by kindels
"Jack," I said. "The sergeant is trying to tell you that he believes you're innocent and that your uncle faked his death so that he could come to England and commit the murders in the style of Jack the Ripper without anyone suspecting it was him."
My mentioning Jack the Ripper appeared to trigger something in Jack's mind. In a flash he switched from his rather confused state into one of total lucidity. His voice changed, taking on an air of almost benign superiority in a style I'd only heard from him once before, when I'd first interviewed him and he'd told me his whole story with great conviction. That Jack was back!
"The thing none of you is totally convinced of is the existence of the journal," he said. "It was, is, real. I read it from beginning to end and I can assure you it was the journal of Jack the Ripper himself. My Uncle Robert's great-grandfather who I suppose is my great-great grand uncle or something like that, left a number of notes and letters within the journal and he knew everything there was to know about the Ripper. Uncle Robert also placed a few notes in there, which helped me make sense of certain things within it. That journal is evil. It reeks of evil. It emanates from every page and somehow, it has an effect on those that read it, of that I'm sure. When you touch it the pages feel warm as though they have a life of their own. Sounds stupid doesn't it? But it's true, I tell you. You'd have to see it, feel it, read it to know the power that seeps from those old yellow pages. It sent me crazy, you know. Why d'you think I ended up in here?"
He fell silent as quickly as if someone had turned a switch off. Talking of so intense a subject, one that weighed heavily on his mind had obviously tired and distressed him and he sat looking directly at Carl Wright, as though waiting for a response from the police sergeant.
"You ended up here because we, the police, thought you'd committed three murders," said Wright. "The judge and the jury thought so, too, and it was the intervention of a great many medical minds that saw you sent here instead of to a conventional high security prison."
"But don't you see? I am a direct descendant of Jack the Ripper. Uncle Robert's great-grandfather confirms that in his notes, as does Uncle Robert in his own annotations. It's logical that if I carry his genes, then I must have carried out those murders, isn't it? I must have done all those things they say I did."
The lucid Jack was beginning to disappear once more. I stepped in to try and help hold him together long enough to conclude the interview.
"Listen to me, Jack. Heredity is a strange thing. If, and I still think it's a big if, you are a descendant of the Ripper then that heritage may not have manifested itself in you. After all, your Uncle Robert didn't go out killing people, did he? Nor did his father, grandfather or great-grandfather. Perhaps the gene that led to the Ripper's being mentally disturbed, if that was his problem, came from his mother not from Robert's great-grandfather, who you say was his father. Just because asthma or cancer or even mental illness runs in a family doesn't mean that the illness will show itself in every generation. You may not even possess the genes that led to the crimes of the Ripper, even if he was an ancestor of yours."
That seemed to give him a psychological lift and he looked at me with what I took to be a form of gratitude for the reassurances I'd given him, though whether he totally believed what I'd just said was another matter entirely. In truth, I wasn't sure that I believed in what I'd just said; such were the complexities surrounding this sad young man and his family history.
"But you're saying that Uncle Mark did?"
"I'm saying that perhaps he believes he does. If he read the journal, which for the sake of argument I'm accepting exists, he may have found it an expedient excuse to launch his own series of murders. It may have nothing to do with being an alleged descendant of Jack the Ripper. It may simply be that a history of mental illness exists within your family that hasn't been fully recognised in the past. Then again, if you're right, he may indeed be something of a reincarnation of the Ripper. Either way, if it can be proved, it would go along way towards helping to prove your innocence in these crimes."
"But if that's the case, why weren't any of the previous three generations affected?"
This question came from Alice Nickels, who'd been listening intently to my conversation with Jack.
"Maybe they were," I replied. "Mental illness doesn't always affect people to the extent that it easily recognised. For all we know, Jack's grandfather, or Uncle Robert, or any of his male descendants could have suffered from an undiagnosed form of mental instability, something that wouldn't necessarily impair their ability to lead a normal life. From what I've heard, Robert Cavendish was certainly a disturbed man towards the end of his life."
"But he'd lost his father, been involved in a horrendous car crash and suffered from appalling hallucinations while in a coma. Surely that would explain his so-called disturbances?"
"Yes, but those disturbances appeared to have spilled over in to his everyday life causing a degree of paranoia, as I understand it. The events you mention may have been the trigger that caused a chemical imbalance in his brain, thus leading to him suffering from a mild form of dementia."
"Hmm, I see," said Nickels. "So, assuming Jack's story to be true, it's likely that Mark Cavendish is indeed mentally disturbed and perhaps his brother's death became the trigger that unleashed his own mental illness?"
"Precisely," I replied.
Jack suddenly spoke again.
"So, did I kill those women or not?" he asked, a confused and almost pitiful look upon his face. He was obviously finding it difficult to come to terms with what he was hearing. He'd begun to believe totally in his own guilt and now that his possible innocence was being discussed he found it hard to accept. Quite often it's easier for a patient in Jack's situation to accept what they're told and let their mind come to terms with what they then see as reality. Any deviation from that reality then becomes a source of confusion for them. In Jack's case his original plea of innocence had been rejected by the police, the courts and the psychiatric services and under the weight of so many opinions and reports telling of his guilt, his mind had found it comfortable to accept those opinions as his own. Changing them would take some time, if such changes became necessary.
"I don't think you did, Jack," said Alice Nickels.
"Neither do I," added Carl Wright.
"And what about you, Doctor Ruth?" asked Jack, a pained and perplexed look appearing on his face, his head leaning to the side once again.
"Jack, after what the sergeant and Miss Nickels have told me today, I have to say that I have some doubts as to your guilt. I don't want to build up your hopes, but if Inspector Holland finds out what he is attempting to discover in Poland, then yes, it may prove that you're innocent of the crimes you were accused of."
"So, will I be able to go home soon?" he asked, in a child-like, innocent manner, as though this had all been a bad dream and he could simply go back to the way things had once been, which I and my visitors all knew would be a virtual impossibility.
"We'll have to wait and see, Jack," I replied. "Time will tell, and you must let the police carry out their investigation first. If they find out that you are indeed innocent I'm sure something will be done to put things right, am I correct, Sergeant Wright?"
"Of course, Doctor," Wright replied. "As you say, time will tell."
By now of course, Wright and Nickels had seen for themselves that, innocent or not, Jack Reid was indeed a disturbed young man, perhaps unsurprisingly after all he'd gone through. What the future held for him even if proved innocent of the Brighton murders would lead to difficult choices being made by those in authority over his case, myself included.
After concluding the interview with Jack and seeing him back to his room, I bade farewell to Carl Wright and Alice Nickels. The police sergeant had promised to keep me updated with whatever progress Inspector Holland made in Warsaw. I walked with the two of them to the sergeant's car, and felt the warmth of the morning sunshine as we walked down the steps that led from the visito
rs' entrance to the short path to the car park. Birds sang a cheerful refrain in the trees that lined the border of the car park, the daffodils nodded in our direction as they bent their heads quietly in the gentle breeze, and the sky appeared as an almost clear aerial ocean of blue with scarcely a cloud in sight. All seemed well with the world, and I hoped that the policeman and the ripperologist weren't about to open a can of worms that may have disastrous consequences for the young man who once again sat contemplatively in room 404, waiting to hear what the future held for him. In truth, I feared for Jack Reid, for, should he ever be released from his incarceration, I was fairly certain that his instability would one day lead him to further brushes with the law and the psychiatric services. At the moment, he was safe and secure within the artificial cocoon that Ravenswood offered to its patients, its inmates if you prefer. Remove him from that cocoon and things might appear very different to Jack himself, and to those who would come into contact with him.
For now though, like Jack, I would play the waiting game. I had no choice, and as the car carrying Wright and Nickels disappeared down the gravel driveway and stopped at the main entrance to be searched and then released by the security guards, I felt as though a heavy weight had descended upon my own mind. If Mark Cavendish was out there somewhere and he was the real Brighton Ripper, and the police found him it was possible that Jack would be vindicated. If he was I asked myself, would the world be a safer place? I admit that I had my doubts.
Chapter 36
Mike Holland's Polish Odyssey
The 'further information' that Carl Wright had been hoping for as a result of his superior's visit to his Warsaw counterparts arrived much sooner than either he or I expected. A mere three days after Wright and Alice Nickels had paid their visit to Ravenswood I received a telephone call from the inspector himself. Could he, he asked, come down to the hospital to see me in the company of Wright and Miss Nickels?
He assured me that the information he'd gathered in Poland was more than relevant to the Reid case, but he preferred not to discuss it on the phone. I agreed instantly, my own curiosity and the need to know the facts of the case having built up over the previous three days. I arranged with Inspector Holland that he and the others should visit me the very next day, subject to Miss Nickels being able to get away from her own office in order to travel down to Ravenswood. Holland called me back half an hour later to confirm the visit. Alice Nickels appeared to have great leeway with her legal firm. Obtaining time off from her legal practice certainly appeared to present no problems for her.
I'd met with Jack just once since the visit of Wright and Nickels and he'd appeared to have taken in most of what they'd told him, despite his apparent confusion at the time of their interview with him. During our short time together on the day after the visit he'd been lucid and communicative. He assured me that he now knew himself to be innocent of the Brighton murders. Once again he reverted to the story that had been his defence during the original police interrogations and the trial itself. He'd been tricked, drugged and set up by Michael and 'The Man' who he now believed, as Wright had suggested, was his supposed deceased uncle, Mark Cavendish. He expressed his further belief that the police would vindicate him in the course of their current re-investigation of the case. I hoped for his sake that Inspector Mike Holland had found information that would be of help to him. If the police were to discover that Jack was the killer and Mark Cavendish was in fact dead or an innocent man, it could bring about the total mental collapse of my patient. At least, following Holland's call I knew I wouldn't have long to wait in order to find out.
The day of Holland's visit came soon enough. It was Friday and the end of the working week heralded a break from the humdrum everyday working grind for the majority of the population. Not so for the police or the staff at Ravenswood. Neither crime nor healthcare takes a day off and we at Ravenswood, along with the police forces of the country provide an all-round seven day a week service. Luckily for me this would be my weekend off, when I could enjoy two days of rest and respite from the daily contact with numerous psychopaths, murderers and various other psychologically challenged patients within the walls of the high security facility. Every other week I would be on duty over the weekend, with time off during the week which never seemed to carry quite the same restful ambience of the traditional weekend break.
In total contrast to the day of Wright and Nickels's visit, the dawning of that Friday brought with it a thunderous storm. Dark, almost black clouds rolled in from the South carrying with them a torrential downpour, made worse by the winds that began as fierce and soon grew to gale force, causing the rain to slant into cutting icy sheets that stung the face and any other exposed flesh. Though not the best of days for driving, Mike Holland and his two companions arrived dead on time at eleven a.m. Holland had picked up Alice Nickels from a hotel en route where she'd stayed the night to make it easier for him and Wright to collect her as they motored to Ravenswood.
There would be no interview with Jack Reid on this occasion, just a report from Holland on the results of his visit to Warsaw. I couldn't wait to hear what he'd discovered and after greeting my visitors at the main entrance and ushering them along the corridors that led to my office, I eagerly awaited Holland's discourse. Firstly, however, I arranged for coffee and biscuits to be served, Tess once again the willing deliverer of the refreshments. I'd told my secretary what had transpired three days previously and she was as interested as I in the outcome of this further visit. Tess, however, would have to wait until Holland and the others left before I could fill her in on what may or may not be the future dispensation of our most celebrated patient.
"A foul day, Doctor," Holland began.
"Indeed it is, Inspector. I'm surprised you weren't late in arriving what with the rain and the gales."
"I pride myself on never being late for an important appointment. When I saw the weather first thing this morning I called Sergeant Wright and Miss Nickels and had them be ready thirty minutes sooner than expected so that we might make an early start in order to be here on time, and it worked, as you can see."
"I'm impressed, Inspector Holland. Now, please, you have something important to tell me?"
"Yes, I have. I'll ask you to allow me to complete my story before you voice your opinion, as it may sound a little rambling as I go along, but I want to tell it to you as it happened and you will then be better informed as to what we may have to do in the future."
"Agreed," I said. "Please go on, Inspector."
Before beginning his story Mike Holland nodded to Carl Wright and the sergeant passed him the black attaché case he'd carried in to the room. Holland opened it and withdrew a brown cardboard file, which appeared to contain a number of loose papers and a small collection of photographs. Though Holland held the file in his hands, he said nothing of its contents at first.
I switched on my recorder, sat back in my chair and together with Carl Wright and Alice Nickels, listened as Inspector Mike Holland began to relate to us the results of his investigation though, of course, I knew that Wright would already be aware of the contents of the report. Even so, he appeared to be as attentive as any of us. I had a feeling this was going to be some tale, and as it transpired, I wasn't disappointed.
"Let me say first of all," Holland began, "that if it hadn't been for Sergeant Wright's constant nagging at me that he felt there was something wrong with the case against Reid, and for Miss Nickels's intuitive and quite extraordinary research and investigative skills I wouldn't have been sitting here today telling you what I'm about to. You, Alice, could have been a police officer. You are a quite extraordinary woman."
Alice Nickels smiled, nodded, but said nothing, not wanting to interrupt the inspector.
"When Sergeant Wright kept nagging at me about the case and I personally reviewed all the evidence and the trial transcripts and looked back on everything we'd been through in bringing Jack Reid to trial, I had to admit that there did appear to be flaws and discrep
ancies in the whole affair. Obviously, as the case was effectively closed when Reid was sent here there wasn't a lot I could do to actively re-open the investigation, but my sergeant and Miss Nickels, convinced that there'd been a serious miscarriage of justice, refused to let the matter drop. How on earth Alice came up with the idea of seeking information about murders outside the UK, I'd no idea at the time, though she's since explained her reasons to me and they were, of course, perfectly sound. Why would our killer, if it wasn't Reid, place himself in danger of capture by continuing his crimes here in England when owing to his deranged mindset anywhere would have done? All he had to do was plan his locations to overlay those in Brighton and Whitechapel and his means would be served. The brilliance of the criminally insane is often far greater than that of your average criminal and in this case, perhaps even more so."
I saw Holland was looking intently at me as he mouthed the last sentence and I nodded my assent to his belief. It is indeed true that the criminally insane quite often display a genius, though often a warped version of that trait, in the quite brilliant execution of their crimes, fuelled by the intense and often very frightening psychoses that exist within their minds. The inspector went on.
"When these two redoubtable experts in the history of the crimes of Jack the Ripper laid their final batch of facts and beliefs before me I had little choice but to take them seriously. The more I looked at it, the more it looked as though Jack Reid had been set up to take the blame for the Brighton killings while the real killer, or killers, made their escape. The messy scene at the house of Mandy Clark confirmed what Alice believed, though I'd never have thought of it myself. I was too pleased to have caught the man who I believed had carried out the murders and to his credit, my sergeant here was generous enough to admit that at the time he felt exactly as I did. It was only later, when the doubts began to creep in that he and Alice started to seriously bombard me with their beliefs, and I was eventually forced to take a close look at the case when the Polish connection came along. Of course, I couldn't do much about it on my own authority, but the Chief Superintendent was wholly behind me when I presented Alice and Wright's theory to him. Once the sergeant received that e-mail from Warsaw and we'd made contact with the Warsaw police and got a few facts from them, it appeared more and more as though the 'Warsaw Connection' could hold the answer to what Alice and Wright, and by then, I believed. The Chief Super authorised my visit to Warsaw as there wasn't a lot I could do simply on the basis of telephone calls and emails between here and Poland, so off I went.
