Ripper (2 page)

Abberline heard the harshness of the last words and then made his choice—one made in the name of self-preservation. He pulled his small notebook from his pocket and then looked at the last
five pages he had written.

“Mary Jane Kelly, prostitute. Her body was discovered this morning by the landlord’s assistant. Age, twenty-five years. Last seen, or I should say last heard from, at one a.m. last night. A neighbor heard the snippets of a song coming from the room at that time. Nothing after.”

“A song?” The colonel looked from Abberline to the shanty standing before him. “That doesn’t
seem to fit our man’s profile at all, does it Chief Inspector?”

Abberline was in no mood to expand on his written notes. “For the first time we will have crime scene photographs of the victim.”

“Good, I expect copies to be forwarded to my office as soon as they are ready.”

Again, Abberline didn’t comment or respond to the colonel. “The woman’s clothing was folded neatly and placed on a chair
next to the bed.” Abberline swallowed and then continued reading from his notes. “Her carotid artery was severed. This was the main cause of death.”

“A little less than the others, perhaps this was an isolated murder,” the small man standing next to the colonel said as if he were bored to death.

“Allow the chief inspector to continue Sergeant Meyer. I believe he has more to add.”

“Her attacker
had hacked off her nose and ears, slashed her, and removed much of her face, leaving her with no features that would tell if she were a man or a woman. Her body had been sliced and split open like a melon. I believe from my viewing that some, or even all, of her organs had been removed and left upon the table top. You could never tell that the woman had been pregnant at all—that is what you are
worried about, isn’t it Colonel? That is the one item that warns that this is the man you have been tracking … or is it watching?”

Only the sergeant reacted to the last bit of information and the innuendo from the inspector. He turned away and swallowed heavily as the chief inspector had done moments earlier as he realized what had been done to the whore inside her rundown flat.

Abberline lowered
his small notebook and looked Stanley in the eyes. “This was not a murder, Colonel. This was a butchering. Something akin to a monstrous rage took place in that room. Violence was done to her just as the other victims. You see, I did a little investigation you didn’t know about, sir. Every one of the victims was with child, no more than three months, but pregnant nonetheless. And this fact is
verifiable through their doctor.”

“Ah yes, the physician who usually treats the whores in this district for various social diseases—Doctor Jonathan Freemantle, a rather despicable sort who just happened to have a severe heart attack this very morning. Pity he cannot verify what you have learned.” The man’s eyes gave credence to the warning he had just delivered. “Thank you, Chief Inspector Abberline.
Your cooperation will be reported to the very highest authority. Now please remember to send me the pictures of the crime scene, that’s a good chap.”

With those words, Abberline watched as the colonel and sergeant turned and left, looking around casually as if they were just on a morning stroll.

“I think I would have better luck finding the Ripper by following you my dear colonel, than by chasing
my own tail in Whitechapel.”

*   *   *

Frederick George Abberline, chief inspector for the London Metropolitan Police, sat at the small table where he normally found himself at such a late hour. He had to come here to wind down and relax before heading home to a restless night’s sleep after the events of the past year. The Mary Kelly case five months before had been the last of the killings,
but that didn’t stop the nightmares Abberline faced every night when he went home to his darkened flat.

The restaurant was small and owned in part by a former colleague of his from the London police force. The small eatery was kept open late for policemen changing shifts from all areas of the city. Even at 1:20 a.m. the restaurant was filled.

The area of the establishment with the most boisterous
patrons was the separate barroom where men of the law hoisted pints of bitters and other liquids designed to numb the senses of a dark and lonely city that was reeling from the nightmare of their times.

Chief Inspector Abberline sat and read a report from one of his detectives regarding a recent kidnapping. Abberline shook his head and then reached for his cup of tea. He grimaced at the weakness
of the drink as he placed the cup back onto the saucer. During the times of the Ripper case the inspector had become used to drinking strong coffee, of which he was trying to wean himself. Still, the weak tea did nothing for his palate. Abberline placed the report on the table and closed his eyes as he remembered the tiredness he felt for the past year’s hard work and knew long before this moment
that he was no longer meant to be a police inspector. The horrors he had seen in the recent past had successfully driven his desire to help people straight from his heart. The world was mad and he knew if he didn’t leave the service he would end up just as insane as the men and women he chased.

Abberline leaned back as a waiter brought him his kidney pie. Once the waiter had left the inspector
placed his napkin in his lap. He stopped short of his fork digging into the crust of the meat pie. He tapped the cooked dough several times with the tip of his fork and then glanced outside and into the thickening fog beyond the large window that looked out onto the street. Its white veil had moved into the city not long after his extended shift had ended. He turned away and looked at his meal one
more time and tossed the fork onto the table and then waved the waiter over and handed him his cup and saucer.

“Bring me coffee, please,” he said, and the waiter turned away. Abberline thought quickly and then called out. “Apologies old boy, but would you make that a double scotch?”

“Double scotch, sir,” the waiter said and then moved off.

The inspector grimaced as he took in the hot kidney
pie and then slid it as far away from him as his arm could reach.

“Inspector Abberline?” the voice said from his shoulder.

Abberline closed his eyes, angry at the interruption. He knew if he opened his eyes and saw a newspaper man, who was not allowed inside this particular building, he would be tempted to use the butter knife in front of him to stab the man in the heart.

Instead of following
through with his imagined murder scenario, he said, “Yes?” as he opened his eyes and saw a rather tall, thin man standing next to him. The well-dressed gentleman was twisting his hat with anxious hands.

“Sir, my name is Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson, perhaps my name is not unfamiliar to you? I wrote you a letter three months ago?”

Abberline looked over the tall man with the brimming moustache.
He saw that the man didn’t look well at all as he nervously twisted his hat into ungodly disarray. The words were spoken with a barely disguised Scottish accent. As he saw the man looking down with worry etched into his dark eyes, Abberline gestured to the empty chair across from him.

“Who wouldn’t recognize the great Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson? Sir, please, have a seat.”

Abberline watched as
the man hesitated. Stevenson walked the short distance to the chair, but then looked lost as to what to do with his hat.

“We lack the formality of one of the nicer establishments Mr. Stevenson. Just place your hat on the table, it looks as if it could use a rest.”

Stevenson looked flustered as he glanced at the crumpled hat. He grimaced and then placed it on the white table cloth. He half smiled
as he pulled the chair out and sat.

“May I offer you some refreshment? I know it’s a little late, but I just ordered scotch for myself.”

Stevenson swallowed and then nodded his head meekly. The chief inspector waved at the waiter standing at the bar and signaled for two drinks instead of the one.

Abberline turned and watched the man sitting before him. He was silent and waited for the famous
author to state his piece.

Stevenson looked at the men around him as if he had stepped into a lion’s den.

“If you wrote me a post in advance of this date, I can tell you I have received none.” Abberline then fixed the man with a hard stare. “So, if your lost post was to attempt to get information on … well, on one of my cases, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question.”

“Excuse me?” Stevenson
asked, looking bewildered for a moment. “Oh, oh, you think I’m here to ask you about the Ripper case for a possible book? That was not the intent of my letter to you Chief Inspector. And, I not only sent two letters from the States where I was on holiday, I sent three more upon my arrival in London.”

“Isn’t that why a famous author such as you would visit such an establishment as this at one
o’clock in the morning, to get a good yarn to write yet another lurid and morbid novel?”

“No, Chief Inspector, I am not here for that. In case you hadn’t noticed I have already done my horror novel and have no intention of ever writing something like that again.”

Abberline raised his brows at the man’s statement. He knew that Stevenson’s foray into the horror genre came with his novella the
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
, published two years before to far-above-average sales. He was surprised at the author’s venomous reply to his reference to that particular story.

“So, Mr. Stevenson, what you’re saying is that your letter had nothing to do with the Ripper case? If you weren’t seeking information, then what pray tell prompted the notes?”

Once more Robert Louis Stevenson
turned and watched the men of London’s finest as they talked in loud voice and laughed with even more zest. He finally looked satisfied that no one was listening. As he leaned back to face the chief inspector, the waiter returned and placed the two drinks on the table. Stevenson immediately took a sip and then grimaced. He placed the glass back down and then looked at Abberline who ignored his own
double scotch as he waited for the writer to answer his question. He himself was aware that he shouldn’t be discussing the Ripper case with anyone from outside his offices.

“I am not here to ask questions of you Mr. Abberline. I wouldn’t do that,” he said as he once more nervously looked around. “I am being followed, have been ever since docking three days ago in East Hampton. I suspected even
in San Francisco I had company following my every move.”

“Mysterious indeed, worthy of a novel in and of itself, wouldn’t you say?” Abberline waited for a reaction; he didn’t have to wait long.

“I believe I stated sir that I would never attempt such a literary farce again,” he said with his eyes bulging. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde may have contributed to—”

Abberline watched as the words froze
in the throat of one of the most articulate men in the history of literature. After a brief flare of emotion, Stevenson closed his eyes and then shook his head.

“I know who your Jack the Ripper is.”

Abberline froze. His eyes never left those of Stevenson. “I believe you have to explain that rather remarkable statement, Mr. Stevenson.”

“I met him in California during my research for Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde. He is an American, a professor of chemistry, and … and … something to do with flowers. I’m sorry, but my notes for the book have been misplaced, or stolen, I am not sure which. But I’m sure it had something to do with flowers, which was part of his work he wouldn’t discuss.”

Abberline looked at the man sitting before him and knew that the odds of his notes being misplaced was the
better of the two scenarios. He could smell the paranoia coming from the frightened man before him.

“Who is this gentleman?”

With one last look around the crowded eatery, Robert Louis Stevenson related how he had met Professor Lawrence Ambrose and researched material for his upcoming novel, the
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
, due to the good professor’s work with aggression and metabolism
changes that could possibly occur in the human body. Stevenson spoke for close to an hour.

Abberline listened politely, refraining from making faces or leaning one way or the other in his uncomfortable silence at the fantastic tale being related to him from one of the most influential people in all of the Empire.

Silence hung over the table and the two double scotches sat untouched in front
of the two men.

“Mr. Stevenson, you are an educated man, probably far more than myself, so I will be careful when I use the words
too fantastic to believe
, sir.”

“Which…”

“Everything, Mr. Stevenson, from the science you claim this man has developed to Her Majesty’s government trying to silence you. Take your pick, sir, it all sounds rather far-fetched.” Abberline checked his anger at this obvious
waste of time. He reached out, took hold of his glass, and raised it to his lips; with one last shake of his head he downed the double dose of fire without a grimace.

“Chief Inspector, I saw this man actually change into something he is not. Not just changes in his demeanor and attitude, but physical changes to his body as well.”

Abberline placed his glass on the table in front of him and then
reached for Stevenson’s untouched glass. He pulled the glass forward but hesitated before he drank.

“And this, this … Dr. Jekyll, and your Mr. Hyde, how did you come about meeting him in America?” He finally lifted the second glass and downed that also, all the while holding his gaze on the famous author.

“Inspector, this needs to be resolved now, and not wait for—”

The angry gaze stopped Stevenson
from continuing. He realized that policemen do things at their own pace and are even slower sometimes when confronted with an obvious truth. Robert Louis Stevenson could see it in the chief inspector’s eyes—he believed his story.

“I met the gentleman in San Francisco three years ago through a friend who works with Corvallis Lens Company of London. He was there to deliver the most unique set of
lenses ever created by his company. These lenses were specially ground, beveled, and buffed for the man who ordered them to use in his laboratory work. These lenses are so well constructed that Ambrose is now seeing things that were once only seen in the realm of the imagination. This man is actually discovering the origins of thought, the use of the human brain, and the power that is hidden in
us all. The reason my friend thought I would get along with this professor was due to the fact that this man was slowly piecing together the most unique and advanced microscopic viewing system ever. Intrigued, I went to meet this man for my research.”