Ripper (3 page)

“And this Professor Ambrose was accommodating?”

“As accommodating as anyone I have ever dealt with in the business world. He couldn’t stop talking
about his work into the naturally occurring aggression that occurs in all living animals. He scared me to the point I had to slow down the real science or my readers would have never understood it. He has the ability to change into something other than he is, and that was three years ago Chief Inspector.”

“And you think your Jekyll and Hyde is my Ripper? Is that what you are saying, sir?”

“One
and the same.”

Abberline watched the man closely. He was as experienced as anyone in spotting someone not telling him the truth. But he could see from the demeanor of Stevenson that he was telling nothing but the truth—at least as far as he was concerned.

“As I said, my letters have been intercepted. I have written to you on many occasions, only to have my inquiries go unanswered. Finally, I
had to come after hearing the news of this last victim of the Ripper.”

“And why was that?” Abberline said as he continued to look at Stevenson for the lie that would soon surface.

“Because I finally have proof, Chief Inspector,” Stevenson said actually smiling for the first time, and for the first time Abberline could see the exhaustion in the man’s eyes and face. Stevenson reached into his
pocket and brought out a folded daily. He swallowed and actually shivered as he opened the newspaper. “This is the
London Times
, but the picture I am about to show you was picked up by hundreds of newspapers around the world, and this one, the
San Francisco Chronicle
was no exception. This is why I came as fast as I could.” He pushed the paper toward Abberline who looked from Stevenson down to
the paper.

The picture was a rather famous one now. It was taken on the morning of Mary Kelly’s murder. Abberline saw the picture of himself at the crime scene. He looked up at Stevenson without saying a word.

“Chief Inspector, that man standing next to you in the photograph?”

Abberline didn’t have to look at the grainy photo again; he knew who Stevenson was talking about. It was Colonel Stanley
of Her Majesty’s Black Watch. Stevenson was pointing out the man who had dogged this Ripper case since the beginning.

“He’s the man that was tailing me three years ago in the United States, and this very same man ransacked my room this very night.”

“And you believe the Ripper case, your Jekyll and Hyde, and this gentleman are all wound together in a nice little ball? And that this Professor
Ambrose is making monsters for whatever reason there may be for doing so.”

Stevenson looked confounded. He closed his eyes, thinking he had failed to convince the chief inspector.

“When I met him, Ambrose was working closely with the military aspect of his medicinal application, that’s all I know. The only evidence left from my research is this,” Stevenson said as he pulled a small kerchief
from his coat pocket and then looking around suspiciously once again, slowly slid the folded kerchief toward Abberline who made no move to touch the small bundle. Stevenson flipped the kerchief open and Abberline was left looking at a small square of what looked like dried clay.

“Interesting,” Abberline said, still not even giving Stevenson the courtesy of leaning forward to look at the item.

Robert Louis Stevenson looked exasperated as he reached out and picked up the object and then slid over closer to the chief inspector.

“Do you know what this is?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Chief Inspector, this is what is called a relief.” Stevenson looked frustrated for a brief moment when he didn’t see recognition in Abberline’s face. “It’s a proclamation. Or a warning … or maybe just a take.
See this hole here at the top? Well, it used to be a hole, it’s broken now after two thousand three hundred years. This was a warning placed on the line of retreat taken by the Greeks from Northern India. It’s in Ancient Greek.”

“Again, Mr. Stevenson, very interesting.”

“See this here,” Stevenson turned the tablet over, carefully exposing the inscription on the back. It was hard to read for
Abberline, but Stevenson easily ran his finger across the ancient script. He made sure the chief inspector could see the inscription as he read. “It warns all Greeks to follow the line south and stay out of the jungle and beware the jhinn. It’s like a genie from the
Arabian Nights
, only of course it’s an ancient Indian legend that originates in the Delhi area and is virtually unknown throughout
the world, and this tablet is the only historical reference to that legend. This placard was given to me by Ambrose with a tale that froze my blood.”

“You have my interest piqued, sir,” Abberline said as his eyes were locked on the strange-looking clay tablet.

“This tablet tells the tale of magic … magic that was used against an invading enemy. Truly the power of nature. Beasts that attack alone,
in packs, they kill without remorse and follow their orders to the death. The Greeks were attacked from the North of India all the way through the heart of that country. They were running scared from something let loose upon them by a magician.”

Abberline refused to say a word as Stevenson spoke. He thought he would let the man run his course.

“Do you even know what Greeks I am speaking of Chief
Inspector? It was this retreat and the legend of the magic used against them that set Lawrence Ambrose on a trail of invention that has become murderous beyond measure. The professor researched the ancient legends of magic from all over the world, and in the deep valleys and vast area of India, he found it. And the legend was believed by one very important man in world history, and it was this
man that sent Ambrose off in the right direction.” Stevenson then turned the tablet over and showed Abberline the bust. When the policeman showed no sign of recognition, Stevenson almost angrily pointed to the word just below the relief of the ancient Greek. “
Μέγας Άλέξανδρος
, or in its more familiar tongue, Mégas Aléxandros,” the writer said, smiling.

Chief Inspector Abberline looked from the
clay tablet into the eyes of Stevenson.

“That signature on the warning is Alexander the Great of Macedonia.”

“Now I have heard of him.”

Robert Louis Stevenson rolled his eyes. “When he found he couldn’t defeat the many armies of India, Alexander started heading south, looking for an escape route off the subcontinent. He left a rear guard of one thousand of his best men. For six hundred miles
these men fought a running battle with a force of men that could not be killed. One would attack many. Tales of men in the attacks taking seven, eight arrows and still fighting. This tale is straight from the mouth and signature of Alexander the Great. You see, Ambrose discovered the facts behind the legend and the truth behind not just the magic of what happened to the Greeks, but the real chemical
science behind the slaughter. There are many more tales of these … these Berserkers. It happened several more times, far more recently in India against the Raj, the uprisings, the slaughters of British soldiers by inferior forces of the Sikh and others. There always seems to be magic coming to the aid of the lesser armies inside of India. Why I … I—”

“I believe your tale, Mr. Stevenson,” Abberline
said directly.

“But, I thought—”

“The man in the picture is named Colonel Albert Stanley. He is Black Watch, the Queen’s own. If this man Ambrose is who you say he is, he has powerful friends in the highest of places, Mr. Stevenson, far more influential men and women than I’m sure your address book could help but fall short of. This Colonel Stanley is in the Ripper case up to his eyes, and I
smelled a rat long before you stepped into this room tonight. He’s protecting someone, and this someone is possibly this Professor Lawrence Ambrose you met in America.” Abberline quickly brought out his notepad and scribbled the names down.

“It had to be more than just that picture that convinced you Chief Inspector. What was it?” Stevenson asked as he finally relaxed for the first time since
entering the restaurant.

“It’s not the evidence you brought Mr. Stevenson, but the terror in your eyes. For a man who wrote the most popular horror story since Frankenstein, you show an immense amount of fear when you mention this man’s name, this Ambrose. I see and feel the fear coming off of you. That is why I believe you Mr. Stevenson.”

The chief inspector turned away from Robert Louis Stevenson
just as one of his men, Harold Washington, a veteran of the Ripper horrors, walked toward the table at a brisk pace, fast enough that Abberline’s heart sank. He quickly raised his hand at the waiter for more drinks.

Washington was a young man who looked as though he had also lost his zeal for police work since the murders had begun in Whitechapel. If only the lad knew the real truth as he himself
had just learned, he would have gone running into the night on his way to resign. Even with not knowing the truth of Mr. Stevenson’s story, Abberline could see the young man’s anger and his feelings of helplessness in his written reports on other crimes in the area. The boy was like him, he just couldn’t do it any longer. With the Ripper investigation officially ended for at least Abberline and
his department, he knew his career would end on that failure. The Ripper had escaped justice and the inspector knew it was because of interference from the palace. And now here was an independent witness, one that not even the queen could silence if he chose to go to the newspapers.

“Washington old boy, may I introduce Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, I believe you may know of his work?”

“No, Chief
Inspector, I do not know of him, and if you don’t mind I’ll also have what you just ordered from the bar.”

Abberline tried not to show his surprise at the boy’s request as he knew the young man was not a drinker. Washington drowned his worry and sorrow every night with the help of a young wife, not like the chief inspector, with libation.

“By all means, Washington, please have a seat and explain
why a young man such as you would need a drink at this late hour, and whilst he is on duty.”

Washington tossed his hat on the table and then sat, practically ignoring Abberline’s disapproval and the way Stevenson looked at him. “I have just come from Whitechapel.”

Abberline closed his eyes, fearing what the boy was about to say.

“That is over with. It’s been five months since Mary Kelly departed
this world for a better one,” Abberline said as he raised his napkin and covered his lower face so the patrons couldn’t see the mask he had become adept at placing over his emotions when it came to Whitechapel.

“I have closed and secured the scene. Only our people know about it, sir. I don’t know how long we can keep others out of it.” He leaned in closer to Abberline, trying to talk below a
whisper so the stranger sitting at the table couldn’t hear. “Two victims, a shavetail prostitute and one of our own boys in blue. The heads were completely removed, unlike the other murders, but the proximity to the hunting grounds of…,” he looked around to make sure no one was listening. His eyes locked on Robert Louis Stevenson and then back to Abberline, “you know who? I thought it best—”

The waiter brought their drinks and placed one each before the three men. Abberline ignored his while Washington and also Stevenson took the double scotch and drained the two glasses. “Chief Inspector, I do not know how long we can keep the area secured. You must come now.”

Abberline opened his eyes and took in his young colleague. It seemed he was having a hard time swallowing, but he stood nonetheless.
He braced himself against the table for the briefest of moments and then waved the waiter over and asked that the drinks and the untouched meal be placed on his account.

“Mr. Stevenson, I think you better come with us. I don’t think the government is too happy about you having certain information.”

“I’m not brave enough to take on the queen herself,” the writer said as he stood along with Washington
and Abberline.

“Don’t worry about that, sir, because after tonight the queen may have to do some explaining herself … if that’s what she chooses to do after we stop this Ambrose … tonight is the last night of the Ripper,” Abberline said as he slammed his hand down on the white tablecloth. “It ends here, tonight.”

More than just a few of the off-duty policemen saw the famous chief inspector Frederick
Abberline stumble as they moved past their tables, and most nodded as they understood the man’s possible drunkenness after what he had been through with the Ripper case. After all, who more deserved to hoist a few now and again than the chief inspector? Most understood that Abberline had been witness to one of the most horrific murder sprees in modern times. What most didn’t know however
was the small fact that not only had the murders started again, they were about to spread across the seas to a place where few were afraid of the dark—the Ripper was returning home.

*   *   *

The carriage and the twin black horses pulling it raced through the streets of London cutting dangerously close to the fog-shrouded corners where the gas lamps could not penetrate. Abberline sat beside
Robert Louis Stevenson with Washington sitting across from them. The chief inspector held on to the right-hand strap and swayed with the carriage without saying a word. Stevenson tried his best to still his shaking hands.

“Perhaps I better tell the driver to slow a bit in this wretched fog, Inspector,” Washington said through clenched teeth as the carriage took another corner on its two right-side
wheels.

“Sergeant Anderson knows what he’s doing,” Abberline said as he stared at nothing. Suddenly he pulled the window down and leaned his head out into the humid night, not noticing as his bowler hat nearly went flying from the carriage and into the white night. He held on to his hat and then shouted out, “Sergeant, faster man!” As Abberline sat back into his seat he looked into the younger
Washington’s surprised face. Then he took a quick glance at Stevenson who seemed to be deep in either thought or prayer, Abberline didn’t know which.