Tales of Jack the Ripper (25 page)

The older man’s features, now habituated into somewhat of a perpetual scowl, remained impassive as his nephew related the details of his brief encounter with the street harridan. Even as Setlock spoke he began to feel foolish, sure his uncle would think him foolish for taking an old woman’s fanciful promises at all seriously. He found it even more difficult to confess he truly believed the woman was a ghost.

To his considerable relief, it was soon evident that his improbable narrative was being accepted, at least to a certain extent, by the great man without so much as a probing question.

“Are you quite certain, Edmund, that you are not the brunt of some master trickster using cheap chicanery to fool you?”

Setlock paused, seriously considering Sir Charles’s legitimate concern. After a few moments, he bucked up, replying, “Yes, sir, I’m sure.”

His uncle expressed his acceptance with, “Very well, then.” Setlock suddenly felt quite proud of both his uncle and himself.

The pair continued their discussion, Sir Charles requesting further details. This went on for a few minutes before being brought to an abrupt halt when a light suddenly appeared at the door of the one-storied house in question.

Although startled, the two men slowly and quietly approached the house, making their way through the wreckage of wholly and partially destroyed buildings. No one was visible at the door, which remained closed. Sir Charles stopped a few meters from the door and watched. His nephew followed suit. Neither of them knew what to expect, so each braced himself in his own way for almost anything, attention fixed unflinchingly on the door. They did not have long to wait.

The white door seemed to blur about a third of the way from the top, but the ubiquitous fog was so thick and the night so dark, that this did not seem too far out of the ordinary. Young Setlock reminded himself that his uncle standing next to him was scarcely more distinct. A few seconds passed before the hazy image became clearer and more complete as the drifting miasma became momentarily thinner. Intrigued, Sir Charles fixed his eyes on a woman with long, curly blonde hair. He detected a degree of beauty in her pale, hard-set features. As more of her came into view, he realized she was somehow manifesting through the still-closed door. She took one step forward, her entire body now coming into view, before raising one arm in a beckoning motion, as if welcoming guests otherwise too shy to come nearer.

Sir Charles turned to Setlock and nodded, a look of wonder on his face. Together they moved closer to the house, hesitating only long enough to glance at the ground every few steps to avoid stumbling over loose bits of brick and debris. The strange apparition smiled at them before turning to open the door for her guests. She then led them into the dimly lit interior of the house and down a large hall. In total silence, she approached a doorway to the left, gesturing for the men to enter what appeared to be a study. A single candle cast the only light. Shadows danced and loomed about them as they followed her across the room to a second door. The woman raised an index finger to her lips, calling for silence, before opening this second inner door ever so slightly, just enough to allow her companions to peer into a bed chamber. A fire smoldered gently in the grate near a poster bed they could see was currently occupied. Once both had noted the main elements of the room, she closed the door slowly so as not to disturb the sleeper.

With the door to the bed chamber closed, she finally spoke, inviting the two gentlemen to take seats in the overstuffed chairs facing the desk behind which she sat as if she were the authority before whom they had been brought for questioning. “You gentlemens must ’ave many questions to ask, but I’m afraid we ain’t got time for all that. That man you saw in the connecting room? I believe you like to call ’im Jack the Ripper, the mad butcher of whores. His real name ain’t important right now. You can get that from ’im later on. But ’e changed his name early on, taken in by a family in Reading when he was eight years old.

“His victims, including Mary Jane Kelly, the poor child he cut to shreds less than a day ago, are here and they ’ave their own questions to ask him.”

Sir Charles was confused, quite sure that either he or the garrulous woman had got something out of order. He made to ask for clarification, but she raised an index finger to her lips and silenced him once more.

“All this should prove quite useful to you coppers, so go on and take as many notes as y’ like. Me, I can’t neither write nor read. There won’t be much light, but I’m sure you’ll manage. He mustn’t know yer listening before we ladies obtains the answers we wants. Y’ see, we’ve a bit of a trip to take, an’ we’re runnin’ outer time. We got to know some fings first. Wot a relief to be free of all this rot! Once we get wot we wants, you kin ’ave ’im to do wiv as yer please. We wants ’im stopped, but ’at’s your job, not ours.”

“Quite so, dear lady,” Sir Charles said, just beginning to feel this bizarre woman might possess real information, that he and his nephew might actually be on the verge of capturing the Ripper. And if she could really elicit a confession from this man, her delusions about his victims were neither here nor there. So he asked her where they were to stand while listening to the questioning.

“At this ’ere door, naturally! Bring chairs over, if you likes. And a candle too, if ye wants to take it all down.”

“What if he hears us or notices the door is open a crack?” Setlock asked.

A self-satisfied smirk crossed her face. “You needn’t worry about that, I reckon. There’s only th’ one lamp lit in there, so it’d be hard for him to make you out in the dark.”

“Madame, tell us one more thing. Since you knew where to find the Ripper, you must be acquainted with his movements. How has he managed to elude us so completely?”

“This ain’t just an ’ouse he hides in, mind yer, Sir Charles. He owns and runs th’ company what’s doin’ all the tearing down around ’ere. He uses this place like an office and a home-away-from-home, as you might say. This place’ll remain standing amid th’ general ruin only so long as he needs it as a base to see to ’is killin’s. Once that’s done, it’ll come down like the rest. An’ ’e’s got keys to every sewer tunnel below Whitechapel and Spitalfields. That’s how ’e goes wherever he wants as quick as a flash wivout bein’ seen.” She stopped long enough to chuckle softly, relishing her next revelation.

“They’s always odd gases and fumes to contend with down in them tunnels, but ’e’s rarely affected as he sprints through ’em wivout stoppin’ long enough to breave in much o’ th’ awful stuff. Trouble is, after ’e spent three hours carvin’ Mary to bits this mornin’, ’e wuz worn down to the bone, so to speak. He wad’n ’alf way ’ere before ’e passed out from suckin’ in some foul gas or other with each breaf. He laid on ’is back in th’ muck for hours before ’e managed to pull himself together and crawl back ’ere. It’s a wonder ’e didn’t die down there; ’e wouldn’t be th’ first!”

Fascinated, her audience remained silent, unsure how to respond, or whether indeed any response was required. So their hostess continued. “Once ’e made it safely back, he ’opped inter bed an’ ’as been sleepin’ there ever since. Can ye smell a touch of sewer stench in th’ air? Well, once we has yer in place, we’ll wake ’im and begin our questions, just like they do at Scotland Yard.” She leaned back in her chair with a look of satisfaction on her face. “Well, it’s time we gets to work. You blokes still with us?”

Sir Charles would have preferred to discuss the illogical situation in which they found themselves a bit more before agreeing to her terms, but she had made it very clear that it was now or never. Setlock reluctantly nodded his agreement, still however a bit unclear as to the men’s role. When she said “we,” did she mean to include him and Uncle Charles? Or were they to settle for a more passive role as observers?

“We agree to listen, observe and take notes, just as you suggest, without interfering with your interrogation of this man, assuming you keep your word that, er, none of you physically assaults him in any way and, of course, that he convincingly confesses to being the criminal known to us as Jack the Ripper,” Sir Charles summarized.

She seemed pleased as she rose from her seat. “That’ll do just fine.” She grinned as she extended her right hand toward Sir Charles to seal the matter with a handshake. He made to respond in kind but felt foolish when he somehow missed her hand. It was, he supposed, the gesture that mattered. Serious doubts arose in his mind concerning his nephew’s belief that this woman was indeed a ghost, although he was unable to explain her emergence through the front door.

They proceeded to arrange themselves as previously discussed. Once the men were set and in place, she entered the bed chamber, leaving the door slightly open behind her. Something subtle in her backward glance suggested she was opening the door for their benefit, not her own. They looked at one another in puzzlement, unsure of what they had seen, then shrugged.

She approached the bed and called out to the still-sleeping man lying therein. Receiving no immediate response, she repeated herself several times, increasing the volume each time. There was a plaintive note beneath her reproving sharpness.

The bed clothes shifted as the man began to stir. He sat up slowly, still fully dressed, and peered about the half-lit room in response to the summons. Gathering his wits, a still groggy Arthur Belmont stared in disbelief as he recognized the figure poised at the foot of the bed. He squinted his eyes as he struggled to convince himself he was fully awake.

When finally able to speak, he expressed profound confusion. “Good Lord! Mum, is that you? How can this be? You must be a hallucination from that ripe gutter gas!”

“I do reckon it’s a bit of a surprise, a happy one, I ’ope, to see me again after all these years. Tell me, me boy, ’ave you missed yer sweet mum?” Her sarcasm was palpable if the rest of her wasn’t.

Terrified, a wide-eyed Arthur demanded to know why she had come to him and what she wanted.

“Now, now, don’t get yer knickers in a twist, dearie. I just got one thing I need to know before I can move on, and it seems yer the only one what knows it. So ’ow’s about it, son, won’t you tell your ol’ mum who it was that run the knife across her throat, killing her dead? Were it that fella I brought home or did I do it meself during the tussle without even knowing it? You’re the only one what knows. So who really did me in?”

He stared at her with a blank expression on his face.

“Come on, out with it!” she demanded. “There’s others waitin’ to pay you visits, so answer me and be quick about it!”

A wheezing sound gradually escaped Arthur’s lips. He grinned and began to chuckle. “By God, without a doubt it
is
you, Mum! After all these years, too. Well, I’ll be damned!” His laughter rose nearly to the point of hysteria as he spat out, “And you’re damned as well, if there’s any justice, either in this world or the next one!” Catching his breath, he challenged her, “So you want to know who cut your sweet little throat, do you? Well, I’m more than happy to fill you in as to the culprit’s identity, luv. It was
me
. I did it, and I can honestly say I’ve never regretted it, not one jot. Now I ask you, are you pleased now that you know?”

She was taken aback by his words, only able to mumble, “But ’ow? And why’d a boy want to harm ’is own mum?”

With a smirk, he told her, “That’s easy enough to answer as well. If you recall, I was on the bed when you and your client were fighting over the knife, flailing about right next to me.” He surged with a mix of delight and fury as he continued. Recounting it and gloating was like killing her all over again. “You both forgot about me. If you recall, the two of you were conveniently located between me and the window. Just enough moonlight penetrated the curtain for me to not only see you both clearly, but to see the gleam of the knife as well. When I saw he had you by the wrist, I reached up and grabbed his cuff, jerking his arm down, across, and just under your chin. And I’d gladly do it again! But by your own words, you’re dead, so there’s no need. No need to thank me. With that issue settled, tell me, are you happy now? I hope so, as I’m more than ready to see the back of you.”

Obviously enjoying her shocked expression, he proceeded to taunt her. “Oh, I beg your pardon. You asked what reason I might possibly have for killing you. Well, let’s ponder that for a moment. Allow me a moment to look down the list. I’ll try to narrow it down a bit. Let’s call it even with all those men you so graciously encouraged to rape me.”

His crestfallen mother screamed, again and again. Catching her breath, she prepared to refute her son’s words, but when she attempted to speak, she could only emit guttural rasps and incomprehensible gibberish. Her own terrible guilt, so long suppressed, was getting the better of her now. She should have known it was better to let sleeping dogs, er, sons, lie.

Arthur greeted his mother’s demonstration of inarticulate ire with mild amusement and an incomparable sense of complete vindication. He was enjoying himself intensely. Applauding her performance, he caustically reacted with, “Now that we’re finished, you have my permission to go to Hell where you obviously belong.”

Seething, she shouted, “Oh, yer not done. There’s more to come, and a right lot of it, too!” As she began to fade into the dark shadows of the room, she called out, “Come forward, me lovelies, ’ere’s your chance to confront th’ bastard what butchered you all!”

From the dark recesses they came forth, those whose flesh had so woefully endured the savage surgery of Jack’s blade. Each appeared as he had seen her last, pale and cold, slashed and torn, no longer denizens of this living world.