The Ripper Deception Page 17

  July 1888

  I found the summer of ‘88 gruelling. The weather was unremarkable, but my days passed in an endless stream of meetings and appointments. It was a busy time, both personally and professionally and I grew tired. Fatigue set in and drove me to self-medication. I found myself more disorientated then I had been in a long time.

  I resolved the Gurney dilemma in June with help from a colleague. He assisted me, but not unconditionally. Against his interests, he insisted on an explanation, and a detailed one, at that. I unburdened myself to the most trustworthy of men in the certain knowledge that he would not betray me. Nor did he. Nor could he without bringing the organisation into disrepute. That reason was minor compared to the other self-interested reason he had for maintaining my integrity. He alone assisted me with the Brighton dilemma, but two others soon became involved. My benefactor felt unable to take sole charge of my future and needed help. The men he chose were familiar with my affliction and, at least on the surface, sympathetic. All were loyal to the SPR and swore to keep my secret, providing that I did everything in my power to manage the problem. I was confident in my ability to comply. I had stopped travelling by train and kept to my home whenever I did not have an evening appointment.

  Then, in early July, a letter arrived at the SPR Headquarters. Anyone could have opened it, but fate intervened and placed it in the hands of one of the trusted three. The letter contained news of a most disturbing kind. How it had come about, I could not imagine, but a certain Roslyn D'Onston had intercepted my message to Gurney.

  We knew him, of course, for we shared common interests, though his were of the darker kind. Rumours circulated that he was a student of black magic, if not a practitioner. He was a disreputable man and entirely without morals made clear from his letter containing a threat of blackmail. The trusted three managed the situation without involving me, and I was grateful. The letter had unnerved me, and I was beginning to suffer more seizures. I brooded over D'Onston as I went about my business, wishing him ill, wondering how easy it would be to exterminate him, as I had Edmund. But there were too many unknowns, and I resolved to leave my friends to deal with it. I tried not to worry, but it preyed on my mind.

  Another woman was attacked early in August. This time, I was the culprit. I did not have to resort to the press to check my guilt for I remembered it surprisingly well. I had gone to Clerkenwell to visit an old friend, but I never reached his house. As I walked towards it, a feeling came upon me. My mouth grew dry, and my tongue felt too big. I smacked my lips together in that hitherto familiar way, then my recall became sketchy. Snatches of memory flitted out of grasp as I passed through Spitalfields and into Whitechapel.

  When I regained my faculties, I was standing next to a woman in a dingy yard. She was plain and plump with an aroma of ale that made me queasy. I can only imagine what I must have said to her, for she turned away from me and lifted her skirts. I hesitated, repulsed and in a coarse cockney accent she told me to get on with it.

  I did. I thrust my hand into my pocket and felt for the two knives I had taken from home earlier. One was a pocket penknife and the other, a ceremonial dagger that I kept in a display case. I put my arm around her chest and reaching from behind, I thrust the blade deep into her breast. She gasped, and I released her and let her fall to the floor. I discarded my coat and dropped the dagger. Her eyes fluttered shut, but her mouth gaped open as if she was snoring. Her neck was fat, and her fleshy double chin wobbled as she took short panting breaths. The notion that this woman expected me to engage in intercourse with her was insulting, repellent. The wound had left her half dead, but it wasn’t dead enough. I took my penknife and rammed it into her throat. I pulled it out, and the sight of her blood made me angrier still. I thought of D’Onston and blackmail and Edmund and the unfairness of my affliction. I stabbed her over and over until I was too tired to continue. Then, I wiped the knives on her skirts, put on my coat and left the alley. I almost walked into the path of two soldiers coming down the opposite side of the road but managed to avoid them.

  I walked the four miles home with a clear head. My thoughts and memories were lucid. Somehow there had been a sea change in my attitude. When I killed the first women, I had no control. It happened because of an automatism. I planned Gurney's murder, but with compassion. Tonight was different. Though I couldn't remember taking my penknife or the ceremonial dagger, there was no doubt that I had. This act indicated foresight. I had not been in full command of my faculties before encountering the woman in the alley, but I was when I murdered her. I chose to kill her, and I relished it. The pent-up release from plunging cold steel into flesh was exquisite.

  By the time I reached home, I had concluded that something monstrous must have long dwelled within me. I couldn't pretend or hide behind my condition any longer. I cleaned the dagger and replaced it in the display case. Later that day, I purchased a newspaper. It did not take a long search to find news of the murder as it had previously. This time it was easy. 'The Whitechapel Horror' was emblazoned on the front page of the paper. The police had not yet linked the killings, but it was only a matter of time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Undercover in Spitalfields Chambers

  It was six o’clock in the evening and Lawrence was on his way back to the East End of London. He had left The Triangle Hotel, pausing only to send a telegram, before returning to his room at The Regal. Once there, he opened his suitcase and searched for a small box in the inner compartment which he hoped he had the foresight to pack. His fingers closed over a square receptacle. Sighing with relief, he opened it and withdrew the contents. The object inside resembled a small animal but was, in fact, a false moustache and beard set. Lawrence placed them on the dressing table and ventured down to the hotel lobby. It was empty, so he crept downstairs to the basement where the odd job man had emerged the previous day. Lawrence ducked down the corridor pushing each of three doors. All were open and the end door led to a dark basement room containing a single bed and wardrobe. A dirty coat and hat hung from a hook on the door. Lawrence inspected them. The moth-eaten coat was missing a button, and a suspicious looking mark stained the hat. They were ideal. He bundled the coat inside his jacket and placed the hat on his head before returning to his bedroom.

  Lawrence manoeuvred the false beard into a convincing position on his chin using a wire and spring arrangement. Then, he topped it with a greying moustache. Finally, he retrieved a piece of charcoal from the box and worked it into his fingernails and face. He smeared the residue on the coat borrowed from the odd job man and tried to ignore his nagging conscience, making a mental note to leave a few coins for the man to get the coat cleaned when it was returned. Lawrence covered his face with a scarf, draped the coat over his arm and concealed the hat beneath. Leaving the hotel by the back entrance, he scrutinised the gardens. They were clear of people, and he was relieved that nobody had seen him. When he was a suitable distance away from the hotel, he donned the grubby coat and stowed the scarf looking every inch a tramp.

  Lawrence contemplated the distance between Lambeth and Spitalfields. It was touching three miles, but if he wanted to maintain the integrity of his disguise, he would have to walk. His lungs hurt with the ferocity of the bitter chill. But needs must, so he strode out towards East London thinking about the task at hand.

  Soon, he would need to find a way to get close to the heart of the SPR, but that was a job for another day. The events of Wednesday night had foiled his attempt to gain access to 8 White’s Row, but he still had an inexplicable urge to get inside. Two of the women had dossed there. Lawrence might have let the connection lie, had it not involved the most recent murder. D’Onston had convinced him that Frances Coles was a Ripper victim. The only way to find out more about her final hours was to visit her last known abode.

  The walk took a little under an hour and Lawrence soon found himself in surroundings that were becoming depressingly familiar. It was pitch black when he arrived outside 8 White's Row. A ch
ipped, metal sign inscribed 'Spitalfields Chambers' hung above the door. Lawrence checked his watch. It was seven o’clock, and the doss house should be full by now. He walked towards the entrance where a wooden door stood ajar despite the freezing temperature. He hesitated, then pushed it and stepped inside. The door opened into a dark, unfurnished hallway. Rotten floorboards squeaked as Lawrence ventured towards a welcome light at the end. The sound of laughter came from the room beyond. Lawrence opened the door and peered inside. Their voices quietened.

  A matronly woman eyed him suspiciously. “What d’you want,” she asked.

  “A bed for the night,” Lawrence replied in his best East End accent.

  The woman thrust a grubby palm towards him. “You can have a room when I’ve seen your doss money,” she said.

  He reached into his trouser pocket and tossed a few coins onto the table.

  She examined them. “They’ll do,” she said. “You can have one of the beds in the room upstairs on your right.”

  “It’s cold,” said Lawrence walking towards the fire. He held his hands in front of the flames, wincing at the sight of his scarred left hand. The disguise would have been unconvincing worn with his customary soft leather gloves which had been discarded back at the hotel. Lawrence felt vulnerable with his hand exposed, but it was unavoidable.

  The woman put her glass down and patted the bench beside her. “You can come and sit here until you get warm,” she said. “This ‘ere is Moll,” she continued, “and this one is Samuel.”

  Lawrence surveyed the room. It was long and narrow. A ring-marked table with two wooden seats either side was set close to the fire. Further down, two longer benches ran parallel with the walls. Men and women dressed in rags were sitting either side. A waist height length of coarse rope ran along one of the benches. Two men rested their heads on the line, trying their hardest to sleep.

  Lawrence grunted and sat on the bench. Samuel took a slug from his glass and pushed it towards Lawrence. The glass was dirty. Something granular was floating in it, but Lawrence took a mouthful anyway. He grimaced as he wiped his lips on his sleeve but nodded his thanks.

  “Never seen you around here before,” said Moll. “I think I would have remembered a good-looking chap like you, wouldn’t I Sarah?” She winked at the older woman conspiratorially.

  “I’m sure you would,” said Sarah. “Any new fellow’s fair game for you.”

  “Don’t mind them two,” said Samuel. “They’re only playing.”

  “It’s a fair question. I’ve been dossing in Lambeth, that’s why you haven’t seen me.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” said Sarah.

  “I don’t have a home. It was Lambeth last month. It’ll be somewhere else the next.”

  “Why are you here then?”

  “Visiting,” said Lawrence. “I’ve got a cousin in Fashion Street, and then I’m heading down to Swallow Gardens to see my nephew.”

  Moll and Sarah exchanged glances. “That’s where Frances got herself killed,” said Moll.

  “Frances?”

  “Don’t you hear the news in Lambeth? Frances Coles - murdered. They thought it was the Ripper then they thought it was that stoker, James Sadler. It wasn’t him though, and the murderer of that poor girl still roams the streets.”

  “Don’t go on,” said Sarah. “There ain’t nothing we can do about it.”

  “Did you know her?” asked Lawrence.

  “Course I did,” said Sarah. “She stayed here often enough. She was with us the day she died. I was a witness at her inquest.”

  “La-de-da Sarah Fleming, court witness. You ain’t no better than the rest of us,” said Moll setting her glass unsteadily on the table. Half the contents slopped out and formed a pool of liquid.

  “I didn’t ask to be there,” said Sarah, sullenly. “I had no choice.”

  “You don’t have to tell everyone who will listen,” snapped Moll.

  “Why don’t you just go to bed.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Moll was slurring now. She finished her drink, slammed the glass on the table and staggered through the door.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Sarah. “She’s alright when she’s sober, but a rotten drunk. He ain’t much better.” She pointed to Samuel. His head was resting on the kitchen table, and he was snoring softly.”

  “What was it like, in court?” asked Lawrence.

  “I’ve been in worse places. They ask a lot of questions but nothing I couldn’t answer.”

  “Were you surprised when they released Sadler?”

  “No. He was a miserable specimen. I didn’t like him, but he didn’t do it.”

  “You saw him that night?”

  “Yes. Sadler returned after Frances left, whining because he had been set upon. Beaten up, he was and robbed. The cheeky blighter wanted to sleep here but didn’t have any money. He had the front to ask if he could stay in the kitchen for nothing. I told him to sling his hook. He said I was a hard-hearted woman. Well, that’s why they made me deputy lodging housekeeper. I would be pretty useless if I took in any old waif or stray. I don't have any sympathy for a man of his kind.”

  “So, you turned him away.”

  “I got Charles Guiver, my doorman to do it, God rest his soul.”

  “God rest his soul? Is he dead? How?”

  “I don’t know. It happened before the inquest. Apoplexy, the doctor said. Not that I believe him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was fit as a fiddle until recently. Never ailed, never complained.”

  “The Doctor should know.”

  “Well, he didn’t. He should have talked to me before he decided how Charlie died.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I would have told him that Charlie got himself coshed the day after the inquest. He went from hale and hearty to bed bound, just like that.”

  “Was he in a fight?”

  “No. Charlie wasn’t the type. I found him in the kitchen one night, rubbing his head and sick as a dog. He said he had been sitting there minding his own business when he heard footsteps. He didn’t turn around because he thought it was me. The next thing he remembered was waking up on the floor with a lump on his head.”

  “Was it a robbery?”

  “Don’t be daft. This is a doss house. We’re hardly rolling in money, and what we have, I keep. Charlie never had it.”

  “And he didn’t see his attacker?”

  “No. It could have been anybody. Can’t trust no-one around here.”

  “The door was open when I came in.”

  “It always is, but Charlie was usually around, so it didn’t matter. I ‘spect they came in through the front door. It’s of no consequence now. They got him, and now we have to find another watchman.”

  “Perhaps it was apoplexy, after all.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Charlie got hit on the head. Pity the lump had gone, or Doctor Dukes would have seen it. Hang on a minute.” Sarah stood up and clumped down towards the other end of the room. Two women had begun to squabble, and the younger had thrown a punch.

  “Break it up, or you’ll both be out on your ears,” said Sarah.

  “Witch,” hissed one of the women.

  “I warn you, Maggie Brown. One more word and so help me…”

  Sarah glared at the women then returned to her place on the bench beside Lawrence.

  “Drunken cows,” she said.

  Lawrence nodded.

  “You were saying about the doctor. Did you get a chance to tell him later?”

  “I tried, but he didn’t listen. Just talked a load of mumbo jumbo about a blood clot pressing on Charlie’s brain. He thought it might be caused by over stimulation. It wasn't. Charlie was hurt. The only excitement he’d had in a long time was chasing some fop out of the bedroom at the back end of January. God only knows why a gentleman would want to poke around in here, but Charlie found him and got rid of him sharpish.”

  “A gentleman? How did he know?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know. Perhaps he was in tails and a top hat. As I said, I wasn’t here. It was about midday, and everyone had gone. They don’t stay here during the day. Charlie heard a noise and went upstairs to one of the dormitories. There are twelve beds - you’ll see them when you go up later. A swarthy looking fellow had the end one the previous night. I’ve seen ‘em all, but there was something about this man I didn't like. There are plenty of ruffians in the East End of London, but he wasn't that type. There was something different about him. Anyway, Charlie comes upstairs, and there’s this toff, bent over the bed feeling around for something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, and Charlie didn’t know. He chased him away then he saw him a couple of days later talking to the same man.”

  “Before Frances Coles died or after?”

  “I thought you didn’t know about that?”

  “I only know what you told me.”

  “You’re a blooming stranger. How do I know that you’re not Charlie’s chap?”

  “Do I look like a gentleman?” asked Lawrence holding his hands out in disbelief.

  Sarah peered at his dirty nails. “No, you’re as common as the rest of us,” she said.

  “So, was it before or after she died?”

  “After, I think. Yes, a few days after. Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m only passing the time of day. It’s a good story, and I don’t hear many of them.”

  “I’m not making it up.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You should go up now,” said Sarah. “There are only a few beds left. You’ll end up in the coffins if you don’t watch it.

  Lawrence nodded. He had heard of coffin beds. Passing the night in this hell hole was bad enough, but he didn't relish the thought of sleeping in a box too small to turn in.

  “G’night then,” he said and clumped up the stairs. They echoed under the impact of his boots.

  There were three doors at the top of the dimly-lit stairs. Lawrence opened the door to the right. A flickering candle revealed a long dormitory containing a row of low metal beds topped with threadbare blankets. Sarah wasn’t exaggerating. There were sleeping bumps in all but two beds. Lawrence waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, then felt his way to the nearest empty bed. He pulled back the covers and got in fully dressed, anticipating a wakeful night. But after five minutes he found himself drifting effortlessly into a dreamless sleep.