I was Jack The Ripper (Part One)

by Bray, Michael

  I WAS JACK THE RIPPER

  By

  MICHAEL BRAY

  PART ONE

  Copyright © 2017 Michael Bray

  WWW.MICHAELBRAYAUTHOR.COM

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  All rights reserved.

  DISCLAIMER FROM THE AUTHOR

  Before we dive into this story I thought it was a good idea to say a brief word or two to make sure we are all on the same page. This book, although based on the awful Whitechapel murders in London in 1888, is NOT intended as a historically accurate novel. That said, I have put a lot of research into this book to make sure it is accurate to the time frame, however if you are coming here looking for a theory on who I think Jack the Ripper was, you may have come to the wrong place. For all of the speculation on who may be responsible in reality from Tumblety to Sir William Gull and everyone in between, I have decided to meld fiction into fact, and so MY jack is not a person who existed in reality and as a result not one of the existing suspects. This was done so I could make the very best work of fiction that I could. There are plenty of historical books that deal with who may or may not have been the killer, this is not one of those. This is very much a fictional story created around some of the most brutal crimes ever to take place in England. If you came in expecting something else, then you may want to stop readingnow and move on and get something from the true crimes section.

  If you are still with me and want to come along, then I invite you all to join me in nineteenth-century England, a time when it was dark, cruel and brutal, and we are about to pick up the story of a writer who is about to be visited by a man with a strange and spectacular story to tell….

  WARNING

  This book contains content that some readers may find disturbing.

  Please do not continue to read if you are easily shocked or offended.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Whitechapel District

  London, England 1893

  He was just another face in the crowd. He kept his head low, his eyes fixed on the ground as he made his way through the poorly lit cobbled streets then turned onto Union Street, head lowered against the chilly December winds which were bitter with the threat of snow. The man had noticed a significant upturn in the quality of the housing here. The homes here were clean and tidy, the streets free of the urchins and scum who frequented the slums which were less than a mile to his back. Even so, even these homes paled in comparison to the ornate stonework and brass door knockers of Westminster, however, his journey would not go so far as that. It was here, in the middle classes that were to be his ultimate destination. Twice since he set out he had considered turning back, and yet the fire that burned within him had compelled him to continue the journey. He turned left, making his way to Mountford Street and noticed another change in his surroundings. Here the homes were larger, two-floor affairs, set aside in twin rows on either side of the streets. His eyes darted from door to door, window to window and once again he considered abandoning the entire journey and returning to his lodgings. He slowed the pace of his brisk walk to better see the numbers of the buildings, searching for the one given to him in the letter he received.

  He came to a halt a third of the way down the street, taking a moment to pull his coat closer against the chill bite of the wind and sleet which blasted his face with each gust. He regarded the building; its unremarkable facade was of grey stone, and the windows were dark and featureless, save one on the lower floor, which was alive with the orange glow of firelight. A short pathway led to three stone steps, and the door, its lion head knocker swaying gently under the assault of the wind. It was as unwelcoming as it was impressive. The man glanced at the small brass plaque mounted beside the door, verifying that he was in the right place, the name etched on it wet with beads of rain

  HAPGOOD.

  He heard a sound coming from further down the street and watched as a young couple approached, arms linked as they whispered to each other. They looked into each other’s eyes as they passed, reminding him of long forgotten terrors and pain which brought a chill to his heart to rival that of the bitter wind. As the couple passed, he lowered his head and turned away so that his features were unseen, an old habit that had not faded with time.

  The couple continued on their way, barely noticing the man as he stood before the house. He was, after all, a respectable gentleman in an area of the city where he would look not at all out of place. He watched them as they continued their slow walk oblivious of the conditions until they were out of sight around the corner of Union Street. Burying those long repressed memories that tried to bubble to the surface, he smoothed his hands down the front of his topcoat, brushing away the light dusting that was beginning to form as the sleet transformed into snow. The man took out his pocket watch, noting that he was early. His host was expecting him at nine sharp, and as a man who prided himself on punctuality, he intended to wait until the hour struck, storm or no storm. He looked in the direction that the long gone lovers had gone on to wherever they were heading and wondered if they were out to see a play at the theatre, or perhaps even an evening meal followed by a few drinks. A bitterness welled up within him, which he pushed away. He knew if he didn't, it would feed the demon which lived within. Age had brought patience and control of that particular beast, but the advancing years had also brought with it questions about his own mortality. He was no longer a young man who was fit and strong. It seemed to him that in an incredibly short space of time he had changed into something else, an old, withered thing that he barely recognised. His joints ached, and both heart and mind were tired, yet there was a certain charm about the conditions that night. They were as cold as the events which were about to unfold, and he suspected that when it had all been told as he intended, both he and his host would be grateful for the warmth of the sun when it next came. He checked his watch again, and waited for the minute hand to strike the hour, then climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A light filled the glass arch above the door, which in turn was opened to reveal his host for the evening.

  TWO

  Charles Hapgood was a slim man, dressed in a casual unbuttoned white shirt and brown trousers. He wore a moustache which dominated his top lip, and combined with his long nose, sloped shoulders and low brow gave him a bird-like appearance.

  "Mr. Hapgood I presume?" the man said, holding out his hand to the host.

  "Yes, please come in,” Hapgood said, showing his guest into the hall before closing the door against the shriek of the wind.

  "Please do take off your coat, sir, the weather is truly ghastly this evening." Said Hapgood, gesturing to the coat stand by the door. The man complied, removing his topcoat and hat, and placing them on the stand, and then turning back to Hapgood who gestured to the roaring fire in the study

  "Please, come and warm yourself by the fire Mr...." Hapgood trailed off, waiting for the visitor to introduce himself.

  "Miller," replied the visitor as he made his way into the study. His eyes scanned the room as he approached the large fireplace, above which was a painting depicting the resurrection of Christ. One wall of the study was filled with books stacked from floor to ceiling with all manner of volumes on every possible subject. Beside the two chairs set out by the fire, sat Hapgood's desk, which was just as chaotic as his book collection.

  "Would you care for a drink Mr. Miller?" Hapgood asked as he poured himself a large brandy.

  Miller nodded as he warmed his hands, rubbing them together to try to restore some feeling. Hapgood returned with the drinks and set Millers on the small table between the two chairs, the golden liquid w
arping and reflecting the firelight. His own he retained, taking a thoughtful sip as he observed his visitor.

  "Please take a seat," said Hapgood, gesturing to one of the high-backed chairs as he sat in the other. Miller sat, folding his thin hands in his lap.

  Hapgood studied his guest, soaking in the details and trying to make sense of the strange series of events which had led to their meeting. Miller was tall and very thin with high cheekbones which dominated his face. He would appear ordinary if not for his eyes, which were a brilliant shade of blue. The rest of the man was unremarkable, Hapgood would even go so far as to say anonymous. His mouth was a thin, tightly pursed line above the chin, and he wore his hair parted to the side, which Hapgood noted was grey at the temples. He tried to estimate age, but could only guess at somewhere between thirty-five and fifty.

  "So, Mr. Miller," said Hapgood as he took another sip of his drink. "May I enquire as to the nature of your request to see me this evening? My office tells me you were quite insistent."

  Miller gave no reply. He stared at the flames, lost in his thoughts.

  "Please sir, the hour grows late, and I must insist that you tell me the nature of your business. I have acquiesced to everything you requested in your correspondence. It is highly irregular for me to meet prospective clients in my home. If you prefer we can arrange a meeting in my office through the correct channels in due course."

  He was about to speak again when the Miller looked at him, causing Hapgood to draw breath. The colour of Millers' eyes was even more mesmerising when they were fixed upon him. They seemed to be unnaturally blue and shone as if lit from within. Hapgood felt that rather than looking at him, it was as if Miller was somehow looking through him and was privy to all of Hapgood's innermost secrets. The entire incident lasted just seconds before Miller pointed to a stack of brown files on the small table beside Hapgood's chair.

  "I understand that you are writing a book about the Whitechapel murders of eighteen eighty-eight."

  "Yes, that is correct. I am led to understand you have information on the case which might be of benefit to my research?"

  Ignoring Hapgood's words, Miller stared into the fire. "I understand that inspector Abberline himself is assisting in your research," Miller said, a small ghost of a smile forming as he said the inspector’s name.

  "Yes, Mr. Abberline was gracious enough to offer his assistance, however, I fail to see the relevance of..."

  "And how much have you written of this book Mr. Hapgood?" Miller asked, turning his icy gaze on him again.

  "I fail to see why that is of any relevance. I remind you again that time is of the essence, and if you do not state your business I'm afraid I will be forced to ask you to leave. I have much work to do."

  The near smile faded, and Miller leaned back in his chair and sipped his brandy. “My intention is not to offend your gracious hospitality, in fact, it is quite the opposite. I am here to give you the greatest of all gifts."

  “I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "My understanding is that you are regarded as one of the finest writers in London. In fact, upon my inquiries as to who might be best suited to my needs, it was your name which on almost every occasion was recommended to me as the man with whom I should speak."

  "Thank you, Mr. Miller, I am of course flattered that my peers regard my work with such esteem.”

  Miller took another sip of his brandy, enjoying the warmth radiate through his body. “I wish for you to write my memoirs. Age is becoming a burden to me and life is starting to take that which for so long I took for granted. You will, of course, be paid well for your efforts, even more so than in simple financial terms when the details of my life story emerge."

  With a frown, Hapgood set his glass on the table. "My apologies Mr. Miller, I thought I was clear in our postal correspondence. I'm afraid that you have wasted your time. I am, as you are aware, incredibly busy with work on my book, and would be unable to find time to do as you request. Besides which sir, I am afraid that I do not write autobiographical material. Mt field is more in historical fact than memoirs.I can, however, recommend several of my colleagues who would be happy to..."

  "No," Miller said, setting his empty glass on the table.

  Hapgood saw a slight shift in his guest's demeanour, a barely perceptible flash of something within those eyes which was gone as soon as it appeared.

  "Mr. Miller, I'm sorry but I cannot help you. There are many skilled and qualified biographers in the city who would be happy write your memoirs for you." Hapgood said, standing and motioning towards the door.

  Miller did not stand; he looked Hapgood in the eye. There was something there, something Hapgood was struggling to identify. Arrogance perhaps, or anger. It made him both curious and afraid.

  "Mr. Hapgood, please sit.”

  It was not a request. There was an air of authority in Miller's voice which until that point had been absent. Hapgood was starting to think there was more to his guest than he first thought. He sat, and the two men stared at each other to the backdrop of the crackling heat of the fire.

  "I'm afraid that your colleagues, fine writers as I'm sure they are, just will not do under these circumstances. I need the best, and that, good sir, is you as we have already established. Now please, allow me to explain before you reject my proposal."

  He waited for a protest, and when none came, he went on.

  "I'm dying, Mr. Hapgood. Even as you and converse, I feel the spectre of death's presence. My body is becoming old, by bones tired. I fear it will not be long before this world and I part, and in a way I welcome it. This world and I have spent far too long in each other’s company. Before that happens, there is much to be told; much that needs to be committed to official record before it is lost forever."

  Hapgood drained his brandy and set the empty glass on the table.

  "I'm sorry to hear of your troubles Mr. Miller, truly I am, but as I have already stated, sir, I am unable to offer my assistance at this time. I am far too busy."

  "You don't understand Mr. Hapgood, there is much that I must tell before I depart. there is a great burden upon these shoulders which I cannot take with me to the grave. You must hear what I have to say."

  "I am no priest, simply a humble writer. Perhaps the church will hear your confession." Hapgood was growing frustrated, yet curiosity kept him from ordering his guest to leave. He looked into Millers' eyes. He imagined that he could see darkness in those eyes, a window to a place so dark that if a man were to look into them for any length of time, he would fall into madness.

  Miller spoke slowly, the transformation from the mumbling man who first entered the house startling in its rapidity. "I need no confession, for I have committed no sin. My imminent death bears no consequence to my visit to you this evening. I am more than prepared to stand before God and justify all that has passed. I am ready to answer any questions he may ask. I chose you for a reason, and I swear it, one way or another you will hear what I have to say before this night is done."

  Hapgood struggled to formulate a response. He was excited and angry, afraid and curious. The mixture of emotions made any rational thought difficult. "Mr. Miller, I meant no offence." He stuttered. "However, I am simply trying to avoid wasting both of our time. I am already significantly behind schedule on my work, and if I am to finish then I am afraid it must have my full attention."

  Miller leaned forward, staring into Hapgood's core as he spoke in a near whisper. "Mr. Hapgood, I don't think you understand. What I have to tell you will render your current work obsolete, I'm afraid."

  "That is a matter of opinion, and frankly, sir, illustrates a lack of respect. I invite you into my home under irregular circumstances which you insisted on only to find you disrespecting my profession. I'm sorry, Mr. Miller, that won't do. I am afraid I will have to insist you leave immediately. I am unable to help.

  "Those files," Miller said, ignoring Hapgood. "Am I right in assuming some of those are inspector Abberline's personal notes?
His own private thoughts on the Whitechapel case?"

  Hapgood nodded "Yes they are. The inspector and I are close friends, and since his retirement, He is graciously assisting me with my research. I fail to see why this is at all relevant."

  "And, Mr. Hapgood am I correct in my assumption that within those notes there is information that other than you, of course, only the inspector would be privy to? In other words information, that was never released to the public during the initial investigation?"

  "Yes, Inspector Abberline's personal thoughts on the case are in my files. However, I fail to see how any of this is pertinent to our conversation."

  "It's pertinent because it will enable me to explain to you why I am here. I trust you are familiar with the case and its finer details?"

  Hapgood was growing increasingly angry and could feel his cheeks flushing. "Yes, I pride myself on my research. My exploration of the case is at an advanced state, as I have already stated."

  "Indeed. Would you be so kind as to retrieve inspector Abberline's files. In particular, the murder which took place in Hanbury Street?"

  "I am familiar with the case Mr. Miller, and require no files to further aid this conversation." Hapgood snapped. He wanted this man out of his house, of that, there was no doubt, but he was also curious as to where this particular conversation was heading.

  "Forgive me Mr. Hapgood; my intention is not to question your methods, nor your ability. Remember, I come to you today because you are the best. Please, if you would be so kind as to indulge me and do as I ask, then all will become clear."

  "And again sir I remind you that it is unnecessary as I am familiar with the case. Please, delay no further. either state your business or leave me to mine."