The Ripper Deception Page 26

  Lawrence nodded.

  The man reached behind the desk and retrieved an envelope. He handed it to Lawrence, then ushered him towards the door. “Leave now,” he said.

  Lawrence gazed at the envelope with his name inscribed in flowing handwriting. He did not argue and returned to the cab. The door shut behind him and he heard a key turn in the lock as he walked away.

  “You were quick,” said Violet as he sat down.

  Lawrence nodded. He opened the sealed letter and passed it to her.

  “It’s an address,” she said. "Who lives there?"

  “I don’t know,” Lawrence replied. “Shall we find out?”

  He opened the cab window and leaned outside. “Take us to Manchester Square?” he said.

  The cab driver cracked his whip, and they set off towards Marylebone.

  Half an hour later, the cab pulled up outside a row of smart red bricked townhouses set around a grassed square.

  “Stop here,” asked Lawrence as they trotted past number two. “I won’t ask you to wait,” he said, paying the fare. The cabman tipped his cap and rode away leaving Lawrence and Violet on the doorstep of the unfamiliar house. They looked at each other wordlessly, wondering what to do next. Lawrence seized the initiative and tapped on the door.

  Moments later it opened to reveal a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway. She was clad in a black pinafore dress with a white apron and held a handkerchief to her lips. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks.

  Lawrence searched for suitable words. “Sorry to disturb you at such a bad time,” he stuttered lamely.

  The woman swallowed and dabbed her eyes. “I am sorry too. What must you think of me? Are you friends of Doctor Myers?”

  Lawrence and Violet exchanged glances. “Yes, we are,” Lawrence replied.

  “Terrible news,” the woman said, shaking her head. “We hoped he would pull through, but it was not to be.”

  “We came as soon as we heard,” said Lawrence, trying to appear as if he knew what was going on.

  “Is he dead?” Violet's voice trembled as she asked the question. Lawrence pressed her hand in a gesture of support.

  “I thought that's why you were here. Arthur died an hour ago.”

  “We assumed the worst.” Lawrence almost crossed his fingers as he told the barefaced lie, which, for once, had not come easily. He glanced towards Violet. A single tear tracked down her face.

  “I can fetch Doctor Drewitt if you like? He knows more about it.” The housekeeper sniffed again. Her blue eyes wrinkled in another burst of silent sobs.

  “Yes, please give him our condolences,” said Lawrence," and tell him we would appreciate a few moments of his time."

  The housekeeper opened the door and beckoned them through.

  They followed her down a black and white tiled hallway and into an elegant sitting room at the front of the house.

  “Wait here. I’ll bring you some tea.”

  Lawrence waited until she left the room. “I’m sorry Violet,” he said.

  “It was a long time ago,” she replied. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

  “Even so…”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lawrence. “Whatever I might have anticipated, it wasn’t this.”

  “It feels like we are intruding,” said Violet.

  “It does. It would help if we knew why we were here. But this is the right address, and we must be here for a reason.”

  The door clicked, and a tall, moustached man appeared. The housemaid followed behind him carrying a tea tray. The man offered his hand to Lawrence.

  “Frederick Drewitt,” he said. “I hear you were friends of Arthur’s.”

  Lawrence nodded. Drewitt gestured towards the couch. "Please sit down".

  He pulled up a wooden chair, sat beside them and leaned forwards. “Were you close friends?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Violet, hoping it was the correct response.

  “Then you know about his epilepsy.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, Miss… um.”

  “Sorry, forgive my manners,” said Lawrence. “I am Lawrence Harpham, and this is Violet Smith.”

  “Oh, Miss Smith. I remember Arthur speaking about you.” He smiled at Violet. She bit her lip.

  “Well, I’ve known Arthur for, goodness, it must be over twenty years, and I have lived with him for the last two. Do you know how long he's suffered from epilepsy?"

  Violet shook her head.

  "His first attack was at university. It was manageable at the start. Sometimes he went for months without suffering, although it was always worse at night. Over the last few years, the attacks have been constant, sometimes several episodes a day. Such an intelligent man. A great loss to his profession.”

  Lawrence shook his head in sympathy. “A terrible shame,” he said.

  “When did you last see him?"

  "Not for a long time," said Lawrence, vaguely.

  "Did you know he resigned from his position at the hospital?”

  “No,” said Lawrence, "I'm surprised. He enjoyed the work."

  “There was no choice, in the end," said Drewitt. "There had been an incident, you see. I cannot tell you more, suffice it to say that their knowledge of his epilepsy was mitigating. I don't know the details, but under any other circumstances, there would have been criminal charges.”

  Violet let out an involuntary gasp.

  “I have said too much.” Doctor Drewitt looked anguished as he apologised to Violet.

  “Not at all,” said Lawrence. “It is all so raw and upsetting,” he continued. “But we want to know everything you can tell us, no matter how difficult.”

  “As long as you are sure,” said Drewitt. “It isn’t pleasant to hear. You've met Mrs Bull, our housekeeper. The poor woman found Myers on Monday morning when she bought in his breakfast tray. He was lying unconscious on the floor, and the room was in disarray. At first, we thought it was an epileptic fit, and he had fallen over, but Myers was insensible and unresponsive. His symptoms were incompatible with epilepsy on its own, so I searched his room and found an empty tumbler next to a bottle of Chloral hydrate on his bedside cabinet.”

  “Did he use the drug often?”

  “Yes, but he was a skilled doctor and knew the correct dosage.”

  “And had he taken more than usual?”

  “Much more.”

  “Are you saying that he deliberately over-dosed?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Arthur had packed his portmanteau ready for a visit and was bright and cheerful the night before. Perhaps his visitor brought bad news. I didn’t see him conscious again, after that.”

  “What visitor?” Violet was alert now, leaning forward as she spoke.

  “I don’t know. One of his friends, I suppose. I heard voices when I was passing Arthur’s room on my way to bed.”

  “Did he die from the narcotic or as a result of an epileptic attack?” Lawrence’s question was direct and to the point.

  “He died from asphyxia. My colleague, Doctor Colman, confirmed the diagnosis.”

  “But what caused the asphyxia?”

  “The narcotics. An accidental overdose of Chloral Hydrate.”

  Lawrence sighed. Doctor Drewitt misinterpreted his frustration for sadness.

  “I am truly sorry to be discussing his final moments. He was a great man, courageous and talented. A sad loss to humanity.”

  “You mentioned an incident,” said Lawrence, “a criminal act. Did it make him violent? Was he ever aggressive in your presence?”

  “Never,” said Drewitt. “Not with any of us and he has shared rooms for many years. Another Doctor lived with him before I moved in. They got along famously until Arthur’s illness became too much. The night time attacks grew so prolific that he locked Arthur's room at night. This was at Arthur's request, so he didn't suffer the indignity of witnesses to his fitting. But that was before my time. I refused to have anyt
hing to do with confining him. Arthur became frail, but his intellect never faltered. He was a giant among men, and I will miss him. I am sure you will too.”

  Violet murmured her assent. Her eyes were misty as she turned towards Lawrence. He gave a half smile, acknowledging her pain. “Thank you so much for your time, but we have disturbed you long enough,” he said.

  Drewitt shook their hands, and they left the building.

  “What now?” asked Violet.

  “Home,” said Lawrence. “There is nothing left for us here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Epilogue

  Unsigned letter addressed to Lawrence Harpham dated 10th January 1894

  Mr Harpham

  Arthur is dead. I hoped I would never have to write these words, and if your memory had not returned, I would not be writing them now. If only you had stayed away. If only you had died by the banks of the Thames, we could have seen this thing through to the end. Arthur did not have long left. He was frail, and his epileptic attacks were increasing in frequency and duration. He had not been a danger to anyone but himself for many years. One momentary slip caused this anguish. We were assiduous after Mary Kelly's death. Two years went by without a single resurgence of the savagery inflicted by Arthur’s other self. But one night in February 1891, we were careless, distracted. We left Arthur alone one night and, in his somnambulistic state, he returned to the scene of his previous crimes. Young Frances Coles encountered him as she returned from a tryst. One lapse and his carefully constructed alibi fell apart. We could have survived it but for you.

  You will have deduced by now that Arthur killed Edmund Gurney. He had often treated him for minor ailments, so when he suggested a narcotic for Edmund’s pain it was, quite naturally, accepted. Arthur slipped the mask over Edmund’s face, trusted, as always. We later discovered that Arthur increased the dose significantly. His problem with the newspaper clipping vanished as Edmund drifted into unconsciousness. It was sheer coincidence that Arthur later spoke at the inquest. Hotel staff found a sheet of SPR headed paper in Gurney’s possession and contacted Arthur to identify the body. It could have been any of us. Before the hearing, the coroner leaned towards a verdict of suicide. The final judgment was an accidental death. Speculation was rife that we had tried to influence the coroner's decision. It was not that simple. We worked to avoid a verdict of ‘cause of death unknown.’ It was too vague, and we wished to avoid the implication of murder at all costs.

  Your doggedness paid off. Your persistent needling, like a vengeful mosquito, forced our hand. You will know from your conversation with Doctor Drewitt that Arthur Myers was far more good than evil. His illness was an abhorrence of nature, an intolerable burden on a man with huge potential to offer the world. He was a force of good for humanity, an eminent physician of unusual skill and ability. And last week, we put him down like a dog because of you. Yes, of course, he didn’t die by coincidence the very day after your phone call. We employed the same tactic on him that he used on Edmund. An overdose of chloral hydrate, forcibly given. He did not put up a fight. He knew what we were doing. He is not a monster. He never was. He succumbed to the narcotic, and sometime in the night, a fit made him insensible, and he lingered for another two days.

  Now you know everything, it is up to you whether you reveal our secret. There will be no more killings. Will you ruin the name of a good man? It is your decision. Our work will continue, and memories of Arthur will remain with us, unsullied, forever.

  THE END

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Afterword

  Afterword

  The Ripper Deception is a work of fiction based on the lives of real people. I am not a Ripperologist, and this is not an attempt to identify Jack the Ripper. Newspaper articles inspire me - I am drawn to accounts of real-life Victorian crimes, and they influence my writing. I am a keen genealogist, and my books often include my relatives, several of whom feature in minor roles in this novel. I generally set my books in East Anglia, and they involve local crimes. I ventured further afield on this occasion because the temptation to include Lawrence in the Ripper murders was too great to resist.

  I am mindful of the feelings of living descendants of the characters in my books and hope not to cause offence. It is not my intention to implicate eminent physician Doctor Myers or his brother in the real Ripper killings and I am quite sure that historical records would prove it impossible.

  Cheltenham, 2019