The Ripper Deception Read online

  “I am not as busy as Frederick gives me credit for,” said William. “And have no involvement in any formal chemistry research at present. It is poor Frederick who suffers from not having enough hours in the day. He has less than an hour to finalise the programme for our next committee meeting. It's at Westminster Town Hall on Friday and time is precious. Whenever he makes a start on it, he loses the thread.”

  “Oh. The poor man must have been working on it when I interrupted.”

  “My dear Miss Smith. You have taken up no more than ten minutes of his time. He spent a far greater part of today speaking to a representative from the London Spiritualist Alliance. The man left moments before you arrived. He bought a donation for Frederick to present at our next meeting - a volume of works we were particularly keen to acquire. He was a most affable chap, but fond of the sound of his voice. It took a combined effort to get him to leave.”

  “I am surprised to hear that there is more than one spiritualist organisation in London. Wouldn't it be better to have all the expertise in one society? Or are you rivals?” Violet asked mischievously.

  “There is more truth in that than you could know,” said William. “As Frederick said, our methods often uncover fraudulent accounts of supernatural activity. There was some unpleasantness a few years ago and a growing suspicion that the SPR was becoming too sceptical. Some said that the Society took more interest in disproving spiritualism than investigating it. We lost a few well-regarded members that year. Some left to form other societies and some abandoned spiritualism altogether. One of them is in the library at the moment,” he continued. “Harry Kersey. Moved up north, to Newcastle, I think. He has made quite a name for himself there. But we are all friends now. He was in London on business and has come to use our facilities.”

  “Did you say you were a chemist, Professor Crookes?”

  “Yes. And I am also the President of the Institution of Electrical Engineers.”

  "I wonder how you manage to find time for anything else. What does the occupation of Professor of Chemistry entail?"

  William Crookes laughed. "I spend more time teaching and researching these days," he said. "But I was an inventor in my younger days. I doubt you have ever heard of it, but I invented the radiometer."

  Violet bit her lip. "Sorry, no."

  "And I discovered the chemical element Thallium."

  "I have heard of that. How fascinating. There seem to be a lot of well-educated men in The Society."

  “There are,” agreed Crookes. "Many of us have occupations."

  "Like Arthur?"

  “Yes, he practices in Belgravia. He is one of many doctors in the Society. There are at least five in London.”

  They had been chatting outside the door to the right of the hallway. The Professor pushed the door handle. "This is the Edmund Gurney library," he said.

  Violet walked through to find herself in a large room with four desks set in a square in the middle. Two men were hard at work in front of the desks working diagonally opposite each other. Books and jotters littered the space.

  “Excuse me,” said Professor Crookes. The men looked up and nodded before continuing their work.

  “Here,” he said, passing two small volumes to Violet. “Read that one first, then this one. He reached to a higher shelf containing a pile of bound papers. “Here is one of our journals,” he said. “You should find it interesting. There’s lots of information about our aims and aspirations, and a good helping of case studies as well.”

  “Thank you,” said Violet, leafing through a copy. There was page after page of letters and accounts. “How do you accumulate all this information?”

  “Our Society is better known than you might think. We invite people to submit accounts of their supernatural experiences. There are thousands of letters in that office waiting for analysis.” He pointed to a door at the rear of the library. “I won’t show you. I can only describe the room as a disorderly mess.”

  “Have you ever received any letters about the Ripper murders?”

  The question was out before Violet had time to consider the wisdom of it. Nobody in the Society knew that she was a private investigator, so it should be safe to ask. In the worst case, the Professor might assume that she was nosy.

  “There were a few,” he said. “Not as many as you might expect and most came in 1888 or early 1889. There was nothing of any relevance though. Only a few reports of anecdotal dreams and forewarnings, all conveniently received after the murders.”

  Violet nodded. “Well thank you so much for the books. I will return them as soon as I can. Do thank Mr Myers for his help.”

  William Crookes escorted her to the front door. Frederick Myers was nowhere in sight. As the Professor offered his hand, the front door creaked open.

  “Miss Smith,” a familiar voice exclaimed warmly.

  “Doctor Myers. How nice to see you.”

  “Are you staying in London?”

  “I am here for a few days,” she said. “Your colleagues have been very kind. They have loaned me books and journals so I can understand your work better.”

  “Wonderful,” said Arthur. “You wouldn’t be free? No, I don’t suppose you would if you are only in London for a brief time, but if you were free…?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. If you were free tonight, perhaps we could talk about it over dinner?”

  “I am free tonight,” said Violet.

  “Well, that’s marvellous. Let me know where you are staying, and I will collect you later.”

  Violet scribbled the address of The Regal Hotel in the notebook she habitually carried. She removed the page and passed it to Myers.

  “Splendid,” he said. “Until tonight then.”

  Violet left the building barely noticing the chill wind as she sauntered towards the Embankment with a broad smile on her face.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Report of the Strangest Nature

  “I’ll come straight to the point,” sighed Henry Moore resting his chin on steepled hands. “This D’Onston character is still getting in the way of our investigation. Every time we eliminate him, his presence manifests itself in another way. I could ask him to assist with our enquiries, but I don’t believe it is the right approach.”

  “And you think I can help?” asked Lawrence.

  “Yes, I do. It’s a shame that you have given up on the Brighton investigation. Perhaps you could pretend otherwise and introduce the matter again. Let him think it is the focus of your visit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have received a report of the strangest nature. An account which is hard to believe. In fact, I do not believe it, but I have to take it seriously.”

  “Go on.”

  “D’Onston was, until very recently, involved in a business. The Pompadour Cosmetique Company, to be precise.”

  A slow grin spread across Lawrence’s face. “You mean makeup? Not something I would have associated with him.”

  “Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it? And I do mean cosmetics - beauty creams, elixirs and the like.”

  “A strange occupation for a Satanist.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Henry, stuffily. “This is serious, Lawrence.”

  “What has he done?”

  “He was in partnership with two women, Vittoria Cremers and Mabel Collins. Both were business partners, and both are as peculiar as he is. They describe themselves as Theosophists.”

  “Explain.”

  “Good Lord, I don’t know. Some esoteric religious movement, I suppose. Anyway, that is beside the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is that their business relationship has disintegrated. Miss Collins has recently expressed an irrational fear of Mr D’Onston.”

  “Henry, I am afraid of Mr D’Onston myself. He is extremely odd.”

  “Well, yes. But it is more than that. A friend of Mabel Collins turned up here a few days ago. Miss Collins had told her that she thinks D’Ons
ton is Jack the Ripper.”

  “Why are you surprised? He has been under investigation for the very same thing. It is quite likely the accusations have followed him.”

  “We didn't announce it,” said Henry. “Her fears were not provoked by gossip. Regardless, Miss Johnson, who reported the event, says that Miss Collins will not approach us herself. She is too afraid. But she has told Miss Johnson that she saw a collection of bloodied neck ties hidden in D’Onston’s trunk.”

  “I have been in his room, and I don’t recall seeing a trunk.”

  “It is small tin trunk apparently.”

  “Can’t you simply search his room?” asked Lawrence.

  “We have questioned and cleared him once already,” said Henry. “Besides, he isn't The Ripper, assuming that the Ripper committed all the crimes attributed to him. No, it would be easier if you were to gain access and satisfy yourself that there is nothing to this report.”

  “You want me to search his room?”

  “I don’t think it will be necessary,” said Henry. “Let me know if there is a trunk, of course. The real purpose is for you to talk to him. Find out if there is another reason for Miss Collins to make a spurious claim against him.”

  “The failed business partnership sounds like a good starting point.”

  “Really?” I have known many unsuccessful business ventures, but never one that has resulted in an accusation of mass murder.”

  “Very well,” said Lawrence. “I take your meaning. I will endeavour to find out more about his dealings with Miss Collins under the guise of investigating Edmund Gurney. Though I warn you, he was quite hostile when I asked him about Brighton, and he denied seeing Gurney. It is going to take a lot of imagination to ask him a question that he hasn’t already answered in the negative.”

  “I’m sure you will think of something.”

  “Is there a tram stop nearby?”

  “Go through the gates and turn to your right. Are you going now?”

  “Yes. Whether D'Onston will be in or not is another matter.”

  “He will be there. We are keeping an eye on him, and he is a man of routine.”

  “Good.” Lawrence looked at his watch. “It shouldn’t take too long. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Ah, Blake.” There was a knock at the door, and a young constable dressed in plain clothes entered the room. He looked vaguely familiar.

  “Show Mr Harpham to the nearest tram stop,” asked Henry.

  PC Blake was a man of few words and guided Lawrence to the tram stop in virtual silence.

  Lawrence arrived just in time to see the tram pull away.

  “Damn,” he said, perching on a low brick wall near to the tram sign, but Blake had gone. Lawrence stared idly into the distance for a moment, failing to spot a shadow creep into his proximity.

  “Hello, Lawrence.”

  He clutched at his chest. ”Violet - what are you doing here?”

  “I said I would meet you.”

  “You did. I forgot. We’ve got to go to Charterhouse Street again.”

  “Now?”

  “Of course, now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why ever not? Have you got a better place to be?”

  “Yes, as it happens.”

  “Oh. Where are you going?”

  “I have been invited out for dinner.”

  “By whom?”

  “Doctor Myers.”

  “That chap you met at the Rectory?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  The sound of hooves interrupted their conversation as another tram drew up beside them.

  “You had better get off then,” said Violet.

  “Are you really not coming? I thought you wanted to be more involved.”

  “I do, but you don’t need me, and if I go to dinner, I will have another opportunity to find out more about the SPR.”

  “As you wish.” Lawrence turned abruptly and ascended the curved walkway of the tram. He strode towards the back and stared pointedly at Violet who was still watching from below.

  “You can tell me all about it later,” he called from the top deck of the tram.

  “I don’t know what time I will be back. Don’t wait up,” said Violet. She gave a carefree wave then walked away.

  Lawrence pulled his collar up and rubbed his gloved hands together, as he muttered under his breath. It was bitterly cold. He watched Violet as the tram pulled away trying to assess why he was so irritated at her dinner engagement. It was the selfishness of it, he disliked. She knew he was keen to find out more about the SPR. She could have manipulated Myers into making a joint invitation, yet she was going alone. He felt excluded from part of his own investigation. It wouldn’t do, but it was a conversation for tomorrow. He had better things to do this afternoon and would devote the rest of the journey to planning his conversation with D’Onston.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  An Angry Man

  “This is becoming a habit,” said D’Onston opening the door. Lawrence had asked the hotel errand boy to instigate a meeting. It was a gamble as D’Onston could easily have refused the approach, but Lawrence detected a note of loneliness in the older man. It was hardly surprising given his disquieting demeanour.

  “Come in, then.” D’Onston beckoned Lawrence inside. The curtains were open this time, and the ugly unlit candles were now little more than burnt out stumps. A pile of books covered one side of D'Onston's desk, and a dark mahogany wooden mask of African origin lay against the wall on the other side. It had fallen to the left and Lawrence felt a familiar surge of irritation as he contemplated the lack of care. It took all his self-control not to straighten it. He tore his gaze away from the desk and towards D’Onston.

  “It’s good of you to see me again,” he said.

  D’Onston nodded. “I was curious,” he replied.

  “As I am,” said Lawrence. “Curious about Brighton, that is. You have said that you didn’t see Gurney, but I forgot to ask you if you recognised anyone else in the Hotel that night.”

  “I did not,” said D’Onston. “I rarely visited The Albion and had few acquaintances there.”

  “But you had been in the Hotel before?”

  “Only once during that particular visit. And a few times on prior occasions. Why? Does it matter?”

  “It might,” said Lawrence, trying and failing to keep the conversation going. He had to do better than this if he was going to fulfil his obligation to Henry Moore. He gazed around the room looking for inspiration and signs of a trunk. Unless it was in a cupboard or hidden beneath the bed, there was no possibility of a container in D’Onston’s room, tin or otherwise.

  “Why would my prior visits be important?”

  Lawrence hesitated. “Edmund Gurney spent a lot of time in Brighton, conducting his experiments. You might have run into him.”

  “I have already told you that I did not.”

  "Do you know anything about his experiments?"

  "A little."

  "Did they have any scientific value?"

  “They had some merit,” said D’Onston. “I have studied the occult in depth. You could say I am something of an expert. I have acquainted myself with the methods and ideology of Gurney’s organisation.” He smiled self-importantly.

  “Could I prevail upon your expertise?” said Lawrence.

  “Of course.”

  “Were the Ripper murders connected to the occult?”

  “That is an excellent question,” said D’Onston, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. “It depends upon how many murders you credit the Ripper with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you discount the Dorset Street murder, which happened indoors, the other six form a perfect cross.”

  “And what is the significance of that?”

  “It was a profanity. It implies that the killer deliberately murdered according to location. The victims were incidental, or so I thought. But now I realise I must have been wrong.”


  Lawrence nodded. "I agree. No reason to suppose the murders are location based."

  “The locations are not the problem,” said D’Onston impatiently. “It's the other attacks that do not fit.”

  “What other attacks?”

  “Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson,” said D’Onston.

  “Who are they?” asked Lawrence. “I admit I don't know much about the Ripper murders, but I haven’t come across these names before.”

  “I told you the police were fools. They still don’t know how many women the Ripper murdered. I know without a doubt that Annie Millwood and Ada Wilson were among the first victims.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  D’Onston stopped talking. His mouth set in a thin line and he stared at Lawrence through narrowed eyes.

  “You seem strangely curious about the Ripper murders.”

  “It is hardly surprising. Half the population of London talks of nothing else.”

  “Yes, well, how I came by that knowledge is immaterial. What matters is that the two attacks disrupt the pattern and do not form a new one.”

  “Where did they die?”

  “They found Annie Millwood in White’s Row lying in front of the lodging house where she lived. The location was logical geographically speaking if you count the death of Mary Kelly into the series. I don’t, as it happens, but 8 White’s Row is only a short distance from Dorset Street. The other murder creates a bigger problem. Ada Wilson was in Stepney when her throat was cut. She lived much further away than any other victim, and her attack is out of sequence with my theory. Ada Wilson survived, but her attacker left her for dead. She lived to tell the tale but did not know who he was or why he wanted to kill her.”

  “And you are certain that she was a Ripper victim.”

  “It is beyond doubt. And now there is another unexplained murder.”

  “Frances Coles. Do you think she is a Ripper victim? How can that be? Jack the Ripper is dead.”

  D’Onston’s face darkened. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. I do not know whether Coles fits the pattern,” said D’Onston. “It cannot be, and yet, and yet… Do they think they can make a fool of me again?” He slammed his hand onto the desk. The African mask clattered to the floor, and Lawrence jumped backwards.