A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper (2 page)

My wife Sarah was away for the week, staying with her sister Jennifer, who had given birth to a son four days after Dad's funeral. Jennifer had been married for three years to my cousin Tom, a brilliant if somewhat erratically minded computer engineer, who she had met at a dinner party at our house. Sarah had been reluctant to leave me so soon after Dad's passing, and the funeral, but I insisted she go and be with Jennifer at such an important and emotional time. I'd assured her I'd be fine, and, as I locked the car and made my way to the front door of our home, I actually felt relieved that I was alone. Somehow, I felt the papers I now carried under my arm were reserved for my eyes only, and I was grateful to have the time to explore their contents in private. I still had the rest of the week off, having paid a locum to baby-sit the practice during my official period of mourning, so the next few days were mine to do with as I chose.

Little did I know that, as I closed the heavy front door behind me, I was about to enter a world far removed from my cosy suburban existence, a world I had barely perceived from my history lessons at school. I was about to be shocked, all my conceptions of truth and respectability were to be rocked to the very core, though I didn't know it yet.

I quickly changed into casual clothes, poured myself a large scotch, and retired to my study, eager to begin my investigation into Dad's strange bequest. After seating myself comfortably in front of my desk, I took a sip of the warming, golden liquid in my glass, then, taking a pair of scissors from the desk, I tentatively cut the string around the bundle of papers. Sure enough, as the solicitor had indicated, there on top of a very thick loosely bound stack of papers was a sealed brown envelope, addressed to me, in the unmistakable handwriting of my father. My hands were unconsciously trembling with a sense of anticipation and curiosity as I reached out for the solid silver sword-shaped paper-knife Sarah had bought me for my last birthday. In one swift movement I slit the top of the envelope, reached inside and removed the letter within. The letter, handwritten by my father and dated almost twenty years earlier was a revelation to me, even though I was still unaware of the true significance of the loosely bound papers that accompanied it. The letter read as follows:

To my dearest son, Robert,

As my eldest son, and also my most trusted friend, I leave to you the enclosed journal, with its accompanying notes. This journal has been passed from generation to generation of our family, always to the eldest son, and now, as I must so obviously be dead, it has passed to you.

Be very careful, my son, with the knowledge this journal contains. Within its pages you will find the solution (at least, a solution of sorts) to one of the great mysteries in the annals of British crime, but with that solution comes a dire responsibility. You may be tempted, my son, to make public that which you are about to discover; you may feel the public deserves to know the solution to the burning mystery, but, and I caution you most carefully, Robert, should you go public with the knowledge, you will risk destroying not only everything that our family has stood for through over a hundred years of medical research and progression in the field of psychiatric medicine, but you may also destroy the very credibility of our most cherished profession.

Murder most foul Robert! It is of that most heinous crime that you will read, as I read following the death of your grandfather, and he also before me. But are there worse things than murder in this world? Do we have the right as doctors to make the judgments that the courts should rightly dole out? My son, I hope you are ready for what you are about to learn, though I doubt I was at the time I read the journal. Read it well my son, and the notes that go with it, and judge for yourself. If, as I did, you feel suitably disposed, you will do also as our family have always done, and keep the knowledge of its contents a closely guarded secret, until the time is right to pass it on to your own offspring. The knowledge is, I fear, the cross the family must bear, until one day perhaps one of us feels so ridden by conscience or some form of need for absolution, to reveal what the pages contain.

Be strong my son, or, if you feel you cannot turn the first page, go no further, reseal the journal in its wrappings, and consign it to a deep vault somewhere, let it lie forever in darkness, where perhaps it should rightly belong. But, if you do read the contents, be prepared to carry the knowledge with you for ever, in your heart, in your soul, but worst of all, in your mind, a burden of guilt that can never be erased.

You are my eldest son, and I have always loved you dearly. Forgive me for placing this burden upon you,

Yours with love,

Dad

As I finished reading the letter, I suddenly realized that I'd been holding my breath, such was the tension I felt inside, and I took a deep breath and sighed. The trembling in my hands had increased, and I reached for the bottle of amber liquid at the side of the desk, and poured myself another large one. Suddenly, I felt as if whatever was contained within these papers lying unopened before me was about to irrevocably change my life, not outwardly perhaps, but I knew before I even looked at the documents that whatever was contained within these pages was obviously of grave significance. If not, why had my family gone to such pains to protect the secret contained within them? I gulped the scotch down, too fast, the liquid burned my throat, and I coughed involuntarily.

At this point of course, I had no idea what the papers contained, though my father's words had given me a sneaking suspicion that I knew where this was leading. Unable to wait any longer, I broke the tapes around the journal, and there it was, the family secret, about to be unveiled! The first sheet of paper, resting on top of the rest, was definitely old, and written in the typical copperplate handwriting of the nineteenth century. There was no date or address at the top of the paper, it seemed to be little more than a series of notes, there was no signature, nothing at all to identify the writer.

I read as follows:
How do I begin to relate all that has happened? Would anyone believe the incredible story? Is it the truth? Is he really the man? The journal could be the work of a clever man, an attempt to deceive those who read it, but no, I knew him too well, spoke with him too often. He was telling the truth! As for me, what of my part in all this? Am I guilty of complicity, or have I done the world a favour by my actions? That he will trouble the people of London no more is now certain. That he was deranged I could testify to myself, but what of proof? What of evidence? Apart from the ravings of the lunatic, all I have is the journal, and I had it too long, knew too much too soon, to bear the disgrace of admitting that I could have stopped it all if I had spoken sooner. Now I cannot speak at all for to do so would destroy me, my work, and my family. Who would understand that I held silent because I thought him mad, too mad to believe, and yet his madness was the very thing that drove him, and I should have believed? It was too late, I could do no more, God help me, I should have stopped him, stopped him right at the beginning when he told me, when he laughed and laughed and told me that no-one would ever catch him.

After the most hideous death of that poor girl, Mary Kelly, I had to do something, and I did, but, knowing what I know, what I knew already, I should have acted sooner. May God forgive me; I could have stopped Jack the Ripper!

I was holding my breath again, and, as I exhaled, my eyes moved to the final note at the bottom of the page, seemingly written some time later than the rest of the notes, the writer's hand less bold, as though he were shaking as he wrote these final words.

Jack the Ripper is no more,
he's gone, forever, and yet, I feel I am no better than the monster himself? I swore an oath to save life, to preserve, not to destroy, I am naught but a wretched, squalid soul, as squalid as the streets he stalked in life, and will forever, I am sure haunt in death. I bequeath this legacy to those who follow me; judge me not too harshly, for justice may be blind, and I have acted for the best as I saw it at the time. I have despoiled my oath, his blood is mine, and that of those poor unfortunates, and I must bear what I have done within my heavy conscience and my aching heart for the rest of my days!

Jack the Ripper! My heart almost leaped into my mouth at the astonishing thought that I was about to learn something that few others had shared. I knew from our family history that my great-grandfather had spent some time as a consulting psychiatric physician at the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum during the 1880s, and it now seemed that he'd been privy to knowledge the rest of the world had been seeking for over a century, or, at least, he believed himself to have been. Yet, what did he mean by the references to his complicity, what
action
had he taken?

Another sip of scotch, more fire in my throat, and I was ready to take the next step. I had to see the journal, had to know what my great-grandfather knew. If he'd solved the mystery of the Ripper murders, why hadn't he revealed the truth? What could possibly have enticed him to keep silent about the most celebrated series of murders ever to strike at the heart of the great metropolis that was nineteenth century London? What part did he play in the tragedy; how could he, a respected physician and member of society have been complicit in the foul deeds perpetrated by Jack the Ripper? He was my great-grandfather after all, I refused at that point to believe that he could be in any way connected with the murders of those poor unfortunate women, and yet, in his own words, he'd stated that he could have stopped the Ripper. Again I asked myself, what could he have known, what could he have done? Looking at the loosely bound journal on the desk in front of me, I knew there was only one way I was going to find out!

The Journal Begins

Foregoing the temptation to top up my by now half empty glass of whisky, (I'd decided a clear head would be imperative as I read the journal), I paused only long enough to ensure that both the front and back doors of the house were securely locked. Though not expecting any visitors this late in the afternoon, I wanted to ensure that no-one could walk in unannounced, and there was always Mrs. Armitage from next door. She'd promised to 'keep an eye' on me for Sarah while she was away, and had developed the habit of knocking and entering before descending upon me with a plate of home-made scones or cakes or some other 'treat' she was sure I'd enjoy whilst on my own. Not today thank you, Mrs. Armitage!

Though I was sorely tempted, I resisted the urge to take the telephone off the hook, or to switch off my mobile. Sarah might try to call me, and, if she didn't get a reply, I was sure she'd call Mrs. Armitage and send her scurrying round to check on poor lonely little me! No, leave the phones on, safer by far.

I settled myself down once again in my chair, and turned to the journal. I've referred to it as such because that's the way my father, and my great-grandfather referred to it, but, in truth, it wasn't so much a journal, as a collection of papers, punctured with a crude hole punch over a hundred years ago, and then bound together with tightly drawn tapes, or, perhaps, very stiff ribbons. After the passage of years it was hard to be sure what they were originally, and, after all, I'm a doctor, not an expert on antique book bindings.

There was no cover as such and no identifying title or name on the first page, but there were other sheets of paper protruding at various parts of the journal. "Jack the Ripper", I thought to myself, surely there was no-one in the civilized world who hadn't heard of the famed Whitechapel murderer, and here I was, about to be taken, perhaps too closely, into that dark world of shadows and brutality inhabited by that most infamous of serial killers, and yet, as I began to read that first, aged and wrinkled page I was convinced that my father and those before him had fallen for the literary rantings of a madman.

The journal began:

6
^th
August 1888,

Ate a fine dinner, red wine, (blood), the tenderest veal, rare, (more blood), and the voices hissing at me through the gas mantle, the lights flickering, screaming, and ringing in my head. Blood! Let the streets run red with the harlots blood; avenge the pitiful wrecks brought to foul disease by the tainted blood. Spill the blood, the streets are mine, the blood shall be mine, the will know me, fear me, I am justice, I am death! What foul pestilence they spread, and I shall cause to die such evil that men shall raise my name on high! I hear the voices, they sing to me, ah, such sweet melodies, and always red, they sing of red, of whores and their foul smelling wicked entrails, that I shall put aside forever.

The cheese was a little over-ripe, though the cigar my friend left on his last visit went admirably well with the after-dinner port. Very relaxed as I sat enjoying faint warmth of the evening.

I hear the voices, and I must reply, but the only reply they want to hear is the sound of death, the drenching of blood on stone, yes, they need me, I am the instrument of fear, red, red blood, running like a river, I see it, I can almost taste it, I must go, the night will be upon me soon, and the cigar smoke hangs like a fog in the room. My, but the port is good, I swill it round the glass, and it is the blood, the blood that will flow as I begin my work, such fine port, such a good night for killing.

7
^th
August 1888

'Twas a fine clear night for the job to be done. Had no real good tools to work with, kitchen and carving knives, very poor show. The whore was waiting, eager, needing me. So gullible as to invite me indoors, did her on the first floor landing, started and couldn't stop. She was so surprised, oh yes, her face, that look, pure terror as the knife slashed into her softly yielding flesh. First one straight to the heart, she staggered, fell, and we set about the work. I say we, for the voices were there with me, guiding, watching, slashing and cutting with me. Lost count of the number of times I cut the whore, she didn't even scream, just a low gurgling as she expired in the dark. Took care to purify the whore's breasts, her gut, her vital parts. She'll spread no pestilence no more, the river ran red, as they promised it would. I must take care the next time; there was too much blood upon my self. Lucky man, to have thought to remove my coat before I began, had to burn a perfectly good jacket and fine trousers this morning. Though no-one saw me when I left, it was a messy job, I'll get good tools the next time, better clothes for the job.