A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper Page 13

  'Dear Boss'

  25th September 1888

  Confusion reigns within my head, I am troubled by events. They had me there, in that place, that bed, and I was in such pain of forgetfulness. Thank God for Cavendish! He is my rock, my anchor, he at least understands, and did not decry me for my folly. They have kept me, though, from the one thing that helps this pain within my head, my laudanum.

  Hours have passed and I am better than before, much better. My head is clear, and once more I may focus my thoughts on what must be done. I was not so clear in the hospital; I cannot in truth remember how I got there, I felt so ill upon the train, and then my senses failed me, though I do remember blabbing to Cavendish. He blamed it on the laudanum, ha. What did I say? Of that I can't be sure. Did I say too much of things that should not be spoken of? I know I told him of the Scottish whore, but little else. His sense of logic, his professional judgement and his loyalty will keep his silence.

  Now I have much to do. The streets are fair ripe with whores in need of execution, to be consigned to their rightful end. I shall have some sport this time, for I remain invisible and the plodders of the official force are impotent to catch me.

  I fancy I shall write to them, immediately, no, not to them direct, for that would be no sport. The press shall have my words, and let them print the promise I shall make, and the public read those words and tremble, and the police read those words and squirm in their inability to take me. I shall disguise my hand, more to confuse them, and I'll need a name that befits my task, and the ink shall be as red as the blood of the whores I rip. There it is; the name with which I shall tease and taunt the poor fools. For am I not the original Jack so nimble, Jack so quick, do I not rip the whores so swift and slick? Bit long? Perhaps. Then I shall give them 'Jack, the Ripper', the ripper of whores, let them chase shadows, as I spread my paths through the most wondrous grottos of Mr. Bazalgette, who has so kindly provided me with the cloak of invisibility with which I evade the uniforms and the whistles, the plodders and the takers. I must return to the streets, they have slept too long. The voices, they must speak to me once again, and together we shall reap the harvest of blood that is rightfully mine.

  I shall begin my letter at once; I shall send it to the boss, not of just one publication but to the biggest agency in town! Let them know me and fear me. I shall give it to them in the colour of the whores' blood; I wish I had the real thing with which to write it, but maybe in the future I shall. My words shall reach deep into the hearts of the filthy whores, and they will tremble, for they will know that I am coming for them, one after the other. Yes, tremble little ladies of the night; hold on to your innards while you can, Jack is coming for you all.

  So there it was, before my eyes. I felt as though, in those few words I had witnessed the birth of Jack the Ripper! Yet how mundane, how casual had been his decision to use that name, now synonymous with the deaths of those poor women so long ago. Of course, the name Jack had been almost a Victorian institution. Almost every fiction of the era had a 'Jack' somewhere within it. There was also Jack Tar, for a sailor, and the rhyme the Ripper had alluded to in his writings was, of course, the old 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the candle-stick'. He'd taken that most innocuous of children's rhymes, and added it to the terrible action of his crimes in order to invent a name that would go down in infamy and take its place in the history of crime.

  I felt sick, my head throbbed even more violently than before, and I knew without looking at them that my hands were trembling. He had passed off his stay in the hospital so lightly, being almost unconcerned that he'd confessed his guilt to my great-grandfather. He simply seemed amused and disdainful of my ancestor's failure to believe him. Was it a ploy, I wondered, this stay in the hospital? Had he engineered it deliberately in order to gain some sort of attention. Could he have been brazen enough to know that great-grandfather would come to his bedside, and that he would put his confession down to a hallucination caused by the laudanum he was taking? I didn't know, I doubted that I'd ever know, but I had my suspicions that the Ripper might have been arrogant enough to do just such a thing in the fullest of confidence that he could confess to my great-grandfather and not be believed. He may have been seriously ill, indeed seriously mentally deranged, but he was clever, very clever indeed.

  It was also obvious from the tone and content of this latest entry that the Ripper was preparing to strike again. I knew from my notes that he was drawing ever closer to the night of the 30th September, when he would commit the gruesome double murder. That's when it came to me, the thing I'd been trying to remember! The 30th had a significance to me in the light of what I'd already read. I now knew that on the very night he was out upon the streets of Whitechapel slaughtering his latest victims, two hundred miles north of London, a poor Scottish lassie was walking into a police station to report that her friend, Morag Blennie was missing. Flora Niddrie never saw Morag again, nor did anyone else, and I felt such a bleak sadness, an emptiness in my soul such as I can't begin to describe to you in these pages.

  I felt sick at his fulsome praise for the work of Joseph Bazalgette. I didn't need to look that name up to know its significance. The 'wondrous grottos' to which the Ripper referred were in fact the new (at that time) sewers of London, which had been designed and engineered by Bazalgette, and had done much to alleviate what was known as 'The Great Stink', the awful stomach-churning stench that had pervaded every home and building in London until their introduction. London had turned from being little more than an open sewer into a sanitized and modern city as a result of his work, and Joseph Bazalgette is well deserving of a place in any list of England's great engineers and innovators. For Jack the Ripper, however, his system of interlinking tunnels and channels was obviously once again to be put to quite another use, and I couldn't help but think that the carriage of thousands of tons of raw sewage and effluent would have been a far more noble and virtuous purpose than to be used as the escape vehicle, the means of avoiding detection used by the notorious Whitechapel murderer.

  As to the letter, well, so many 'experts' have for so long derided the 'Dear Boss' letter as being a fabrication, the work of a journalist, or someone seeking to sensationalise the murders at the time, here was my proof that it was genuine. You will note that I now had no doubt about the journal's authenticity. Though it was true I had no scientific proof that it was the work of the Ripper, I knew in my heart that this journal was no attempt to capitalize on the crimes after the event, nor was it a modern fake, my great-grandfather's notes confirmed that for me. For those who have never seen or heard of the letter, I have taken the time to copy it out here, in the colour used by the Ripper, and using his original spellings, the 'mistakes' in grammar an obvious attempt to misdirect the authorities as to his origins and intelligence. It read as follows:

  25 Sept 1888

  Dear Boss

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon here of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope haha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get the chance. Good luck.

  Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  At the request of the police, the Central News Agency did, in fact, keep the letter from the public until the 1st October, after the double murder, after which of course the name on everyone's lips in London was that of Jack the Rippe
r. He had achieved his fame, exactly as I suspected he had intended to! It was also true that he would, in the course of one of his two murders on the 30th, cut the ear from one of his victims. As the letter was received by the news agency on the 27th, how could a journalist have written it with such foreknowledge of the Ripper's plans? Unless of course, the Ripper were the journalist? Now there was a new possibility to ponder! My thoughts were becoming crowded, closed in, and I could feel the pulse in my head throbbing in my temples. There was a sudden imperceptible flash of light outside, which I sensed rather than saw through the window of the study, followed by an immense and quite frightening clap of thunder, the loudest I could ever recall. It seemed to shake the house, the study itself seemed to reverberate to the immense crash of that thunder, and then, as if a horde of ear-piercing demons had been unleashed from the gates of Hell itself, came the screams and shrieks of numerous house and car alarms all along the street. It was a disharmony the like of which I'd never heard before, the lightning flashed again, there was another immense thunderclap, the room shook, and then the heavens seemed to open, and the rain began to lash against the windows with the intensity of a thousand devils trying to batter their way into the house. I sat, almost paralyzed in my chair, as the storm raged outside, the alarms shrieking, daylight became darkness, and I was adrift in sea of disorientation. With subsequent flashes of lightning and terrible crashes of thunder, my desk lamp flickered on and off, as though imbued with a life of its own, and that life was fighting for its existence. For over twenty minutes it continued, that raging storm, and I couldn't escape the thought that this awesome display of nature's wrath had been launched from the depths of some outlandish nightmare. As suddenly as it had started, the storm abated, and the sun crept back out from behind the dark clouds, bringing its light and warmth back to the world. Somehow, though, it failed to reach into my room. One by one the automatic cut-off systems switched off the alarms, and a strange stillness and quiet swept along the street, only the sound of the rainwater dripping from the gutters and the leaves and branches of the trees reached my ears through the glass panes of the windows.

  The room felt cold, as though I were no longer in my warm, comfortable study, but instead entombed in the darkest crypt, shut off from any source of heat and light. I also thought I detected an odd aroma in the room, a fetid, dank, stale smell, like the stench of death, or just the scent of evil. That was nonsense, of course, it was my own mind playing tricks on me, it had to be. There was nothing in the room that could be the cause of such a smell. I was sitting in my study, alone, surrounded by my own personal possessions as I had done a thousand times before, nothing had changed, there could be no strange smell, unless of course, it was the smell of my own fear, permeating my thought processes, and invading my conscious mind.

  And I was afraid, that much was certain, though as yet I had no idea why. Every ounce of logic within me told me there was nothing to be afraid of; I was simply sitting reading some old papers, what could be more harmless? A few sheets of old parchment couldn't harm me, could they? So why the fear? What could be causing such a reaction to these words that now almost seemed to be gaining some sort of life of their own in my increasingly fevered mental state? I was beginning to believe, however irrational it may have seemed and still does today, that there was far more to those old and crumpled sheets of paper than I had originally perceived. What that something was I had no idea at that point, but I was determined not to give up. I would see the journal through to its ending, whatever it may be, and wherever it may lead me.

  I promised myself to utilize my own logical thought processes, my professional and analytical mind, to try to avoid being caught up in the almost ethereal aura that seemed to emanate from the journal. I felt stupid at the time for even thinking such thoughts, for believing there could be something dark and sinister about the journal, and yet, at the same time, my heart was attempting to override my mind, it was sending out a warning, a warning that I should ignore at my peril, but of course, as a doctor, a scientist no less, the warnings of the heart were not tangible enough for me to heed. I placed my trust in logic and science, in the realities of the twentieth century, and to this very day, I wish that I had listened to my heart.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Thoughts of Past and Present

  My lunch was a sombre affair that day. Though the fridge was well stocked, (Sarah had made sure of that before she left), I grabbed the first thing I saw, a packet of ready sliced chicken, made a quick sandwich, poured myself a large glass of fresh orange juice, and dawdled as long as I could in the kitchen, slowly devouring that meagre repast. In truth, I had no interest in eating; the sparse meal was simply a means of ensuring some form of nutritional intake reached my stomach. I was eating out of necessity, not for pleasure.

  My head was awash with thoughts, none of them particularly pleasant ones. Only yesterday my life had seemed ordered, tranquil even. Despite the recent loss of my father and the pain that came with it, I was happy, at least as happy as any man had a right to be. Now, through my exposure to the journal, and the strange, compelling power of its words, I felt as though I were trapped in a downward spiralling whirlpool of illogical thoughts, horrific mental imagery and a sense of confusion that had left me teetering on the edge of the thin dividing line between reality and fantasy. With every page that I read, with each new horror described in the Ripper's own hand, I was being drawn almost imperceptibly into a darkness where the sights, sounds and smells of the foul, rank smelling streets of Victorian London were becoming horrifically real, where I could see rather than imagine the blood of the Ripper's victims as it gushed uncontrollably from the gaping wounds imposed upon their bodies, almost tasting the copper-sweet smell that accompanied the flow of that precious life-blood. Without knowing why, I had even imagined that I could feel the final moments of terror and panic that must have flashed through the minds of both Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman, and the poor Scottish girl, (Morag Blennie?), as the fatal realization had dawned upon them they were living the final seconds of their lives. That was the most frightening part of all this, that I really could feel all those things, I really could see them happening, as real as if it were being enacted right there, in my study, like some bizarre and unworldly panorama of death, a masque of horror and revulsion staged just for me, a private vision of Hell!

  Was it any wonder that my mind was confused? There was of course no logical reason for me to be feeling these things, it was nothing more than a trip into the depths of my own imagination, fuelled by the intensity of the contents of that infernal journal. At least, that's what I kept trying to tell myself. As time wore on, however, I realised I was subconsciously trying to delay the moment when I would return to my study and take up the journal once again. Why didn't I just ignore it? I could have sealed it up, thrown it away, done any one of a dozen things that would have wrenched me away from the unnatural nightmare world I had entered, but I didn't. With my limbs feeling heavier by the second, and with my heart rate increasing due to the strange thrill that seemed to be coursing through my veins, I made my way back to the study. Yes, there was a thrill attached to all the horror I was exposing myself to, not a pleasant thrill, but a thrill nonetheless. This private insight into the mind of the Ripper was becoming obsessional, an addiction as strong as the pull of the opium laced laudanum had been for the killer himself.

  As I took my place in my leather office chair once more I reflected on the fact that even my walk to the village had done nothing to relieve the stress and tension gradually increasing within me. Admittedly, the walk there had been agreeable, but all thoughts of peace and tranquillity had been immediately dispelled by the news of the horrific murder virtually on my own doorstep. The similarities between it, and the contents of the journal were just too disturbingly similar. Though the victim hadn't been a prostitute, (the report described her as a barmaid), she had been waylaid on her way home from work late at night and horribly mutilated by all accounts; 'but
chered' being the word used by the journalist to illustrate the point. In addition to the disquieting affects of the journal, it was also quite clear to me that somewhere in the local vicinity there was a new and equally sadistic killer on the loose. I hoped that the police would make an early arrest, that this latter-day ripper-like murderer at least would be apprehended, and the streets made safe for women to walk freely once again.

  All these thoughts and more were rushing through my mind as I prepared to continue my journey through the world of The Ripper. As I reached out to pick up the journal however, I paused in mid-action, and consciously stopped myself from doing so. Instead, I picked up the telephone and dialled my sister-in-law's number. Perhaps if I spoke to my lovely Sarah, just for a couple of minutes, it would give me added heart and help to dispel some of the aura of gloom that had rapidly begun to descend upon me as soon as I'd walked back into the study. The phone rang and rang until Jennifer's answering machine clicked on. Dammit! No-one at home. I left a brief message for Sarah, nothing too detailed, just told her that I loved her and missed her and would try her mobile number, and if that failed, I'd call again later. Her mobile phone was switched off! I presumed they were out and probably in a place where mobiles had to be turned off. I hoped that little Jack hadn't had a turn for the worse, that he wasn't languishing in a hospital bed, or should that have been cot? I thought all manner of bleak and unhealthy thoughts about the baby, but then decided that Sarah would have called me if things had got too bad. I would just have to wait and speak to her later.

  I redirected my shaking hand toward the ominous-looking journal on the desk, picked it up once more, and turned to the next grisly page. There was a gap of one day, as was a frequent occurrence to which I was growing accustomed, and then the journal continued:

  27th September 1888.