A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper

by kindels

  Jack the Ripper is no more, he's gone, forever, and yet, I feel I am no better than the monster himself? I swore an oath to save life, to preserve, not to destroy, I am naught but a wretched, squalid soul, as squalid as the streets he stalked in life, and will forever, I am sure haunt in death. I bequeath this legacy to those who follow me; judge me not too harshly, for justice may be blind, and I have acted for the best as I saw it at the time. I have despoiled my oath, his blood is mine, and that of those poor unfortunates, and I must bear what I have done within my heavy conscience and my aching heart for the rest of my days!

  Jack the Ripper! My heart almost leaped into my mouth at the astonishing thought that I was about to learn something that few others had shared. I knew from our family history that my great-grandfather had spent some time as a consulting psychiatric physician at the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum during the 1880s, and it now seemed that he'd been privy to knowledge the rest of the world had been seeking for over a century, or, at least, he believed himself to have been. Yet, what did he mean by the references to his complicity, what action had he taken?

  Another sip of scotch, more fire in my throat, and I was ready to take the next step. I had to see the journal, had to know what my great-grandfather knew. If he'd solved the mystery of the Ripper murders, why hadn't he revealed the truth? What could possibly have enticed him to keep silent about the most celebrated series of murders ever to strike at the heart of the great metropolis that was nineteenth century London? What part did he play in the tragedy; how could he, a respected physician and member of society have been complicit in the foul deeds perpetrated by Jack the Ripper? He was my great-grandfather after all, I refused at that point to believe that he could be in any way connected with the murders of those poor unfortunate women, and yet, in his own words, he'd stated that he could have stopped the Ripper. Again I asked myself, what could he have known, what could he have done? Looking at the loosely bound journal on the desk in front of me, I knew there was only one way I was going to find out!

  Chapter Two

  The Journal Begins

  Foregoing the temptation to top up my by now half empty glass of whisky, (I'd decided a clear head would be imperative as I read the journal), I paused only long enough to ensure that both the front and back doors of the house were securely locked. Though not expecting any visitors this late in the afternoon, I wanted to ensure that no-one could walk in unannounced, and there was always Mrs. Armitage from next door. She'd promised to 'keep an eye' on me for Sarah while she was away, and had developed the habit of knocking and entering before descending upon me with a plate of home-made scones or cakes or some other 'treat' she was sure I'd enjoy whilst on my own. Not today thank you, Mrs. Armitage!

  Though I was sorely tempted, I resisted the urge to take the telephone off the hook, or to switch off my mobile. Sarah might try to call me, and, if she didn't get a reply, I was sure she'd call Mrs. Armitage and send her scurrying round to check on poor lonely little me! No, leave the phones on, safer by far.

  I settled myself down once again in my chair, and turned to the journal. I've referred to it as such because that's the way my father, and my great-grandfather referred to it, but, in truth, it wasn't so much a journal, as a collection of papers, punctured with a crude hole punch over a hundred years ago, and then bound together with tightly drawn tapes, or, perhaps, very stiff ribbons. After the passage of years it was hard to be sure what they were originally, and, after all, I'm a doctor, not an expert on antique book bindings.

  There was no cover as such and no identifying title or name on the first page, but there were other sheets of paper protruding at various parts of the journal. "Jack the Ripper", I thought to myself, surely there was no-one in the civilized world who hadn't heard of the famed Whitechapel murderer, and here I was, about to be taken, perhaps too closely, into that dark world of shadows and brutality inhabited by that most infamous of serial killers, and yet, as I began to read that first, aged and wrinkled page I was convinced that my father and those before him had fallen for the literary rantings of a madman.

  The journal began:

  6th August 1888,

  Ate a fine dinner, red wine, (blood), the tenderest veal, rare, (more blood), and the voices hissing at me through the gas mantle, the lights flickering, screaming, and ringing in my head. Blood! Let the streets run red with the harlots blood; avenge the pitiful wrecks brought to foul disease by the tainted blood. Spill the blood, the streets are mine, the blood shall be mine, the will know me, fear me, I am justice, I am death! What foul pestilence they spread, and I shall cause to die such evil that men shall raise my name on high! I hear the voices, they sing to me, ah, such sweet melodies, and always red, they sing of red, of whores and their foul smelling wicked entrails, that I shall put aside forever.

  The cheese was a little over-ripe, though the cigar my friend left on his last visit went admirably well with the after-dinner port. Very relaxed as I sat enjoying faint warmth of the evening.

  I hear the voices, and I must reply, but the only reply they want to hear is the sound of death, the drenching of blood on stone, yes, they need me, I am the instrument of fear, red, red blood, running like a river, I see it, I can almost taste it, I must go, the night will be upon me soon, and the cigar smoke hangs like a fog in the room. My, but the port is good, I swill it round the glass, and it is the blood, the blood that will flow as I begin my work, such fine port, such a good night for killing.

  7th August 1888

  'Twas a fine clear night for the job to be done. Had no real good tools to work with, kitchen and carving knives, very poor show. The whore was waiting, eager, needing me. So gullible as to invite me indoors, did her on the first floor landing, started and couldn't stop. She was so surprised, oh yes, her face, that look, pure terror as the knife slashed into her softly yielding flesh. First one straight to the heart, she staggered, fell, and we set about the work. I say we, for the voices were there with me, guiding, watching, slashing and cutting with me. Lost count of the number of times I cut the whore, she didn't even scream, just a low gurgling as she expired in the dark. Took care to purify the whore's breasts, her gut, her vital parts. She'll spread no pestilence no more, the river ran red, as they promised it would. I must take care the next time; there was too much blood upon my self. Lucky man, to have thought to remove my coat before I began, had to burn a perfectly good jacket and fine trousers this morning. Though no-one saw me when I left, it was a messy job, I'll get good tools the next time, better clothes for the job.

  It was a good start though, of that I'm sure, and there'll be more, so many more!

  I had to stop and take a breath. Surely these were the ravings of a total lunatic! There was a clarity of thought evident in certain part of the text, an almost urbane banality in the references to relaxing with a cigar, the warmth of the evening, and the casual references to getting 'better tools next time'. Then the almost unbelievable savagery of expression in the description of the death of that poor woman. Though short, it was terrifying, chilling, the work surely of a man devoid of reason or conscience. Even though these crimes had taken place over a century ago, the first pages of the journal filled me with a fear and dread as real as if I'd been there in London in 1888.

  Though not a phrase we like to use in these enlightened times, I had to think in terms of the times in which these crimes took place, and I thought this couldn't be right. Jack the Ripper, from what little I knew, had been clever, a master of concealment and bravado, these words couldn't be those of the Ripper! These were the words of a seriously disturbed individual, which, though the Ripper also had to have been similarly deranged, seemed to belong more in the realms of fantasy than reality. Could the writer have written this journal after the event, and, as many deluded souls have done through the years, imagined himself to be the notorious murderer. In other words, could this have been written by a seriously ill, delusional individual seeking to gain attention?

  My own knowledge of the Jac
k the Ripper murders was scant at best, so, before continuing, I fired up my computer, and accessed the internet. There I found a welter of sites offering information and speculation on the Ripper murders, and I quickly printed off a couple of informative pieces, in the hope that they would be able to give me some useful points of reference as I progressed through what I thought of as the madman's journal lying on the desk before me.

  Sure enough, there it was. In the early hours of the morning of the 7th August 1888, the body of Martha Tabram had been discovered on a first floor landing of a tenement building at 37 George Yard. In total 39 stab wounds were discovered on her body, the majority of the damage having been caused to her breasts, belly, and private parts. It seems that, as the Ripper murders progressed, the killing of Martha Tabram was discounted by some as having been committed by the same man who killed the other later victims. If my lunatic, (as I thought of him at the moment) had indeed been Jack the Ripper, then it was plain to see that Martha Tabram had perhaps been his first tentative venture into the world of bloody murder. At this time, however, the police and the public had no inkling of the carnage that was waiting in the wings, preparing to unleash itself upon the streets of Whitechapel. Naturally, in 1888 forensic science was non-existent, the use of fingerprints for identification was still many years in the future, and the police were, in the case of poor Martha Tabram, virtually clueless. At the time of her death Martha was 39 years old, the estranged wife of Henry Tabram, and had spent the last nine years living on and off with a William Turner, who last saw her alive on the 4th of August, when he gave her the sum of 1/6d (71/2p). On the night of her death various witnesses stated that she'd been seen in the company of one of more soldiers, and the original police theory was that she may have been murdered by a soldier 'client'.

  Unfortunately, the murder of one 'shilling whore' raised scant headlines in the press or in the public conscience at the time. All that was soon to change!

  I decided at that point that I needed a strategy, a means of working through the journal, whilst ensuring that I maintained a grip on the realities of the case. How easy it would have been to skip straight to the end, to read my great-grandfather's final notes, to see if the Ripper was identified, either by his own words, if true, or by great-grandfather. I'd never known him, he'd died before I was born, but I'd learned enough about him to know he was a highly respected physician in his day, and I was sure that his conclusions would be a revelation in themselves. No, I couldn't do it. I had to read each page in order, had to assimilate the information in chronological order in order to understand what this was all about. It wasn't just the Ripper, no, my great-grandfather was also nursing some other secret, and, before I read what it was, I needed to understand what had happened to lead to his final solution, whatever that had been.

  I presumed the journal would take me on a journey, a journey through the terrible events that took place back in 1888, so I decided the best course of action would be to read the journal, referring to any notes made by my great-grandfather, and then to refer to the texts I had printed from the internet, checking the facts as I went. In fact, I took the time to find more websites, and printed out reams of information on the murders, and it was quite some time before, having collated them all into a working chronology, I settled myself once more into my chair, took another sip of whisky, and slowly reached out to take up the journal once more.

  Chapter Three

  A Cry for Help?

  12th August 1888

  After breakfast suffered a violent headache. Came from nowhere. So sudden, it almost knocked me from my feet. Forced to lie down, remained prone for some time. It's them, the voices, they're shouting in my head, even when I can't hear them, they must be! They'd been silent since I finished the whore, and yet, they're in there all the time, sleeping. They must wake inside my head and talk, and I don't always hear them. I don't like the headache.

  The diagnosis and treatment of mental illness in the 1880s was, like the science of criminology, very basic compared to today's standards. My great-grandfather would have been astounded to see the massive advances that medical science has achieved in the last hundred years. Nowadays we understand so much more, we treat with care and compassion, yet, back in the days of the Ripper saga, we built huge Gothic asylums, we incarcerated and tortured those poor afflicted souls in the name of medicine, we were, I'm afraid, as a profession, in the stone ages.

  The few words I'd just read had convinced me that the writer was indeed a sufferer from some form of mental disease. The hearing of voices is of course the classic mark of the psychopath, or possibly the sign of some form of mania. This man, however, seemed to feel that the voices were speaking to him even when he couldn't hear them. He was indeed a sick man, but, with the limited knowledge and resources available in the nineteenth century, it was unlikely he would ever have received effective or curative care. The comment 'I don't like the headache' showed an almost childlike desire for someone to take away his pain. I could almost feel his hurt, his anguish, though I wasn't yet convinced these were truly the words of the man known as Jack the Ripper!

  Now, you may be wondering why I was doubting the voracity of the journal. It was obvious that, for whatever reasons, my great-grandfather, my grandfather and father all believed in the truth of the documents now in my possession, and yet, I felt that with the benefits of modern-day technology at my disposal, and with the additional knowledge that now existed relating to the Ripper murders, it might be possible for me to arrive at a different conclusion to my forebears. Only by reading the journal, the notes, and comparing them with the facts I had accessed could I hope to come to an objective conclusion in the matter. Psychiatry has also moved on to such an extent I felt I may be able to perhaps throw a different light on anything my great-grandfather had surmised from the journal. I was, of course, still to discover what his part in the whole affair had been, and that did give me cause for concern. It wouldn't be fair however, to jump the gun and rush to the end of the journal or the notes. I had to go slowly, had to take one step at a time.

  13th August 1888

  Couldn't leave the house today, so much pain and confusion in my head. I have to go out sometime, there's so much I need to do. My work must go on, but the tools, I must have the tools. Now I know the way to find safe retreat. I never realized how much blood the whore would spill upon me. There's no way to hide the blood, and I can't risk being taken, not when there's so much to do! The voices told me how to hide the blood. Hide myself, and the blood will be hidden too. Be invisible. That's the answer. THE SEWERS. Use the sewers, get a map, a plan, they run under every street, every house, and no-one shall see me, they'll never find me, never beat me. I'm invisible, invisible and invincible.

  14th August 1888

  Feeling so much better, had work to do. Not the whores, they'll have to wait, the office, boring, but necessary. Everything normal, that's the way, let no-one suspect. My neighbour called today, brought a copy of The Star. Seems someone killed a whore called Tabram. Didn't know whores had names, how shocking! Left work early, got all I needed on Whitechapel High Street. Surgeons' knives, so sharp, so bright, and maps, all the maps I need to complete the task. Be careful little whores, I'm coming.

  This was truly chilling. I was beginning to believe at last that this could indeed be the journal of The Ripper. There was a manic yet highly intelligent brain behind these words, of that I was becoming sure, one minute coherent and methodical, the next almost ludicrously psychotic in his train of thought. Was he shocked that whores had names, or that someone had killed Martha Tabram? Had he at that point detached himself from the actual act of cold-blooded murder, becoming, for a short time, just another citizen indignant at the repugnance of the wicked crime? Apart from anything else, I had to admit to myself that as a case study, this was becoming totally engrossing. I could feel the tension building with almost every word I read in this strange, crumpled journal. The very age of the paper gave it a decrepit, tomblike feel, a
nd added to the chill beginning to surround me as I sat in my comfortable chair, at my familiar desk, where, suddenly, nothing felt quite the same as it did just a short time ago. I felt as if I was being slowly and inexorably dragged back in time, so tangibly that I could almost envisage the sights and sounds of Victorian London being just outside my comfortable suburban home. Does that sound ridiculous? Maybe it does, but it's true. That's just how it felt. The more I read, the more I was being transported to another era, I could almost taste the fear of those uncertain times in that great, yet partially squalid city. I was beginning to realize why my family had kept this secret so close. The journal, though quite indistinct in many ways, was like a time machine. Once you began you couldn't release yourself from its hold. I had to continue.

  17th August 1888

  Visited a few of the drinking establishments in Spitalfields and Whitechapel. Drank beer in The Britannia, the Princess Alice, and The Alma in Spelman Street. Got quite drunk. So many whores wanted me. Me! Used the drink to avoid their dirty pestilence. Played the well-heeled but drunken punter. Couldn't do it, ha! That's what they thought! Couldn't do it? I'll do them all, filthy, rotten bitches, whores; I'll send them all to hell! TO HELL, DAMN THEIR FILTHY HIDES!

  He was getting angrier by the day, and it was clear that he was plotting, reconnoitering the area, he was putting his plan together, and would strike when he was ready. This was premeditation on a grand scale, he was getting ready to unleash the fire and brimstone of his own hell upon the poor unfortunate women of that sadly deprived and neglected area of the great metropolis. What felt even worse was the fact that I felt as though I was about to be given a ringside seat at the proceedings.

  20th August 1888

  They're back, the voices, calling louder than ever. They fill my head, they want me, need me; I'm so glad they came, but they hurt me when they all scream at once. Why don't they speak one at a time? Sometimes they're so loud I can't hear them properly. My, but that's a grand piece of lamb upon my plate tonight. I knew it was good before I tasted it. Not too rare, we're not ready to go out again, not just yet. When they say so, I'll be ready, ready for the blood, the river, the river of red that will flow through the streets as surely as the Thames splits the city in two. The whores will pay, and pay in full, I'll have no more of their wicked pestilence, their evil bitch heat fouling the air, filling innocent beds with their filth, I'll have them all, whores, nothing but whores.