recall reading an account from you.”

  “I left long before he arrived,” said Daldy. “Other gardening jobs to do, but the Reverend will have told him what happened.”

  “What did happen?” asked Violet.

  The gardener placed his shears on the floor and cleared his throat. “I have worked here for a long time,” said Daldy. “And the disturbances are nothing new. They happened a lot when Reverend Beaumont lived here, but he was never bothered. He had a big family, you see. His children were loud, always larking around and making noise. It drowned out the knocking and rapping, and it was only the servants that ever mentioned it. Well, eventually Reverend Beaumont left, and Reverend Woodward arrived. There were no children this time and the Reverend and Mrs Woodward rattled around the place alone. They bought their servants, of course, but none of them knew anything about the noises. Then one night the Reverend heard footsteps in the passageway. Doors began opening and closing when there was nobody around.”

  As the gardener spoke, Arthur Myers removed a notebook from his jacket pocket. He patted his coat, searching for a pencil, located one and began to take notes.

  Daldy continued. “Reverend Woodward asked his servants if they had heard anything, and they said they had. Kitty was especially upset. She had kept her fears under control while she thought the sounds were only in her imagination. As soon as the others started talking openly about a ghost, fear got the better of he
r. She was so distressed that the Reverend asked me, young Frederick and another man to search the house. We started in daylight so we could see clearly, and we examined every corner of the house, inspected the drains and took up the floorboards in one of the bedrooms. Even the ivy on the outside wall did not escape our notice. We pulled it away to make sure there was nothing beneath. And still, the noises continued.”

  “What happened on the night you stayed at the Rectory?” asked Violet.

  “It was the smell that did for me,” said John Daldy. “The bedroom reeked of sulphur, and all night I was disturbed by slamming, banging, rapping and footsteps. I did not sleep a wink. Then in the early hours of the morning, Kitty screamed and woke the whole household. Mrs Woodward was furious.”

  “Why?”

  “Kitty said she woke to see the shadow of a small grey-bearded man in shabby clothes standing by her bedside. Mrs Woodward did not believe a word of it. She threatened to dismiss Kitty, but it was too late. Kitty had already made her mind up. The house terrified her, and she said she wouldn't stay a moment longer. She didn’t. She packed her trunk and left the very next day.”

  “It is odd that Reverend and Mrs Woodward have such diverging views,” said Violet.

  “She hears the sounds the same as the rest of us,” said Daldy. “She cannot explain it so she will not admit it.”

  “What do you think it is?” asked Violet.

  “I think it’s the previous rector,” said Daldy looking down at his feet, embarrassed.

  “Reverend Beaumont?” asked Violet.

  “Not him, he’s still alive as far as I know,” said Daldy. “I mean old ‘cabbage’ Howarth, the one before. He was a rotten old miser. Never spent a penny while he was alive and then his will went missing after he died.”

  “You think he has come back to haunt the Rectory?” asked Violet.

  “It’s what they say in the village,” muttered Daldy. “They think it is the Reverend Richard Howarth risen from his grave in the churchyard. He has come back to claim his money.”

  “Have you ever seen this apparition?”

  “No,” said Daldy, “but old man Thompson saw it in the churchyard on the morning Reverend Howarth died in ‘63. Reverend Woodward may have seen the ghost and Kitty did. They’re all the sightings I know of.”

  “Well, thank you for explaining,” said Violet.

  The gardener tipped his cap, collected the shears and trudged off muttering below his breath.

  “Oh dear,” said Violet as they entered the Rectory. “Completely deluded.”

  “But quite compelling, from a parapsychological point of view,” said Myers.

  “It sounds rather unlikely,” replied Violet, dubiously.

  “It’s the first sighting, that interests me,” said Myers. “It's as good an example of a veridical hallucination as one could ask for.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “A veridical hallucination is one that corresponds with a real event — generally something that we can corroborate later on. In this case, Thompson saw what he thought was the ghost of the Rector which coincided with the Rector dying. It is all there in my brother’s book, Phantasms of the Living.”

  “Complicated, but fascinating,” said Violet. She was about to ask a question when Frank Podmore came down the stairs carrying a large leather bag.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, addressing Myers. “I have been looking for you everywhere. I was getting worried.”

  Meyers retrieved his pocket watch. “Good Lord, is that the time?”

  “Yes, it’s nine thirty,” said Podmore, “and high time we were off. Sidgwick is expecting us for supper.”

  “I must be on my way too,” said Violet.

  “How are you travelling?” asked Myers.

  “By train,” said Violet.

  “We are too. Our carriage to the station has arrived, and there is plenty of space. Would you care to join us?”

  “Oh, thank you, but no. I must speak with Mrs Woodward first. I will catch an afternoon train.”

  “Then I wish you a good day,” said Myers doffing his hat. “I enjoyed our conversation. The Headquarters of the SPR is in the Adelphi. If you are ever in London, do look us up.”

  “I will,” said Violet. The two men loaded their cases onto the carriage and Violet watched as it pulled away. She sighed. ‘Now just the small matter of what to tell Mrs Woodward’, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Back in the Buttermarket

  Monday - 2nd March 1891

  Violet stared out of the window of her office in the Buttermarket and reminisced about the previous year. She missed her employment as Mrs Harris’s companion and felt her absence keenly. Violet often remembered her former employers’ quiet fortitude in the face of poor health. She remembered every corner of the home they shared in Fressingfield. Mrs Harris had been formidable but kind, and Violet had felt useful and secure in her employment. When Mrs Harris died, it had been no less upsetting than it would have been for Violet to lose one of her kin.

  Lawrence’s offer of work had come as a surprise, all the more so when he suggested a partnership. Violet had accepted it gratefully, believing she could perform the task well. That certainty had dwindled lately as she felt Lawrence’s regard for her slip away.

  Violet realised early on that Lawrence was a complicated man, but the extent of his capricious nature came as a surprise. Violet was steady and not given to extremes of behaviour. She was always courteous, generally content and saw no reason why Lawrence should be otherwise. He was moody and downright rude when provoked. He had been unpleasant to their domestic last week. Poor Annie was only singing as she worked, and not very loudly. But Lawrence had thumped his fist on the table, then stalked into the yard where he admonished her loudly. Violet hoped it would not put Annie off coming in tomorrow. Good cleaners were hard to find, and Annie was very thorough.

  The bell jangled, and Lawrence strode into the office with a newspaper under his arm. “Good morning,” he said curtly, hanging his coat and hat on the stand by the inner hallway. “Good God, but it’s cold in here.” He walked towards the fireplace and prodded the fledgling fire.

  “It hasn’t been going long,” said Violet.

  “We should get that girl in to set it,” Lawrence replied. “What’s the point of having her if we need to set the fire ourselves.”

  “We don’t make up the fire,” said Violet. “I do. I can’t remember the last time you did it. Annie deals with it on the days that she is in and there isn’t enough money to pay for her to come more often.”

  Lawrence sighed. “I am expecting payment for that forgery business in Shottisham. Hasn’t it arrived yet?”

  “No,” said Violet. “The only fee that came in last week was from the Chelmondiston job.”

  “I’m surprised she paid that,” said Lawrence. “It was hardly the outcome she wanted.”

  “I did what she asked,” Violet replied. “There was no proof of any trickery. I wasn’t going to invent it. How are you getting on with your half of the ledgers?” Violet hastily changed the subject. She had not told Lawrence about the terse note Alice Woodward had sent with the fee. The letter made a pointed reference to Violet's lack of progress and Alice made it clear that she was only paying under sufferance.

  “I’ve nearly finished,” said Lawrence. “I’ve found some more anomalies. You?”

  “Yes, I found another discrepancy on Friday,” said Violet, “while you were in Norwich. Remind me what you were doing there? Another case, was it?”

  Lawrence ignored her. “Get your notes ready, and I’ll drop in and see Challoner later this afternoon. There’s no doubt that his clerk is fiddling the books. I will never understand why these people don’t check their employees work.”

  “He can’t check,” said Violet. “He is barely literate. His abilities lie elsewhere. That’s why he employs a clerk.”

  She took a clutch of papers from her drawer and dropped them
on Lawrence’s desk. “It’s all there,” she said. “I’ve checked every line of the ledger. There’s nothing else to find.”

  “Good,” said Lawrence. “Good that something has gone well, for once.”

  “What’s wrong now?” asked Violet.

  “Nothing new. Just problems,” he continued. “Hello, what’s this?”

  “Post from Friday,” said Violet. “I didn’t feel I ought to open something addressed to you marked Private and Confidential.”

  Lawrence grasped a brass letter opener in the shape of a sword and slit open the envelope. He removed one sheet of fine-lined paper and smoothed it over his blotting pad.”

  “Damnation,” he said, screwing the letter into a ball. He hurled it towards the fireplace, and it bounced off the coal pail.

  “Another problem?” asked Violet

  “It’s from Fernleigh,” said Lawrence gloomily. He put his head in his hands and sighed. “He’s read my report and doesn’t think there’s any point in investigating the Moss case any further.”

  “You can’t blame him,” said Violet. “It’s hard to understand why you took the case in the first place, not that there was a case, there being no fee involved.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before,” snapped Lawrence. “But Fernleigh is wrong. There is something inexplicable linking Ruth Moss to Edmund Gurney’s murder.”

  “Murder,” exclaimed Violet. “It’s an accidental death.”

  “No,” said Lawrence shaking his head. “It’s not, I’m sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because George Smith says so,” said Lawrence. “He knew Gurney better than almost anyone.”

  “Remind me, which one is George Smith?”

  “He worked with Gurney at the Society for Psychical Research,” said Lawrence. “Smith was Gurney’s secretary.”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Violet.

  “What?”

  “Both our cases involve the SPR to one degree or another.”