A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper Page 19

  Instead of the bedroom I opted for the lounge, taking a pot of hot coffee for company. I turned on the gas fire and felt its warmth begin to suffuse the room, and me with it. I hadn't realised until then quite how cold I'd become, but the fire soon brought a modicum of cheer to my aching bones and befuddled mind. I resisted the urge to turn on the twenty four hour news channel on the TV. Judging by the events of the last two days, I wasn't sure what might be revealed had I done so, and I'd had enough for one day!

  I pulled up the dralon covered footstool that Sarah usually commandeered to rest her legs on in the evening, eased my feet up and made myself comfortable, and sipped at my coffee. After another two mugs of the reviving brew I felt a little more relaxed, and promised myself that I'd try to complete my reading of the journal and great-grandfather's notes during the next twenty four hours. I think that was the last coherent thought I had before my head lolled to one side against the back of the deep, comfortable armchair, and then, with the gentle hiss of the gas fire for company, and the warmth of its flame casting a comfortable glow towards my weary aching mind and body, I fell asleep once more, and this time, there were no dreams.

  I woke again at 7.30, more refreshed than I'd perhaps a right to feel. The wind had dropped, the early morning sun was shining through the wide panes of the patio doors, (I hadn't closed the curtains the night before), and the room was beautifully warm; the fire had seen to that. Everything looked and felt a little better now that daylight had arrived.

  I made my way, first to the bathroom, where the reflection that peered back at me from the mirror shocked me. I looked pale, dishevelled, and my eyes looked as thought they'd sunk deep into their sockets. A long, hot soak in the shower, and a good shave soon did something about the way I looked though maybe not about how I felt. Next, it was the kitchen, where a breakfast of toast and marmalade, followed by a couple of boiled eggs and yet more coffee served to deal with the second part of the problem. And, though I admit that my mind still felt as though I were being dragged unwillingly into something I didn't understand in the slightest, I felt better, yes, definitely better. The problem with mental illness of any kind is that it can creep up on the sufferer without them being aware that it's there, and everything can appear normal, when in fact, it is far from being that.

  Perhaps that's why, for the first time in the last three days I felt a little optimistic, maybe at the thought of finishing the journal, completing the journey, maybe finally putting the Ripper and his sad yet murderous story to rest. Of course, that just goes to prove how naïve even a man of my education and so-called intelligence can be. Things were never going to be that simple, were they?

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Miller's Court

  After clearing away the remains of breakfast, I made my way back to my study, filled with my new-found optimism. I admit to feeling a degree of trepidation as I prepared to enter the room, but satisfied myself that everything that had happened over the last two days had been simply a temporary state of mind, probably induced by the recent loss of my father, the loneliness I felt at being separated from Sarah, and an overactive imagination

  Even so, I pushed the door open very slowly, and looked around it before entering; as if afraid I might disturb someone, or something, within the room. The room was exactly as I'd left it the night before, at least, I thought it was. As I neared the desk, my sense of well-being quickly evaporated as I noticed the computer screen. I was sure that I'd switched the computer off as I'd left the room, yet the standby light on the monitor was green, and as I touched the mouse the screensaver flashed into life. On the task bar at the bottom of the screen was the Casebook name. I clicked on the button. The page that flashed into view was not the one I last remembered consulting. This page contained the reports of the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, with some pretty graphic descriptions of her injures included. How on earth had that got there? I definitely couldn't remember having accessed that particular page, and yet there it was. I was mystified, and the equilibrium I'd so carefully regained over the last hour evaporated, as I felt once again that I wasn't alone in the house. I knew that the Ripper would probably have written his macabre and sinister version of her death, quite possibly on the next page I came to, but first, I wanted to read the facts as recorded at the time.

  I couldn't escape the awful feeling that someone was watching me, peering over my shoulder, and I spun round as quickly as I could. There was no one there of course; it was just my foolish mind.

  As I began to read the sad tale of the death of Mary Kelly I was struck at once by my own stupidity. She had been killed on the night of 9th November, yet the last entry I'd read in the journal had been dated the 26th October. There was still over a week to go in the journal's chronology before he struck again. Why had I thought that the murder would occur within the next couple of days; how could I have so misread the notes on my earlier scan through them? Was this why the computer had somehow led me to the notes again? Was someone, or something, trying to ensure that I followed the story of the murders correctly, and made no error along the way? It was an eerie and uncanny feeling, knowing that the page I was reading had appeared as if by magic, placed there perhaps by an unseen hand, as though it knew I was drifting away from the true course of events and wanted me to focus my mind once more on the truth of the words on the pages of the insane journal.

  The facts surrounding the last canonical victim of the Ripper were as gruesome and horrific as I think a human brain could imagine. As terrible as the poor girl's injuries were, I think it appropriate to record the worst of them here so that you, the reader, can perhaps appreciate the severity and wanton destruction of the Ripper's actions on that terrible night.

  Mary Jane Kelly's history is shrouded in mystery, her early life recorded purely anecdotally by the stories she herself related to her friends in London during her time there. She appears to have been born in Limerick and moved to Wales as a child when her father obtained work there at an ironworks. She was one of seven or eight children, one a sister, the rest brothers. She married a collier named Davies in 1879, who was reputed to have died in a pit accident two or three years later. She apparently became a prostitute while staying with a cousin in Cardiff, and later moved to London, where she worked for a time in a high class brothel, not surprisingly due to her youth and apparent good looks. There are, unfortunately, no records to substantiate any of the above, all of it being simply what Kelly herself related to her acquaintances. At any rate, she eventually ended up in the cess pool of humanity that made up the vast heaving population of London's East End, and lived for a time with a long-term partner, Joseph Barnett, with whom she enjoyed a relatively prosperous existence until he lost his job, and she returned once again to the streets to eke out a living from the sale of her body. As the relationship grew more and more volatile, she and Barnett separated, and she continued to reside in the tiny, one roomed dwelling that bore the address of 13 Miller's Court, Dorset Street, one of the most run down and ill reputed streets in Whitechapel. It was in that small room that her body was discovered on the morning of 9th November, 1888, Mary Kelly having last been seen alive at about 2 a.m.

  Doctor Thomas Bond, police surgeon to 'A' Division (Westminster), reported as follows:

  Position of body

  The body was lying naked in the middle of the bed, the shoulders flat, but the axis of the body inclined to the left side of the bed. The head was turned on the left cheek. The left arm was close to the body with the forearm flexed at a right angle & lying across the abdomen. The right arm was slightly abducted from the body & rested on the mattress, the elbow bent & the forearm supine with the fingers clenched. The legs were wide apart, the left thigh at right angles to the trunk & the right forming an obtuse angle with the pubes.

  The whole of the surface of the abdomen & thighs was removed & the abdominal Cavity emptied of its viscera. The breasts were cut off, the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds & the face hacked beyond recognition of the f
eatures. The tissues of the neck were severed all round to the bone.

  The viscera were found in various parts viz; the uterus & Kidneys with one breast under the head, the other breast by the Rt foot, the Liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side & the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table.

  The bed clothing at the right corner was saturated with blood, & on the floor beneath was a pool of blood covering about two feet square. The wall by the right side of the bed & in line with the neck was marked by blood which had struck it in a number of separate splashes.

  Postmortem examination.

  The face was gashed in all directions the nose, cheeks, eyebrows and ears being partly removed. The lips were blanched and cut by several incisions running obliquely down to the chin. There were also numerous cuts extending irregularly across all the features.

  The neck was cut through the skin & other tissues right down to the vertebrae the 5th & 6th being deeply notched. The skin cuts in the front of the neck showed distinct ecchymosis.

  The air passage was cut at the lower part of the larynx through the cricoid cartilage.

  Both breasts were removed by more or less circular incisions, the muscles down to the ribs being attached to the breasts. The intercostals between the 4th, 5th & 6th ribs were cut through & the contents of the thorax visible through the openings.

  The skin & tissues of the abdomen from the costal arch to the pubes were removed in three large flaps. The right thigh was denuded in front to the bone, the flap of skin, including the external organs of generation and part of the right buttock. The left thigh was stripped of skin, fascia and muscles as far as the knee.

  The left calf showed a long gash through skin & tissues to the deep muscles & reaching from the knee to 5 inches above the ankle.

  Both arms & forearms had extensive and jagged wounds.

  The right thumb showed a small superficial incision about 1 inch long, with extravasation of blood in the skin & there were several abrasions on the back of the hand moreover showing the same condition.

  On opening the thorax it was found that the right lung was minimally adherent by old firm adhesions. The lower part of the lung was broken and torn away.

  The left lung was intact: it was adherent at the apex & there were a few adhesions over the side. In the substances of the lung were several nodules of consolidation.

  The pericardium was open below & the Heart absent.

  In the abdominal cavity was some partly digested food of fish & potatoes & similar food was found in the remains of the stomach attached to the intestines.

  So Mary Kelly was not just murdered, she was slaughtered! The poor woman was killed, and then systematically butchered by the Ripper. Though this is the first time in my tale that I have related the full extent of one of the victim's injuries, I have done so in order to establish beyond doubt the extreme depravity of the perpetrator of the horrific series of murders. Also, for the first time in any of the murders, the doctor had identified defensive wounds on the poor girl's hands. Faced with the most vicious killer ever recorded up to that time in London, the Ripper's last known victim had fought to defend herself; she had fought for her life. What had been her last thoughts, I wondered, as she tried in vain to fight off her attacker? She must have been filled with the most appalling dread and fear, and contrary to the previous murders, this had been no quick kill, no slash of the throat to end the victim's agony swiftly and surely. A further search through my notes revealed that no sign of Kelly's heart had been found. What had the Ripper done with it? Had it become some gruesome trophy, to be displayed in the privacy of his home, to gloat over as a grim reminder of his greatest moment? I shook, both with fear and an anger so strong that I might have been there at the time, witness to those appalling cruelties, and the utter brutality of the mutilations. It took me a few minutes to regain a little composure and to think rationally again.

  I was appalled by the callousness and the barbarity of the slaughter perpetrated on poor Mary Kelly. The desecration of her body was beyond belief, and must have taken the Ripper some considerable time. Of course, on this occasion he had had the time, it was his first indoor murder, and he had the opportunity to indulge himself, to provide the world with the perfect example of the extent to which his 'work' could evolve.

  No wonder nothing more was heard of Ripper after this appalling crime; I just couldn't conceive of him being able to maintain a grip on the smallest grain of sanity after having committed such an act; and, as though it were intended all along that that was the way I should do it, without thinking I laid down my notes and automatically picked up the journal, turning the page to reveal the next instalment in this infernal tale of one man's damnation.

  The next words that came up to greet me from within the journal were not, however, those of the Ripper. Tucked tightly between the pages written by the hand that had perpetrated such horrific and savage mutilations I saw once again that my great-grandfather had been at work. There was another note there, waiting for me, perhaps to explain in more detail his involvement with the Ripper.

  With trembling hands, and with my heart growing heavier with sadness, I began to read…

  Chapter Thirty Three

  A Confession

  I swear in the name of God Almighty that I knew nothing of this dire journal during the time leading up to the murders in Whitechapel, nor indeed until after the murder of Mary Kelly. I place this note here as it seems appropriate in view of what he has written on the following page. At the time I saw him, in his home, he was more or less lucid, though it was evident that all was not well with the man. His fantasies, as I believed them to be at the time, were growing darker and more violent, but I swear I thought them nothing more than the product of his fevered mind. I simply thought him incapable of being the beast that has haunted the streets of our capital for so many weeks. Perhaps my judgement was impaired by my knowledge of his mother, his family, and my own sorry conduct in his story.

  You, my son, reading this after my demise, will be shocked to learn of these things, but I must give my conscience free reign before my maker, and throw my memory upon your mercy.

  It was back in the summer of '56 that I was invited down to the country by a friend and colleague. There I was invited to the home of a local physician who kept a house on the outskirts of that beautiful country town. He had a wife, a beauty by any man's standards, and I, being not yet married to your mother, felt strangely drawn to her. She was as beautiful a woman as I had ever set eyes upon, with her long dark hair, a slim waist, and eyes that seemed to burn with a hidden fire, a passion for life that seemed in need of re-awakening, as though she were in a trance of sorts. There was something of the gipsy about her looks, a wild, fiery, hidden passion about her character. Their marriage was not a happy one, so I was led to believe, though on the surface they seemed devoted to one another. She was quite taken however, by the attention I paid to her, in little matters such as bringing her a flower picked from the garden, or jesting lightly with her as we walked in the ample gardens of her home, always of course while her husband was absent. I felt some guilt in those days, as her husband was a fine man, and an outstanding local physician, and he had made me welcome in his home on numerous occasions.

  Yet, I could not help myself, and I soon grew enamoured of the lady. Though she tried hard to avoid the obvious, and endeavoured to stick hard to her marriage vows, there came one day when we could no longer control the hidden passions that burned within both our fragile bodies, and we succumbed to the carnal desires of the flesh. Afterwards, shocked by her weakness, and fearful of her husbands fury should he discover her infidelity, she forbade me to visit her again, and entreated upon me to return to London at my earliest opportunity. I had no choice but to leave the county, and returned as she wished to my home and practice in the city.

  Some time later, I received a letter from her to say that she was with child, and begging me never to v
isit that town again. I never did, and it was not until recently that the man I now visit, the man who is the writer of these infernal pages, came to my home one day, armed with a letter of introduction from his mother. The letter had been written some years ago, and he had carried it with him until such times as he wished to announce his presence to me. His mother, he told me, had fallen into a deep malaise, and had been confined in an asylum, her mind totally unhinged, until her death. The doctor, who he had always thought of as his father, was dead, and he was alone in the world. He bore me no ill-will so he said, and wished only to make my acquaintance, as it was obvious to him that his mother had cared for me greatly, and I for her.

  I tell you now; just one look at his eyes identified him to me. They were the eyes of his mother, she who I had loved and lost before your poor mother came into my life. I did my best. I introduced him at my club, gave him whatever social assistance I could, and I have fought to keep him on the straight and narrow despite his recent problems. I ask of you, how could I have believed that the son of such a woman, and I am ashamed to say, of mine, could be the monster known throughout the land as Jack the Ripper?

  I tell you these things that you may understand the frailty and the folly that have blighted my life, and led to such misery and death for others. Though I dare not ask your forgiveness, now that my bones lie bleaching in the earth, I do ask that you try to understand why I have acted as I have, and to try to forgive me for the things I have done in order to keep secret the truth of what has transpired. If you can understand, and can forgive, then I beg you to keep forever this secret between you and my memory, and if you need to confess it, as I have needed to do, then do so only in the manner of this communication. I beg you my son to reveal this dreadful secret only upon death, and even then only to your closest kin, and so to entreat them that they hold this secret in the same way, for all time, for there is nothing that can now be gained from further revelation.