A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper (12 page)

I closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair, (I was afraid to go back up to bed), and I allowed a sudden, deep, dark sleep to overtake me. This time I slept without dreaming, or, if I did dream, they were those dreams that come in the deepest sleep, the ones you can never remember dreaming.

The Morning of the Second Day

I awoke, stiff and aching, feeling drawn and extremely tired. My body felt as if I hadn't slept at all, though a quick glance at the clock showed me it was just before seven, a fact confirmed by the rays of weak early morning sunlight invading the study through the window. I'd probably slept for about two and a half to three hours. The wind and rain of the night before had gone, the house was still and quiet, and for a moment or two, I felt relatively calm, almost my normal self.

Then, the realization hit me. I remembered exactly why I was here, sitting in my study chair, stiff and aching from head to foot. How could I have forgotten, even for a moment? There it was, the journal, on the desk in front of me, exactly as I'd left it. In the light of day it looked fairly innocent and innocuous, and yet, as I sat staring at it, it almost felt to me as if there was a malevolence about the thing. It almost seemed to me to be throbbing slightly, as though it held a life of its own. Was there a malicious spirit at work somewhere within the hidden depths of its words? Was I being irrational? In time I hope that you, the reader, may be the judge of that. Berating myself for my foolishness I forced myself to return to a sense of reality, and it was then I realised just how awful I felt.

My head ached, my tongue was dry and furred, virtually every muscle in my shoulders, arms and legs was stiff and aching, if I hadn't known better I'd have sworn I had a hangover. No way, I'd only consumed a couple of whiskies the night before, certainly not enough to induce such feelings. In fact, the headache was quite severe, bordering on the intensity of a migraine, something from which I'd suffered very rarely in the past. I rose from the chair, stretching myself to try to induce an increase in blood flow to my tired and weary extremities. I staggered rather than walked from the study to the kitchen, reached for the first aid box and extracted a couple of paracetamol tablets, downing them quickly with a glass of cold water. Maybe they'd help with the headache. I sat in one of the kitchen chairs, resting my chin on my clenched right hand, and I sighed a heavy sigh. My chin was rough against my hand, I was in desperate need of a shave, and I daresay that if I'd looked in a mirror at that moment, my unkempt hair would have added to an overall visual impression of a rough looking homeless vagrant. I rubbed my eyes; they stung. I was glad at that moment that Sarah wasn't there to see me looking as I did. My worst fears were confirmed when I mounted the stairs a few minutes later, made my way into the bathroom, and barely recognized the face that stared back at me from the mirror.

I showered, shaved, dressed in fresh clothes, until I resembled the me I was used to seeing in the mirror every morning, then, once more made my way to the kitchen. My stomach was empty; perhaps I'd feel better with some breakfast inside me. Somehow, though, when I surveyed the contents of the fridge nothing took my fancy. Food held little interest for me despite the pangs of hunger gnawing at my insides. I decided to settle for toast and coffee on the basis that something would be better than nothing, and I managed to consume three slices of hot buttered toast and two cups of steaming hot coffee before letting my mind return to the document that was waiting for me in the study.

It was strange to think that it had been less than twenty four hours since I'd first laid eyes on the journal. Less than a day, and yet here I was, feeling more disturbed and aggravated than I could ever remember feeling in my entire life, such was the profound effect of its contents upon me. I thought about it for a moment. I'd read until I was exhausted, tried to sleep, been beset by outlandish dreams, given up on sleep, carried on reading, only to be haunted by what I could only describe as a series of waking nightmares, until I'd eventually collapsed into that dark slumber, more a state of exhaustion really, then I'd finally awakened this morning in this appalling state of both mind and body. All this in less than a day! What was happening to me? I was, after all, not a man prone to delusions or neuroses, I was a man of science, for God's sake! I was a psychiatrist, not a patient, not one of those poor unfortunate souls who visited me for my own considered professional opinion. How would I diagnose myself at this time I asked myself? I didn't answer my own question. I couldn't. Whatever had happened to me in the hours since I'd come into contact with the journal defied any rational conclusion. I failed to understand how reading a few pages of aged and crumpled paper could have had such a deeply profound effect on my mind. It was illogical and unthinkable that the journal itself could manifest such feelings within my mind, wasn't it? They were just words written on paper, they couldn't house any external power, couldn't possibly be the depository for any lingering malevolence imbued upon the pages by the writer. The evil that was Jack the Ripper was
not
infused into the pages of his journal.

I remember thinking to myself there was nothing to worry about. Why didn't I just go marching back into the study, pick up the journal, and read it to the end in one swift session, read great-grandfather's accompanying notes, then just return the whole thing to its wrappings and consign it to the safe or whatever, and just forget about it? Even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew that option was an impossible one. The journal wouldn't allow me to do that, I know that sounds stupid, but it's how I felt. Even the occasional break from the journal to study the facts I'd downloaded from the Casebook and other sources seemed to me to be part of the journal's plan, a need to be understood at every point along the way, for me to be aware of the facts of the case in a precise chronological fashion, as though to give the journal a solid foundation in my mind, in order that I might understand the mind that had controlled the hand that had written the diabolical words upon each terror-laden page.

Now, you may think me fanciful to use such a term as 'terror-laden', yet to me that's exactly what the journal had quickly come to represent. I was involved, almost against my will, (after all, I hadn't asked for the damned thing, had I?), in a journey into the mind, the thoughts and the twisted terrifying conclusions that had been wrought as a result of those thoughts, the thoughts of a deeply disturbed and very, very sick man. I supposed that most people, expert or laymen, had probably lost sight of the fact that Jack the Ripper, whoever he may have been, was still after all, just a man, someone's son, perhaps someone's husband, brother, friend. Though his crimes may have been monstrous in both their substance and their execution, he was capable, at one time at least, of feeling love, affection and deep emotions, after all, it had to be remembered that his crimes themselves were committed whilst he was under the influence of an extremely deep emotional state, however warped and twisted it may appear to the rational mind. I was, I thought, bound tightly by the words of his journal to what I now realised to be the final few weeks in the murderous career of Jack the Ripper, I was tied to the history of his crimes, and believe me when I say to you that I had never known such terror, whether it be real or imagined, I was very, very, afraid of the revelations that may yet reveal themselves to me as the Ripper's blood-soaked testimony continued.

I wished I could talk to Sarah, but I thought it too early in the day. Though I'd no doubt that she and Jennifer were up and about, the early morning demands of the baby would probably keep them occupied for quite some time. Perhaps in an hour or so I'd try calling, I knew that talking to Sarah would be the best therapy I could prescribe for myself.

Before returning to the study, I remembered something from my last night-time encounter with the journal, something that had been niggling away at the back of my mind. Half-forgotten since my awkward slumber in the chair, it came back to me as I cleared away my plate and refreshed my coffee cup.

He mentioned he was leaving London! Why! Where was he going? Obviously, if the Ripper had left London early in September it would explain why the slaughter on the streets of the East End had been interrupted, why there were no further attacks until the night of the dreadful double murder. If that had been the case however, the question remained. Where had he gone? Had he perpetrated further atrocities elsewhere during his absence from the capital? From a comment made in his last entry, it appeared to me that he was incensed by the public's reaction to his crimes. The apparent sympathy of the press and the public for his victims seemed to infuriate him; the posses of Londoners thronging the streets in search of the murderer genuinely amazed him. I thought that he probably found some amusement in the antics of the mob in the beginning, hence his originally joining in with the crowds; now the public outcry was becoming an irritation to him, and the sheer numbers of potential vigilantes on the streets were perhaps instrumental in his coming to the decision to leave the city, if only for a while. I may have been wrong, but the thought bore some weight of reason in my mind.

I decided that my first task should be to continue my factual investigations. I would try, by using the information provided by The Casebook and other websites, to ascertain if there were any Ripper style murders anywhere else in Britain during September 1888. Then the thought struck me that he may have left the country altogether. It was not implausible that he could have travelled to France, Holland, Germany perhaps, and laid low for a time, or used the time to perfect his 'art' by killing in a foreign land. Though this would perhaps be harder to establish, I promised myself that I would try to learn what I could about any related murders on the continent, if of course the journal confirmed that The Ripper had indeed left these shores.

What on Earth would I do however, if he failed to indicate his whereabouts during the days following his last entry? Would the journal inform me, or misdirect me? Would there be one of those gaps, days missed out, left blank, simply because he had nothing to say, or because he had left the journal at home, and had had no way of keeping it up to date? Would he suddenly return to it after an absence of days or weeks, ready to assault the pages with yet more bloody revelations? My head still throbbed, but I felt I could put it off no longer. I made myself a promise to phone Sarah in exactly one hour, no matter what the journal may be revealing to me at that time. The questions in my mind were beginning to absorb my thoughts, I wanted answers, I needed to know what happened next, to fit the next piece of the jigsaw into place. So, finally making my way to my chair once again, temporarily fortified by food and drink, and at least partially refreshed, I took up the journal once more knowing there was only one way I was going to find out.

Jack's Sudden Illness

17
^th
September 1888

A pleasant journey by all accounts. Left London early, a compartment to myself, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the sound of the train as it clattered the track. Such sights to see along the way, fields, trees, and factories. Houses in fields, and towns galore, I saw the world through the window, and still there was more. There were animals, cows, sheep, geese, and the smell of the smoke from the engine as it carried me away from the dismal city, ever onwards, further north. I saw the spires of the Minster, the great church of York, the splendid cathedral of Durham as it overlooked the city, and the great city of Newcastle, where it lies on the Tyne. I saw castles, great edifices of history, and white wave caps upon the sea as the locomotive pulled me ever nearer to my destination. At last, the city, with its grand castle towering above, what a sight, and the station, itself a wonder of the modern architecture, so grand and spacious. To walk in such a place! Such air. I breathe so easily. The people, though of a strange voice, are remarkably friendly to a stranger. The room is satisfactory, the bed clean, the staff attentive. I shall explore further tomorrow, I shall visit the great bridge over the firth, that iron wonder of the modern age, though it is not ready for the trains to cross I understand, I shall feast my eyes upon its massive girders, its grandeur as it stretches out across the murky waters below, but, for now, it is good to relax, to eat a hearty meal perhaps, and thence to sleep, refresh my bones. Tomorrow, yes, I'll visit the streets, tour the city, take in the sights, find a good pharmacist and walk the great mile. But for now, I'll rest, my work is waiting, but will not go away though I be absent from the city. It can wait. I am tired after all, I am so very tired. The headache is returning.

I found this to be a revelation of monumental proportions. He had indeed left London, and there was no doubt from the description of his journey that The Ripper had headed north to Edinburgh. This discourse could have been written by a different person. There was evidence here of lucid thought, of what could only be described as normality. He had ceased to rant, save for the one small reference to his 'work' at the end. He had described his journey as full of wonders, York Minster, Durham Cathedral, which, as he rightly described, sits upon a hilly outcrop overlooking the city, and the great city of Newcastle-on-Tyne, which, during the late nineteenth century must have been a throbbing scene of vast industry. He would indeed have seen Waverley Station in Edinburgh as a marvel, even in Victoria's day it was one of the finest examples of station building in Britain. With its graceful arches and sweeping staircases leading from platform to platform, its open-plan vista as it opened up onto the street outside, it was a station of which the people of Edinburgh were rightly proud. And what of his promise to himself to visit the great Forth Bridge? He was acting more like a tourist than a seriously deranged killer attempting to lie low from the vast manhunt taking place back home in London. But then, he'd done no wrong had he? At least not in his own mind. He'd simply left town to recharge his batteries, so to speak, to escape the throngs of people crowding the streets, to rest and prepare himself for the next round of his task.