A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper (3 page)

It was a good start though, of that I'm sure, and there'll be more, so many more!

I had to stop and take a breath. Surely these were the ravings of a total lunatic! There was a clarity of thought evident in certain part of the text, an almost urbane banality in the references to relaxing with a cigar, the warmth of the evening, and the casual references to getting 'better tools next time'. Then the almost unbelievable savagery of expression in the description of the death of that poor woman. Though short, it was terrifying, chilling, the work surely of a man devoid of reason or conscience. Even though these crimes had taken place over a century ago, the first pages of the journal filled me with a fear and dread as real as if I'd been there in London in 1888.

Though not a phrase we like to use in these enlightened times, I had to think in terms of the times in which these crimes took place, and I thought this couldn't be right. Jack the Ripper, from what little I knew, had been clever, a master of concealment and bravado, these words couldn't be those of the Ripper! These were the words of a seriously disturbed individual, which, though the Ripper also had to have been similarly deranged, seemed to belong more in the realms of fantasy than reality. Could the writer have written this journal after the event, and, as many deluded souls have done through the years, imagined himself to be the notorious murderer. In other words, could this have been written by a seriously ill, delusional individual seeking to gain attention?

My own knowledge of the Jack the Ripper murders was scant at best, so, before continuing, I fired up my computer, and accessed the internet. There I found a welter of sites offering information and speculation on the Ripper murders, and I quickly printed off a couple of informative pieces, in the hope that they would be able to give me some useful points of reference as I progressed through what I thought of as the madman's journal lying on the desk before me.

Sure enough, there it was. In the early hours of the morning of the 7
^th
August 1888, the body of Martha Tabram had been discovered on a first floor landing of a tenement building at 37 George Yard. In total 39 stab wounds were discovered on her body, the majority of the damage having been caused to her breasts, belly, and private parts. It seems that, as the Ripper murders progressed, the killing of Martha Tabram was discounted by some as having been committed by the same man who killed the other later victims. If my lunatic, (as I thought of him at the moment) had indeed been Jack the Ripper, then it was plain to see that Martha Tabram had perhaps been his first tentative venture into the world of bloody murder. At this time, however, the police and the public had no inkling of the carnage that was waiting in the wings, preparing to unleash itself upon the streets of Whitechapel. Naturally, in 1888 forensic science was non-existent, the use of fingerprints for identification was still many years in the future, and the police were, in the case of poor Martha Tabram, virtually clueless. At the time of her death Martha was 39 years old, the estranged wife of Henry Tabram, and had spent the last nine years living on and off with a William Turner, who last saw her alive on the 4
^th
of August, when he gave her the sum of 1/6d (71/2p). On the night of her death various witnesses stated that she'd been seen in the company of one of more soldiers, and the original police theory was that she may have been murdered by a soldier 'client'.

Unfortunately, the murder of one 'shilling whore' raised scant headlines in the press or in the public conscience at the time. All that was soon to change!

I decided at that point that I needed a strategy, a means of working through the journal, whilst ensuring that I maintained a grip on the realities of the case. How easy it would have been to skip straight to the end, to read my great-grandfather's final notes, to see if the Ripper was identified, either by his own words, if true, or by great-grandfather. I'd never known him, he'd died before I was born, but I'd learned enough about him to know he was a highly respected physician in his day, and I was sure that his conclusions would be a revelation in themselves. No, I couldn't do it. I had to read each page in order, had to assimilate the information in chronological order in order to understand what this was all about. It wasn't just the Ripper, no, my great-grandfather was also nursing some other secret, and, before I read what it was, I needed to understand what had happened to lead to his final solution, whatever that had been.

I presumed the journal would take me on a journey, a journey through the terrible events that took place back in 1888, so I decided the best course of action would be to read the journal, referring to any notes made by my great-grandfather, and then to refer to the texts I had printed from the internet, checking the facts as I went. In fact, I took the time to find more websites, and printed out reams of information on the murders, and it was quite some time before, having collated them all into a working chronology, I settled myself once more into my chair, took another sip of whisky, and slowly reached out to take up the journal once more.

A Cry for Help?

12
^th
August 1888

After breakfast suffered a violent headache. Came from nowhere. So sudden, it almost knocked me from my feet. Forced to lie down, remained prone for some time. It's them, the voices, they're shouting in my head, even when I can't hear them, they must be! They'd been silent since I finished the whore, and yet, they're in there all the time, sleeping. They must wake inside my head and talk, and I don't always hear them. I don't like the headache.

The diagnosis and treatment of mental illness in the 1880s was, like the science of criminology, very basic compared to today's standards. My great-grandfather would have been astounded to see the massive advances that medical science has achieved in the last hundred years. Nowadays we understand so much more, we treat with care and compassion, yet, back in the days of the Ripper saga, we built huge Gothic asylums, we incarcerated and tortured those poor afflicted souls in the name of medicine, we were, I'm afraid, as a profession, in the stone ages.

The few words I'd just read had convinced me that the writer was indeed a sufferer from some form of mental disease. The hearing of voices is of course the classic mark of the psychopath, or possibly the sign of some form of mania. This man, however, seemed to feel that the voices were speaking to him even when he couldn't hear them. He was indeed a sick man, but, with the limited knowledge and resources available in the nineteenth century, it was unlikely he would ever have received effective or curative care. The comment
'I don't like the headache'
showed an almost childlike desire for someone to take away his pain. I could almost feel his hurt, his anguish, though I wasn't yet convinced these were truly the words of the man known as Jack the Ripper!

Now, you may be wondering why I was doubting the voracity of the journal. It was obvious that, for whatever reasons, my great-grandfather, my grandfather and father all believed in the truth of the documents now in my possession, and yet, I felt that with the benefits of modern-day technology at my disposal, and with the additional knowledge that now existed relating to the Ripper murders, it might be possible for me to arrive at a different conclusion to my forebears. Only by reading the journal, the notes, and comparing them with the facts I had accessed could I hope to come to an objective conclusion in the matter. Psychiatry has also moved on to such an extent I felt I may be able to perhaps throw a different light on anything my great-grandfather had surmised from the journal. I was, of course, still to discover what his part in the whole affair had been, and that did give me cause for concern. It wouldn't be fair however, to jump the gun and rush to the end of the journal or the notes. I had to go slowly, had to take one step at a time.

13
^th
August 1888

Couldn't leave the house today, so much pain and confusion in my head. I have to go out sometime, there's so much I need to do. My work must go on, but the tools, I must have the tools. Now I know the way to find safe retreat. I never realized how much blood the whore would spill upon me. There's no way to hide the blood, and I can't risk being taken, not when there's so much to do! The voices told me how to hide the blood. Hide myself, and the blood will be hidden too. Be invisible. That's the answer. THE SEWERS. Use the sewers, get a map, a plan, they run under every street, every house, and no-one shall see me, they'll never find me, never beat me. I'm invisible, invisible and invincible.

14
^th
August 1888

Feeling so much better, had work to do. Not the whores, they'll have to wait, the office, boring, but necessary. Everything normal, that's the way, let no-one suspect. My neighbour called today, brought a copy of The Star. Seems someone killed a whore called Tabram. Didn't know whores had names, how shocking! Left work early, got all I needed on Whitechapel High Street. Surgeons' knives, so sharp, so bright, and maps, all the maps I need to complete the task. Be careful little whores, I'm coming.

This was truly chilling. I was beginning to believe at last that this could indeed be the journal of The Ripper. There was a manic yet highly intelligent brain behind these words, of that I was becoming sure, one minute coherent and methodical, the next almost ludicrously psychotic in his train of thought. Was he shocked that whores had names, or that someone had killed Martha Tabram? Had he at that point detached himself from the actual act of cold-blooded murder, becoming, for a short time, just another citizen indignant at the repugnance of the wicked crime? Apart from anything else, I had to admit to myself that as a case study, this was becoming totally engrossing. I could feel the tension building with almost every word I read in this strange, crumpled journal. The very age of the paper gave it a decrepit, tomblike feel, and added to the chill beginning to surround me as I sat in my comfortable chair, at my familiar desk, where, suddenly, nothing felt quite the same as it did just a short time ago. I felt as if I was being slowly and inexorably dragged back in time, so tangibly that I could almost envisage the sights and sounds of Victorian London being just outside my comfortable suburban home. Does that sound ridiculous? Maybe it does, but it's true. That's just how it felt. The more I read, the more I was being transported to another era, I could almost taste the fear of those uncertain times in that great, yet partially squalid city. I was beginning to realize why my family had kept this secret so close. The journal, though quite indistinct in many ways, was like a time machine. Once you began you couldn't release yourself from its hold. I had to continue.

17
^th
August 1888

Visited a few of the drinking establishments in Spitalfields and Whitechapel. Drank beer in The Britannia, the Princess Alice, and The Alma in Spelman Street. Got quite drunk. So many whores wanted me. Me! Used the drink to avoid their dirty pestilence. Played the well-heeled but drunken punter. Couldn't do it, ha! That's what they thought! Couldn't do it? I'll do them all, filthy, rotten bitches, whores; I'll send them all to hell! TO HELL, DAMN THEIR FILTHY HIDES!

He was getting angrier by the day, and it was clear that he was plotting, reconnoitering the area, he was putting his plan together, and would strike when he was ready. This was premeditation on a grand scale, he was getting ready to unleash the fire and brimstone of his own hell upon the poor unfortunate women of that sadly deprived and neglected area of the great metropolis. What felt even worse was the fact that I felt as though I was about to be given a ringside seat at the proceedings.

20
^th
August 1888

They're back, the voices, calling louder than ever. They fill my head, they want me, need me; I'm so glad they came, but they hurt me when they all scream at once. Why don't they speak one at a time? Sometimes they're so loud I can't hear them properly. My, but that's a grand piece of lamb upon my plate tonight. I knew it was good before I tasted it. Not too rare, we're not ready to go out again, not just yet. When they say so, I'll be ready, ready for the blood, the river, the river of red that will flow through the streets as surely as the Thames splits the city in two. The whores will pay, and pay in full, I'll have no more of their wicked pestilence, their evil bitch heat fouling the air, filling innocent beds with their filth, I'll have them all, whores, nothing but whores.

They're gone again, for a while at least, but I wish my head wouldn't hurt so much. Why do they leave me like this? I don't want my head to hurt, not like this. I wish it would stop.

So, one minute he was the avenging angel, the next, a frightened little boy, that's how I saw this tortured soul. I could almost imagine him lying alone in his bed at night, weeping silently into his pillow, willing the pain to leave him, and, when it didn't, crying out loud for help. I wondered, did this man, this murderer, Jack the Ripper, did he cry in despair for his mother?

I turned to the texts I'd printed on the facts of the case. I wanted to check the chronology of the case. The writer of the journal hadn't made entries for every day, as one would in a diary, and I wondered how many more pages I would have to read before reaching the entry for August 31
^st
. I knew there'd be one that day, especially for that night. It was the night the true terror of Jack the Ripper began!

Tension

My mouth was dry, very dry, and I felt the need for refreshment. Though I was sorely tempted to refill the glass on my desk, I needed to keep a clear head, and so reluctantly rose from my chair and headed for the kitchen. Coffee was the order of the day, and, while waiting for the kettle to boil, I continued to scan through the loose pages of script I'd printed from the computer, trying to glean whatever I could from them before returning to the more intense work of studying the journal. I rubbed the back of my neck; it felt stiff. Just a short time ago, I'd been a pretty ordinary fellow, mourning the loss of my poor dear Dad, (I suppose I'd been feeling a little sorry for myself), and, despite my reassurances to her, I was missing Sarah. Now, here I was, alone in the house, which suddenly seemed a much larger and lonelier place, apparently surrounded by the unknown ghosts of the past, which had reared up and taken me totally by surprise. How could my father have kept this a secret for so long?