Ripped (54 page)

The London Stone

T
h
e London Stone
—the portal through which Katie travels back in time—does exist and is purported to have supernatural properties. For 900 years the stone has resided in the heart of London. Often called the Stone of Brutus, it looks like an ordinary boulder. You can see it today wedged in a wall alcove outside 111 Cannon Street. But it is no ordinary lump of rock. Ancient legend has it that if the stone leaves London, the city will cease to exist. “So long as the Stone of Brutus is safe, long will London flourish.”

Historians differ as to the stone's original purpose, believing it was either an ancient Druid altar or part of a religious stone circle, like Stonehenge. For centuries it was believed to be the stone from which King Arthur withdrew his mythic sword, Excalibur.

What we do know is this: The earliest written mention of the London Stone hails from the tenth century. Maps dating back to the eleventh century depict it as a landmark in the heart of London; ancient manuscripts tell us that it was used as a place where deals were forged, proclamations made, and oaths sworn to King and Queen. The pitted indentations referred to as raven claw fissures, on the surface of the stone (that Katie plunges her finger into) were forged by repeated sword blows during medieval pageants.

Shakespeare, Dickens, and many others have written about the famous stone. In Tudor times, Queen Elizabeth I (arguably the greatest English monarch) believed the stone had mystical powers.

What appeals to me most about the London Stone is the fact that for 900 years, through bouts of war, turbulence, fires, cannon blasts, and air-raid bombings, the London Stone has remained intact and unscathed.

In 1888, when our story takes place, the London Stone was encased behind an iron grille set into the south wall of St. Swithin's church, where it remained until the Second World War. In 1941 (on the very day my own mother, a very young girl, was evacuated from London) a bomb was dropped during the Blitz, hitting its target: St. Swithin's. The church was totally demolished and reduced to rubble. Yet, miraculously, the London Stone sat amid the burning ruins unscathed. Three centuries earlier, in 1666, the iconic lump of rock survived the Great Fire of London. Then, as in 1944, the stone lay unharmed amongst smoldering devastation.

Uniformed guards kept vigil over the stone in earlier times, lest it be chipped away at by people who believe it had mysterious powers and might bring them luck. Sadly, the boulder has been neglected in modern times, relegated to the status of “quaint relic from the past.” And though visitors from far reaches of the globe still make pilgrimages to see and touch the stone, few Londoners today give it so much as a passing glance as they hurry along the busy thoroughfare of Cannon Street where the stone resides in the shadow of a towering office building, half hidden behind a decrepit iron grate.

The gas-lit, swirling fog that once engulfed the London Stone in 1888, when Jack the Ripper struck fear in the hearts of millions, has been replaced by modern exhaust fumes billowing from the heavy traffic roaring past; its only illumination now, the yellowish sweeping glare of motorized headlights.

The True Identity of Jack the Ripper

I
n
the year 1888
, Queen Victoria had been England's reigning monarch for fifty-one years, and would continue to sit on the throne for another thirteen. Hence the name given to an era that spanned a good portion of the nineteenth century: The Victorian Age.

In the autumn of 1888, fear gripped every corner of Great Britain because of a series of gruesome murders perpetuated in London by an unknown assailant, dubbed Jack the Ripper. Newspapers on both sides of the Atlantic chronicled the horrific mutilations with a fervor boarding on obsessive. The shocking nature of the murders was unparalleled in the history of crime and criminals. Jack the Ripper attacked his female victims without warning, slitting their throats and eviscerating their bodies, and then was able to slip away undetected, even though police officers were close at hand.

Hailed as “a reprobate, half beast, half man, with an insatiable thirst for blood,” Jack the Ripper invoked terror, as did the mere mention of his name. People throughout England, Europe, and America talked of little else save the fiendish monster who sliced up women in such a gruesome manner.

Women in London at this time dared not venture out after dark unless they had no other choice. Those who plied their trades or earned their living at night—such as factory girls, actresses, music hall performers, midwives, or ladies of the night—lived in fear of being attacked.

Queen Victoria beseeched her female subjects to stay indoors after sundown, but should they have to venture out in the evening, to always walk in pairs. Scotland Yard instructed women to hail a police officer to escort them safely to their destination. The Metropolitan Police were doing double and triple shifts, manning every corner on every street in the Whitechapel District of the East End. But to no avail. Jack the Ripper eluded the authorities at every turn.

Outraged at the ineptitude of the police, members of the community—including ministers, priests, clergymen, students, news reporters, and members of “vigilance societies”— began roaming the streets at night in order to apprehend the fiendish killer, but with equally poor results.

How many murders did Jack the Ripper commit? There is no agreement on this subject. Some believe eight; others, eleven; and still others, fourteen. Scotland Yard pronounced the official toll to be five, listing the first victim as Mary Ann Nichols, followed by Annie Chapman, the double murder of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, and then the last and most gruesome murder of all, of Mary Jane Kelly.

These five victims died within earshot of a police officer or someone passing by. All but one of the murders was committed on the street. Many women at this time carried whistles for sounding an alert. Scotland Yard implored girls and women to scream or blow a whistle at the merest hint of provocation. And yet none of the victims called out. Why didn't they cry out for help when help was so readily available?

What we know is this: Because of the vicious nature of the wounds, the perpetrator would have been covered with blood. Therefore, Jack the Ripper either had a reason for walking the streets at night wearing blood-soaked clothing—such as a doctor, midwife, or butcher lad whose leather apron would be smeared with blood—or he was wearing a large cape or cloak to disguise his bloody clothing.

After the third murder, Scotland Yard, the newspapers, and the queen stepped up efforts to warn women to walk in pairs at night and not to trust any man whatsoever, not even their own kinsmen.

The last three victims were terrified of Jack the Ripper. They knew the risks they were taking walking after dark. Mary Jane Kelly told friends that she couldn't sleep at night, believing she might be murdered in her sleep by the Ripper. A neighbor heard Mary Jane singing in her room late at night, the very room where she was found dead, brutally chopped up, several hours later—all while a police officer walked up and down the street outside her window.

Surely the Ripper's victims, if they believed themselves in danger, would have screamed bloody murder. Did these women know and trust their assailant? Could Jack the Ripper have been a minister, a priest, a clergyman? Another woman? A man dressed as a woman? Perhaps a trusted member of the community? A police officer? Someone above reproach, whom they least suspected?

We shall never know for sure because Jack the Ripper was never caught. After the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, the Ripper seemed to vanish into thin air. His or her identity will remain forever a mystery. Unless, of course, we are lucky enough to come upon a time portal, such as the London Stone, that might transport us back to London in the year 1888.
. . .

About the Author

S
helly Dickson Carr
was just ten years old when she read
He Wouldn't Kill Patience
, the classic mystery by her grandfather, John Dickson Carr. Since then she's been hooked on the genre and thinking about the mystery she'd one day write.
Ripped
is her first novel.

The idea for
Ripped
came while on a scouting trip. As a board member for the Huntington Theatre in Boston Shelly has traveled frequently to London with theatre members in search of interesting new plays. While in London, the author began researching the mystery surrounding Jack the Ripper, one of the greatest unsolved murder cases in history.

Shelly's fascination with the nineteenth century started when she was a young girl, in a rambling Victorian house in Mamaroneck, New York. Her British mother, an author and bibliophile, filled every room in the house with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Leather-bound classics abounded. Her friends called it the library house. In third grade Shelly read all the
Just So Stories
by Kipling—because she could reach them on the lower shelves.

A founding member of The Masterpiece Trust that enabled
Downton Abbey
to be aired on PBS, and a supporter of Masterpiece Mystery's
Sherlock
, the author has a deep love of all things British.

She has three daughters and lives with her husband, their youngest daughter, and their bulldog, Becket, on Beacon Hill in Boston. Shelly has an MFA in writing for children and young adults from Vermont College, and an undergraduate degree in education.

When not reading or writing or busy with community arts projects, Shelly, aka Michelle Karol, likes to spend time with her horse, Tucker. She also loves to ski and travel with her husband.

Acknowledgments

F
irst and foremost
, to my parents, Julia and Richard McNiven, who read, commented, and encouraged me throughout early drafts of
RIPPED
. To my British grandmother, Clarice Cleaves Carr, whose wit and charm and stories about England made me fall in love with all things British, particularly four o'clock tea and Golden Age detective fiction. To my grandfather, Daddy John, for introducing me at an early age to the mystery surrounding Jack the Ripper and to the possible Ripper suspects who might have “dunit.”

To Julia Dickson for her unwavering support, for reading the manuscript countless times, and for her belief in her ink-slinging old Mum.

To Coco Karol for editing the penultimate draft and making extensive notes, all the while producing and dancing in the Red Soles promo video for
RIPPED
.

To Chelsea Lennox who, with her teenage insights and
joie de vivre
, insisted I change the ending to a happily-ever-after version, and hounded me until I tweaked it.

To Kerry and Wooda McNiven, Lynn Centa, and Russell Grossman, my eagle-eyed readers and supportive sibs, many thanks.

To Ned Berman, freshman at Dartmouth and first official young adult reader, who skipped classes because he couldn't put the manuscript down (music to a writer's ears).

To my writers' group—you know who you are—thank you, one and all.

To my salon sisters at the Vermont College MFA writing program—hats off.

To my near-and-dear buddies at the Huntington Theatre Company—you rock.

To my WGBH and Masterpiece Trust colleagues, especially those involved with
Sherlock
and
Downton Abbey
—your love of romance, intrigue, and historical drama inspires me.

A shout out to Bill Martin, who taught me “everything I know about writing” in his master class at Harvard Extension.

To Gregory Maguire, who, over lunch at Papa Razzi, encouraged me to “defy gravity” on a broomstick of my very own; and to Dotty Frank for her wicked writing wit and wisdom.

To the brilliant, hardworking, professional team at NBP: Nan Fornal, Annie Card, and Jon Albertson, thank you for being incredibly patient with me and meticulous with the care and handling of my book. To Chris Gall, the gifted illustrator of
RIPPED
, much gratitude.

To Phyllis Westberg, the reigning queen of agents and mystery writers, for her efforts to place this book. I hope we can work together again.

To my Sisters in Crime: Ellen Flynn for her artistry and editing acumen; Fancy Zilberfarb for her “fancytastic” organizational skills (everyone should have Fancy on their team); Carol Deane for her friendship and support and love for London theater—hugs and more hugs.

To the “Risley Gang of Nine”: Judi, John, Annie, David, Dotty, Peter, Stephen, and Steven. The much-needed breaks from writing were a godsend. The laughter, fun, frivolity, and general debauchery . . .  all appreciated.

To my long-suffering husband, Steven, who put up with my locking myself in our garret to finish this book. Thank you for believing in me, supporting my writing, and bringing me hot tea and encouragement in the morning. You are my everything.