A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper (6 page)

In a move intended to calm my own nerves slightly, and to compose myself for what I was about to read, I gently laid the journal down on the desk, and took up the printed fact sheets I'd printed out earlier. I wanted to acquaint myself with more of the facts of the case before returning to the words of 'The Ripper'.

History records that on the night of the 30
^th
of August 1888, Mary Ann Nichols, (known to all as Polly), was seen walking alone in Whitechapel Road at about 11.30 p.m. At 12.30 a.m. she was witnessed leaving a public house in Brick Lane, and last seen alive by her friend and sometimes living partner Ellen Holland at 2.30 a.m. at the corner of Whitechapel Road and Osborn Street. She was drunk, and steadfastly refused to return with Holland to their shared room in Thrawl Street.

Her lifeless body was found in Buck's Row, a dark and lonely street known today as Durward Street, at about 3.40 a.m, with her skirt pulled up. Three policemen were soon in attendance, and one of them, police constable Neil noted that her throat had been cut. She was pronounced dead at the scene by Doctor Rees Llewellyn, the duty police surgeon, and her body removed to the mortuary shed at the Old Montague Street Workhouse Infirmary. It was during a subsequent examination of the body in the mortuary that the horrific abdominal mutilations, soon to become the trademark of the Ripper, were discovered.

At the hastily convened inquest into her death, (that very day), it was revealed the poor woman had suffered two cuts to the throat, so deep as to reach the vertebrae, her abdomen had been slashed, and her left side had received a gash that ran from the base of her ribs almost to her pelvis. There were numerous cuts to her right abdomen, and, horrifically, two stab wounds directly in her genitals. Though initially it was thought she'd been killed elsewhere, and the body dumped in Buck's Row, due to the small amount of blood found on the street, it was later deduced that her clothing had absorbed much of the blood and that Buck's Row, was, in fact, the scene of her murder. One important attendee at the inquest was Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline, who had been brought in to co-ordinate the investigation. At this time however, the police had nothing to go on, no witnesses, no suspects, and no evidence.

Had The Ripper ended his slaughter with the death of Polly Nichols it is likely the crime would have remained unsolved and forgotten, and the killing would have been no more than a footnote in the dark criminal history of the East End of London, and the name of Jack the Ripper would have never been known to the world.

I returned to the journal. Strangely, there was no entry for the latter part of the night of the 3Oth August, when he so obviously must have left his home and prowled the dark streets in search of his victim. Had he been too excited to write on his return home? Had he been so preoccupied by his task that he'd forgotten the very existence of his journal? In light of my theories on the state of mind of the writer, I presumed
that
to be the most likely conclusion. He was so wrapped up, so totally absorbed by his cause, his 'work', that the journal would have been insignificant to him, barely worth a thought, as indeed I believed to be the case. He had, however, returned to his literary account the next day, and the entry, though short, was as chilling to me as if he'd written a five page dissertation on the killing of that poor unfortunate woman.

31
^st
August 1888

Am well. Continued the work last night. After the first whore this was easy, like gutting a fish! Slash, slash, slash, so easy, so quick. The whore never saw me coming, lying drunk in the filthy doorway of the hovel. This is the real thing, now I can't stop, for the whores are ripe for plucking, and I'll reap a bloody harvest. Her blood was sticky warm upon my fingers, but the whore is cold, cold as the grave, good job.

I even walked back to look, but they'd shifted the whore. No-one saw, I was invisible. Solved the blood problem. The apron will wash, and the sewers keep me safe. Door to door, hahaha.

So, here it was, probably for the first time. A confession (of sorts), to the murders of both Martha Tabram and Polly Nichols, by one individual. If this journal was indeed the real thing, (and this was becoming more self-evident to me with each page I read), then all the past conjecture as to whether Martha Tabram was a victim of The Ripper was ended, (for me at least).

Poor Polly Nichols! Left to bleed into the street in the depths of night, probably without even knowing what was happening to her. That, I suppose, was a blessing of sorts. She hadn't been dragged screaming to her horrific death. If the writer was to be believed, he'd come across his victim lying virtually helpless in a doorway, probably too stupefied through drink to realize her throat was being cut, until it was too late. Though the subsequent mutilations were horrific in their extent and ferocity, they were at least inflicted post-mortem, she wouldn't have felt the blade slicing into her flesh, cutting her open, despoiling and defiling her most intimate, private parts. The depths of the cuts to the woman's throat would have ensured that she'd died almost instantly. I sat and shivered again, and, even though the act had occurred so long ago, I said a silent prayer for the soul of Mary Ann (Polly) Nichols.

That he could be so sparse in his words on the killing, and so matter of fact about the acts of depravity he'd committed was frightening, and I shuddered inwardly as the wind again howled at the window, and I felt the strange feeling once again, the feeling of being not alone, though I knew I was. I was getting jumpy, and little wonder. There was no entry for the 1
^st
day of September, but he was back the next day.

2
^nd
September 1888

The voices called to me today. They're celebrating, elated, telling me to rest now. The work won't go away, but it will wait, until the time comes again when I shall rise in answer to the call. The headache came again, far worse, but the laudanum helped.

3
^rd
September 1888

Saw 'T' today. Also Cavendish paid a courtesy call. I listened, but spoke little. Thanked him for previous advice. He asked how I was. Fine I replied. Fine. Fine. Fine. He was on his way to the asylum, so many unhappy souls in there, would that they could enjoy the sunshine, the freedom to walk, to talk, to be human again. I know such is not their destiny, my own self would treat them if I could, help them find the release they need. But I cannot, I must bide within my own confines, and take solace in the work, I'll wait for the voices, let them rest, they too are tired, soon enough I'll feel the blood of the whores on my skin again, I'll watch the next wretched strumpet bleed as I slice her good and well. Won't be long my lovely, won't be long, I promise.

There was my great-grandfather once again, and mention of someone referred to only as 'T'. Why didn't the writer name him, as he had my ancestor? Would naming him have given too much away, made it too easy for the writer to be identified if his journal had fallen into the wrong hands? It was obvious to me that my great-grandfather had no inkling of the writer's connection to the murders at that time, or I was sure he'd have added something to his notes. There was nothing, and yes, the man 'T', if it was a man, must have been too close to home for the writer to identify. There was also the vague reference to his wanting to do something to help cure the inmates of the asylum. Was that just the rambling of an insane mind, or did this man, as many have suspected of the Ripper, have some medical connections? Could he indeed have been a doctor himself? That would certainly explain his presence at the same club as great-grandfather. Were they professional colleagues I wondered, or just passing acquaintances? I knew that I could probably solve the mystery instantly by turning a few pages, looking at the final entries, perhaps seeing a name in my ancestors' hand, but, no, I couldn't. I felt compelled to see this through to the end, to read each and every page as it opened before me, to follow the trail of the journal to whatever conclusion it arrived at. Only by fully understanding what had happened in those far-off days would I discover my family's own dark secret, and perhaps, at the same time, discover the identity of Jack the Ripper.

4
^th
September 1888

I must go away for a couple of days. The whores can wait, but I'll be back, by all that's true, I'll return in time to cut the next one hard.

So, he was going away. To work? To visit a friend, or family perhaps? I referred to my research papers, looking for any reference to any of the many suspects having been absent from London between the 4
^th
September and the date of the next murder, which would take place on the 8
^th
. There was little information, the only information relating to any of the alleged suspects referred to Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, the grandson of Queen Victoria. The prince was recorded as having been staying with Viscount Downe at Danby Lodge in Yorkshire fro the 29
^th
August to the 7
^th
September, and thence at the Cavalry Barracks at York until the 10
^th
. Unless he could have been in two places at once, that let the prince off the hook as far as I was concerned. I felt that to be a preposterous theory at any rate, though perhaps others may have acted on his behalf? I felt it more likely that the writer was fulfilling some pre-arranged appointment, perhaps, as I'd already thought, to visit a relative, or, if he was a medical man himself, to attend to some pressing out of town business, perhaps he was himself treating patients at a hospital, or God forbid the thought, at an asylum!

Try as I might, I couldn't shake the thought that I was being inextricably drawn into a web so vast, so deep, that I might never be the same again. Would the knowledge I was about to learn over the next few hours leave me unscathed, or was I cursed to carry some vile and bitter secret with me to the grave. Was that what my poor father had done, and his father before him? The yellowed, crinkled, aged paper in my hand seemed almost warm to the touch, as if the warmth of the blood of that poor hapless victim of the Ripper was seeping through the very pages of the journal, reaching across the vastness of time to touch me here in the warm safe confines of my study. Something about the writing on the page made it assume an almost three-dimensional appearance in my mind, the page was moving upwards in my hand as I looked ever closer at the words, searching for some hidden clue, some sign of whatever it was that was causing me to suffer such an illogical reaction to the old, worn manuscript. I saw nothing unusual, nothing at all, and yet, there was something about the journal, something dark and malevolent, though I'd no idea what it was. Was it him? Was it The Ripper, his words themselves were chilling enough, but could it be that something of the evil lurked within the fabric of the parchment, could he have somehow burned his own brand of evil into the pages? Rubbish! How foolish I felt for even thinking such a thought. Even so, I hurriedly placed the journal down on the desk, ashamed of my own irrational fear and stupidity. It
was
just a collection of old papers after all, wasn't it?

A Quiet Evening

The icy chill of the journals' words had taken a grip on my thoughts and emotions. I had fully expected the Ripper (if this was indeed the Ripper), to describe his work in far more graphic detail than he had done. It seemed as if the actual act of killing Polly Nichols, the barbarity of his vicious assault on her lifeless body, had been no more than an adjunct to his day, a casual act, committed with no more emotion than he would have displayed if he'd been swatting a fly, or eating a meal. The 'sticky warm blood' upon his fingers, was nothing more than a passing remark, a short statement of fact. He wasn't in any way repelled by the act of murder, as most murderers are after they realize the magnitude of what they've done. This man was incapable of remorse, more than that, he enjoyed the acts he was perpetrating, and dismissed them as nothing more than an everyday occurrence.

I confess that at that point in time, I was actually afraid, though of what I couldn't be sure. I wasn't one normally prone to irrational or illogical fears, but something about this journal, this night, was deeply unnerving to my soul. For reasons I can't explain, (it was after all just an old journal), I felt as though staring into the jaws of Hell, with only a small portion of that terrible destination having been revealed to me. Knowing there was more to come, descriptions of even more horrific events, that the bloodletting was only just beginning, sent paroxysms of shivers down my spine. Despite the intoxicating, addictive pull of the journal, I had to tear myself from it, I needed to rest, to gain a few minutes of respite from the horrific Victorian melodrama being played out in words before me. I summoned enough courage to place the pages of the journal on the desk, rise from my chair, and walk out of the study, into the kitchen, where I made yet more coffee, and then sank into Sarah's fireside chair with my head in my hands. Without my realizing it, the coffee grew cold, my eyes grew heavy, and in minutes I fell into a fitful, shallow sleep.

I dreamed, an awful dream, of blood, and bright, silver blades, cutting and slashing at my flesh. The blood was everywhere, flowing from my arms, my legs, and when I looked down, a gaping wound in my abdomen was opened from side to side across my body, my entrails were hanging out, and the kitchen floor was stained red with the river of blood that stemmed from my wounds. I tried to scream, I couldn't, and I saw the shadow of the man as he raised his blade once more, ready to strike the final blow, to end my torment, and then…

I woke, trembling, sweating, the kitchen was quiet, the floor was clean, dry, not a drop of blood in sight. Almost unconsciously I felt my body, checking for wounds, there were none of course, and I cursed my own stupidity, my weakness in being deceived by a dream. I was definitely becoming spooked. That much was certain. I tried to clear my head, to think rationally, after all, I was, by profession a logical and rational man. Why I should now be so affected by the revelations contained in this nineteenth century text was beyond me.