Sinistrari

by Giles Ekins

  ‘Fiend, Devil,’ he shouted, hearing nothing except the hot blood drumming in his ear and the pounding of his heart, his breath stopping in his chest. He raised the flare pistol, sighted and fired, a contorted spiral of smoke trailing the flare as it sped towards his target.

  On seeing the onrushing police the hooded and masked Satanists had fled in all directions, to be chased and brought down by Rayburn’s men incensed at the scenes of torture and mutilation, the obscene altar, the depravity and intended crucifixion. The shouts and orders, the pounding of feet, screams and yells echoed and re-echoed around the walls of the cellar as fleeing shadows leapt and skittered, bizarrely distorted and contorted by the guttering candles and the searching beams of bulls-eye torches darting capriciously in and out the forest of columns.

  Goats-head, snarling in frustrated fury snatched up the jewelled knife and slashed at Lucy between her legs, slicing across her vulva and upper thighs and then he stabbed upwards, trying for a killing stroke but she had reared up in agony and the intended death-strike knifed across her ribcage. With a final snarl and an ineffectual stab at her back, he fled to the far dark corners of the cellar towards the private exit that led to the upper rooms.

  Through the agony Lucy thought she heard the voice of her father calling and she knew she must dying and welcomed her death, for the torment of her flesh could be borne no longer. Then she heard his voice again, ‘Burn in Hell, Sinistrari,’ as he confronted Sinistrari and fears for own safety fled, for she knew he was with her and knew instinctively he was in grave peril.

  Her captors fled, releasing her arms and she slowly got up from her knees, screeching in pain from her wounds, before levering herself upright against the obscene altar. She could feel the fresh blood streaming from the wound in her side that had seared across her ribs to slice deeply into the lower half of her right breast and the terrible agonised bleeding from between her legs. Through her tears, she saw the flickering shadows of the fleeing devil worshippers and pursuing police but had only one thought in mind; to reach her father.

  The flare-cartridge struck Sinistrari full on the chest, bursting into a volcano of searing white magnesium flames, blindingly fierce, cascading luminance around the cellar like a starburst. Sinistrari staggered back, a demonic shriek wrenched from his blazing torso. Flanagan followed up, firing too rapidly, missing Sinistrari completely, his flare ricocheting wildly off columns and vaults, adding to the panicked confusion. Collingwood reloaded, his fingers fumbling with the blunt cartridge whilst Flanagan threw his bottle of oil and paraffin at the incandescent Black Magician. The bottle struck Sinistrari on the leg but did not break but fell to the stone floor to shatter. Fiery droplets of magnesium from the flare hungrily ignited the flammable mixture, further engulfing Sinistrari in flames.

  Goats-head had now cast off his mask and hood and ran swiftly towards the exit. PC Leatherbeck spotted him and set off to intercept, moving surprisingly swiftly for such a bulky man.’ You there, stop, police,’ he shouted, ‘In the name of the Law, stop.’ He was close behind his man, when Jack the Ripper, for it was he, turned suddenly and plunged the bejewelled curve bladed knife deep into Leatherback’s chest, thrusting right to the heart. Leatherbeck stopped, groaned in sudden agony and fell to his knees before pitching onto his face, stone dead; the force of his fall driving the knife further into his body. With a last glance to confirm that he was unobserved, the Whitechapel killer eased open the door to Sir Henry Carfax’s private staircase and made his escape.

  We would hear of him once more before disappearing into the annals of the greatest murder mystery in history.

  Charles Collingwood stepped closer to the blazing Sinistrari and prepared to fire once more. ‘Good God, Collingwood,’ Rayburn expostulated, ‘What are you about, the man’s afire, we must douse the flame and try to rescue him, whatever he has done, no-one deserves this.’ He seized Collingwood’s arm to prevent him firing but Collingwood angrily shrugged him aside and with great deliberation fired again, the flare smashing into Sinistrari’s body, to explode in a searing magnesium explosion, temporarily blinding all who watched.

  Lucy staggered towards her father, a slick trail of blood behind, bloody footprints smearing across the black stone flags. ‘Papa, she cried,’ but her voice was too weak and he did not hear. The pain was such that every step, every movement tore into her wounds like fresh razor cuts, her hands thick coated in her own blood as if she wore red gloves.

  Sinistrari was now completely engulfed in flame, writhing in torments, his hair ablaze, and the fierce heat of the burning magnesium melting the flesh from his bones. He sank to his knees shrieking in a high keening howl, as his shape began to change, disintegrating into blackened fly -like specks that spiralled in vortex, forming and reforming in diabolic figures, a horned goat with glaring red eyes, a hell like creature no sane person could ever see in life and remain so, a fanged serpent head, flickering forked tongue, the blackfly things spiralling ever faster, the screeching reaching a pitch no human ear could tolerate and Collingwood and the others stepped back and covered their ears, horrified beyond belief but unable to tear their aghast gaze away. The blackfly things re-formed again, rising above the furiously burning pyre that was Sinistrari, a demonic nightmare of hooked claws, snarling fangs, horned head that was neither goat nor bull nor any creature known to man, arms outstretched as if to seize all around and drag them into the furnace of Marduk.

  ‘My God, Collingwood, what in God’s name?’

  ‘The devil incarnate, Rayburn, Sinistrari no less, hell bound where he belongs.’

  Lucy fell to her knees, her torment too great, sobbing in agony and fear. She had to get to her father before … before what she did not know, could not formulate in her head the fear for him she felt. She began to crawl towards him, her way lit by the inferno that was her captor and tormentor. She tried to close her ears to the shrieks, wishing it to end, remembering, not her tortured back or the horror of her intended crucifixion, but rather his kindness and respect, his promise that she not be violated, his willingness to shorten her agonies as much as possible whilst retaining the essential elements of the diabolic Black Mass.

  The blackfly things coalesced again, forming a more solid mass that writhed and shivered back down into the blackened remains of Sinistrari, slowly rising to its feet again, a fiery mass of flesh and bones. The visible form of Edward James Sinistrari manifested itself within the flames and spoke with a tortured growl more animal than human. ‘COLL-ING-WOOD,’ it rasped, slowly extending an arm that was ablaze from shoulder to fingertips.

  Lucy heard the dread words and staggering to her feet again lunged forward, heedless of her pain. ‘NOOOOO,’ she cried.

  Sinistrari’s skeletal fingers stiffened and spread out and thrust at Collingwood, who felt an agony in his chest like no other pain ever experienced and, clutching his chest fell to his knees.

  Once again, the blackfly things contorted in shape, the demon inside the body of Sinistrari rose in a spiralling, twisting tornado and with high-pitched shriek disappeared in a final convulsed pall of black smoke. The thing that was Sinistrari sank back to the floor, nothing more than a pile of smoking charred bones, blackened flesh and body fat oozing foully across the floor, smouldering cloth and a pair shoes, still mostly intact, steaming and smoking in thin grey wisps.

  Collingwood sank back onto his heels, his heart bursting within him, gout of blood erupting from his mouth in a thick gobbet that dribbled down into his beard. Finally, Lucy reached him, unmindful of her nakedness, ‘Oh Papa, forgive me. Papa, please.’ The tears streaming down face as she cradled her dying father to her blood stained body. ‘Papa, don’t die, don’t die, stay with me Papa, Oh, Papa, forgive me. Forgive me.’

  ‘Lucy, Lucy my darling, is it you, you’re safe, truly safe?’

  ‘Yes Papa, I’m here, safe and sound. Thanks to you, my wonderful, lovely Papa.’

  ‘You are hurt, you are bleeding.’

  ‘It is nothing, father, a
few scratches is all, I am safe, we are safe. We are both safe.’

  ‘Thank the Good Lord.’

  Flanagan came over, wrapped his coat about Lucy, and stepped away, the tears beginning to form in his eyes but he did not wipe them away, proud of his superior officer in his last moments, proud to call him a friend although he never did in life.

  Collingwood took another convulsing gasp, ‘Lucy my darling, is that you?’ and Lucy knew, as her sobs racked her body that he was not talking to her but to his beloved long dead wife.

  The light left his eyes but his smile remained.

  Epilogue

  LONDON

  1.30AM NOVEMBER 9th, 1888

  THE NOVEMBER MISTS AND FOGS swirled about the boots and skirts of Mary Jane Kelly as she led her customer down the narrow arched alley leading from 26 Dorset Street to her poorly furnished uncarpeted room at No 13 Millers Court. She shivered and wrapped her shawl closer about her, the night air was chill and she was anxious to get inside, earn her two shillings and then go again to buy some gin.

  Her client was well dressed, tall and with a big bushy moustache, he smelled of cologne and spoke with a strange accent, called her Ma’am, and was so polite, a real gent, she thought, wondering only in passing as to why a ‘a proper gent’ should be looking for trade amongst the lowest of the low. Not that she was a common whore, of course, she had her own room, 4s 6d a week, alright so she was 29 shillings behind with the rent, but still, there was none of that fornicating in dark alleys up against a wall for her, thank you very much.

  The door latch did not open but she reached inside a broken window at the side of the door, pushed aside the flimsy curtain and flipped the door latch from the inside and led her ‘proper gent’ inside.

  Sometime later, Elizabeth Prater who lived at No 20 Millers Court, directly over Mary’s room thought she heard a cry of ‘Oh murder’, but took no notice, in Whitechapel such a cry was so commonplace as to excite no interest.

  It was the next morning when Thomas Bowyer, the rent collector for Mister McCarthy the landlord, who owned the shop at the corner of No 26 Dorset Street knocked on the door.

  ‘Come on Mary,’ he shouted, ‘I know yer in there and you owes Mister McCarthy twenty- nine shilling, more than six weeks behind you are and less’n you pay, you’s goin’ to be out on yer ear. Mister McCarthy, ’e’s a good man to you but ’e ain’t no bleedin’ charity commissioner.’ He hammered on the door again then reached inside the broken window to flip the latch, pushed open the door and stepped into a nightmare.

  What he saw would haunt him the rest of his life. Mary Kelly1 had become the fourth and final victim of Jack the Ripper, the Whitechapel Killer.

  FIVE WEEKS LATER.

  LUCY COLLINGWOOD, STILL DRESSED IN BLACK CRAPE., (by social convention, black crape would be worn for three months after the death of her father, black mourning would be de rigeur thereafter for another two months and half mourning for another month after that) received the letter whilst seated at the desk in her father’s study. How many hours a day did she spent here. She did not know; many.

  Very many.

  She looked around the room again, which apart from the black mourning curtains and the black ribbons tied to the bell cords, was exactly as her father had left it before setting out to on his fatal mission to rescue her. (The drawing and dining room curtains had also been replaced by black drapes and the furniture shrouded in black covers, all supplied by Black Peter Robinson and the new maids and other domestic staff wore black also)

  The wounds on her back and side had almost healed, and it was a relief not to have to sleep on her stomach. However, of course, the scars would remain forever; as would the mental scars and the memory of her father, dying in her arms would never leave her.

  She could feel his presence everywhere, in the rich deep smell of tobacco, how she missed those noxious clouds, his cologne, his very essence seeped into the crimson leather of his chair, soft and supple leather, shiny from the years of use. His pipes, eight pipes of various shapes and sizes were lined up along the pipe rack; still waiting for him to reach across the desk, carve the thick black rope of tobacco across his brown ingrained thumb and tamp the shredded shards of tobacco into the charred black bowls and flare a Lucifer to light the pipe, then to settle back in his chair in contemplative mood, a scotch and water to hand. She could feel his presence along the rows of books, his Dickens, Shakespeare, Collins, Shelly and the others. Police procedure manuals and black bound, gilt lettered books on law.

  As she looked around, she particularly noted the copy of Macaulay, remembering one of her father’s favourite passages, which he had often quoted to her.

  To every man on this Earth,

  Death cometh soon or late,

  And how can man die better,

  Than facing fearful odds.

  The words were so very true, so very poignant; he had died facing the most fearful odds, facing the monster that was Sinistrari.

  The family Bible was to hand; the heavy gilt-edged leather bound Bible given to her great-grandfather by his mother, as inscribed on the flyleaf: ‘To my beloved son Henry on the proud occasion of his forthcoming marriage to Miss Beatrice Martha Manning, with great affection and joy on this blessed union. Sarah Anne Collingwood. Dated this day, May 24th in the Year of Our Lord, 1809.

  Each succeeding generation had faithfully updated the family tree, down to the last sad addition Charles Henry Montford Collingwood b.19th September 1837 d. 31st October 1888,

  A book, ‘A Study in Scarlet’ featuring a private detective called Sherlock Holmes still lay on top of the desk. Papa, she knew greatly enjoyed the book, appreciating the imagination of the author, a doctor called Arthur Conan-Doyle, whom he had once met at a dinner party.

  She missed him with all her heart, with every fibre of her being, wracked with the guilt that he had died to save her.

  Tears started in the corner of her eyes; she deigned not to wipe them away, allowing the cold trickle of grief to ooze slowly down her cheeks, to fall in pearl drops onto the inlaid brown leather of the desktop, a bright sparkled tear splashing onto the single envelope that lay there, her father’s silver letter opener beside it.

  It was sometime later before she picked up the envelope, turning it in her hands. It was unadorned, thick cream paper, (edged in black since only letters of condolence or other funereal correspondence should be opened during the periods of mourning) no seal, simply addressed to Miss Lucy Collingwood. No return or senders address.

  She the envelope open and slid out the single sheet of paper from within, unfolded it, hearing the soft rasp of the paper as she did so.

  The beating of her heart seemed to echo around the room as she read:

  ‘My Dear Miss Collingwood,

  Whilst the mortal body may die, reduced to ashes or lain to rest in deep dug grave, the spirit lives on, eternal, immutable.

  Admire your father for his courage and devotion, as do I.

  Although the corporeal being as you knew me no longer exists, I am returned as another. The work for my Master continues.

  However, do not fear, I have no designs upon you. Miss Lucy, I remain

  Yours in admiration and deepest respect.

  S

  The letter fell from her nerveless fingers to the floor. She did not hear herself scream.

  THE END

  APPENDICES FOLLOW

  APPENDIX ONE: JACK THE RIPPER

  Although it is more than 130 years since the killer known as Jack the Ripper stalked the mean streets of Whitechapel in London’s East End, there is no diminution in the endless fascination for the most infamous murderer of all times.

  It is not just that he was a mass murderer, very many killers have amassed more victims; neither is it the fact that he was never positively identified, since many other mass murderers have remained undetected, the so called ‘Zodiac’ killer in San Francisco in the 1960’s being a case in point.

  Almost certainly, the single most
potent reason for the enduring appeal of the killings in Whitechapel is the very name, ‘Jack the Ripper’ a name with such connotations of horror as to be appended to other killers with a taste for mutilation, most famously attached to Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, who killed at least 13 women in the 1970’s.

  Whatever the reason, the mystery of Jack the Ripper remains as one of the most potent symbols of late Victorian London and the hunger for more and more books and films is insatiable. Just about every month it seems that a new book of ‘Ripper’ facts or new ‘solutions’ to the mystery appears on the shelves of bookshops, each new ‘solution’ to the identity of the killer more unlikely than the one before.

  Perhaps the only true statement that can be made about the identity of Jack the Ripper is that we shall probably never ever know for certain.

  VICTIMS

  Such is the mystery of the Ripper that there is not even a consensus between ‘Ripper experts’ (Ripperologists) as to the number of his victims:

  To begin with, we have to differentiate between what were called the ‘Whitechapel’ killings and the ‘Ripper’ murders; they are not one and the same.

  In period between Tuesday April 3rds 1888 and Friday 13th February 1891, eleven prostitutes were murdered in the Whitechapel area and are collectively known as the ‘Whitechapel murders’ but are not all attributed to the Ripper.

  The eleven ‘Whitechapel’ victims are:

  Tuesday 3rd April 1888 -Emma Elizabeth Smith - Osborn Street, Whitechapel

  Tuesday 7th August 1888 -Martha Tabram - George Yard, Whitechapel

  Friday 31st August 1888 -Mary Ann Nichols - Buck’s Row, Whitechapel

  Saturday 8th September 1888 -Annie Chapman - 29 Hanbury Street, Spitalfields