by kindels
There was my great-grandfather once again, and mention of someone referred to only as 'T'. Why didn't the writer name him, as he had my ancestor? Would naming him have given too much away, made it too easy for the writer to be identified if his journal had fallen into the wrong hands? It was obvious to me that my great-grandfather had no inkling of the writer's connection to the murders at that time, or I was sure he'd have added something to his notes. There was nothing, and yes, the man 'T', if it was a man, must have been too close to home for the writer to identify. There was also the vague reference to his wanting to do something to help cure the inmates of the asylum. Was that just the rambling of an insane mind, or did this man, as many have suspected of the Ripper, have some medical connections? Could he indeed have been a doctor himself? That would certainly explain his presence at the same club as great-grandfather. Were they professional colleagues I wondered, or just passing acquaintances? I knew that I could probably solve the mystery instantly by turning a few pages, looking at the final entries, perhaps seeing a name in my ancestors' hand, but, no, I couldn't. I felt compelled to see this through to the end, to read each and every page as it opened before me, to follow the trail of the journal to whatever conclusion it arrived at. Only by fully understanding what had happened in those far-off days would I discover my family's own dark secret, and perhaps, at the same time, discover the identity of Jack the Ripper.
4th September 1888
I must go away for a couple of days. The whores can wait, but I'll be back, by all that's true, I'll return in time to cut the next one hard.
So, he was going away. To work? To visit a friend, or family perhaps? I referred to my research papers, looking for any reference to any of the many suspects having been absent from London between the 4th September and the date of the next murder, which would take place on the 8th. There was little information, the only information relating to any of the alleged suspects referred to Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale, the grandson of Queen Victoria. The prince was recorded as having been staying with Viscount Downe at Danby Lodge in Yorkshire fro the 29th August to the 7th September, and thence at the Cavalry Barracks at York until the 10th. Unless he could have been in two places at once, that let the prince off the hook as far as I was concerned. I felt that to be a preposterous theory at any rate, though perhaps others may have acted on his behalf? I felt it more likely that the writer was fulfilling some pre-arranged appointment, perhaps, as I'd already thought, to visit a relative, or, if he was a medical man himself, to attend to some pressing out of town business, perhaps he was himself treating patients at a hospital, or God forbid the thought, at an asylum!
Try as I might, I couldn't shake the thought that I was being inextricably drawn into a web so vast, so deep, that I might never be the same again. Would the knowledge I was about to learn over the next few hours leave me unscathed, or was I cursed to carry some vile and bitter secret with me to the grave. Was that what my poor father had done, and his father before him? The yellowed, crinkled, aged paper in my hand seemed almost warm to the touch, as if the warmth of the blood of that poor hapless victim of the Ripper was seeping through the very pages of the journal, reaching across the vastness of time to touch me here in the warm safe confines of my study. Something about the writing on the page made it assume an almost three-dimensional appearance in my mind, the page was moving upwards in my hand as I looked ever closer at the words, searching for some hidden clue, some sign of whatever it was that was causing me to suffer such an illogical reaction to the old, worn manuscript. I saw nothing unusual, nothing at all, and yet, there was something about the journal, something dark and malevolent, though I'd no idea what it was. Was it him? Was it The Ripper, his words themselves were chilling enough, but could it be that something of the evil lurked within the fabric of the parchment, could he have somehow burned his own brand of evil into the pages? Rubbish! How foolish I felt for even thinking such a thought. Even so, I hurriedly placed the journal down on the desk, ashamed of my own irrational fear and stupidity. It was just a collection of old papers after all, wasn't it?
Chapter Eight
A Quiet Evening
The icy chill of the journals' words had taken a grip on my thoughts and emotions. I had fully expected the Ripper (if this was indeed the Ripper), to describe his work in far more graphic detail than he had done. It seemed as if the actual act of killing Polly Nichols, the barbarity of his vicious assault on her lifeless body, had been no more than an adjunct to his day, a casual act, committed with no more emotion than he would have displayed if he'd been swatting a fly, or eating a meal. The 'sticky warm blood' upon his fingers, was nothing more than a passing remark, a short statement of fact. He wasn't in any way repelled by the act of murder, as most murderers are after they realize the magnitude of what they've done. This man was incapable of remorse, more than that, he enjoyed the acts he was perpetrating, and dismissed them as nothing more than an everyday occurrence.
I confess that at that point in time, I was actually afraid, though of what I couldn't be sure. I wasn't one normally prone to irrational or illogical fears, but something about this journal, this night, was deeply unnerving to my soul. For reasons I can't explain, (it was after all just an old journal), I felt as though staring into the jaws of Hell, with only a small portion of that terrible destination having been revealed to me. Knowing there was more to come, descriptions of even more horrific events, that the bloodletting was only just beginning, sent paroxysms of shivers down my spine. Despite the intoxicating, addictive pull of the journal, I had to tear myself from it, I needed to rest, to gain a few minutes of respite from the horrific Victorian melodrama being played out in words before me. I summoned enough courage to place the pages of the journal on the desk, rise from my chair, and walk out of the study, into the kitchen, where I made yet more coffee, and then sank into Sarah's fireside chair with my head in my hands. Without my realizing it, the coffee grew cold, my eyes grew heavy, and in minutes I fell into a fitful, shallow sleep.
I dreamed, an awful dream, of blood, and bright, silver blades, cutting and slashing at my flesh. The blood was everywhere, flowing from my arms, my legs, and when I looked down, a gaping wound in my abdomen was opened from side to side across my body, my entrails were hanging out, and the kitchen floor was stained red with the river of blood that stemmed from my wounds. I tried to scream, I couldn't, and I saw the shadow of the man as he raised his blade once more, ready to strike the final blow, to end my torment, and then…
I woke, trembling, sweating, the kitchen was quiet, the floor was clean, dry, not a drop of blood in sight. Almost unconsciously I felt my body, checking for wounds, there were none of course, and I cursed my own stupidity, my weakness in being deceived by a dream. I was definitely becoming spooked. That much was certain. I tried to clear my head, to think rationally, after all, I was, by profession a logical and rational man. Why I should now be so affected by the revelations contained in this nineteenth century text was beyond me.
I concluded that tiredness must be a major contributing factor to my current malaise. I'd not had much rest since Dad's death, and, today in particular had been a tense and fraught affair, beginning with the visit to the solicitors office, followed by my almost obsessive fascination with the journal. Allied to that were the disturbing words it contained, and the veiled threat of some long-hidden family involvement in one of the great crime mysteries in history. I'd fallen asleep in a chair, after all, something I'd never normally do, and, of course, I'd drunk a few small whiskies along the way.
I decided to put the journal away for the night, to get some sleep, and begin again in the morning, when I'd be refreshed, have a clear head, and yet, I knew I couldn't. I just couldn't do that! I needed to know more, and the thirst for that knowledge just couldn't wait until the morning in order to be quenched.
Feeling as though I was being driven by some unseen force, a power that wouldn't let me go, I rose from the comfort of the fireside
chair, and let myself be drawn once again into the study, drawn deeper, ever deeper, into the dark and blood-stained world of Jack the Ripper!
As I settled myself down once more in my chair, I decided to forego reading any more of the journal for the time being. I wanted more factual information, more background to the case. I accessed the internet once more, and found and printed another collection of facts on the case. Although the case is over a hundred years old, there exists a vast network of websites devoted to the crimes of The Ripper, and there is no shortage of information to be gleaned if one wants it. I say I was searching for facts, though of course many of the so-called facts attached to the Ripper murders were themselves open to conjecture. It seemed to me as I read much of the information before me that what had been accepted by the police and public as the truth one day, had, on many occasions been condemned to the realms of fantasy the next! Wading through the mixture of truth, half-truth, and downright falsehood was like trying to wade through a sea of mud whilst hampered by wearing a full deep-sea diver's suit.
I'd never realized there were so many suspects, or at least alleged suspects, many of whom hadn't even been considered at the time of the murders. It seemed that, even today, new names were being added to the list with unerring regularity. Rather than the case drawing nearer to a conclusion as time went on, it appeared to me that a solution grew less likely with every passing day. There had been murders before, and there continued to be murders after the five canonical murders attributed to The Ripper. Martha Tabram, of course, had not been one of these, though the journal now placed her firmly within the list of Ripper killings. I'd read the alleged Ripper's account of Tabram's murder, followed by his short chilling description of the death of Polly Nichols. Still to come, if the journal listed them all, were the murders of Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly, her murder taking place on the 9th November. Further murders over the next three months were at one time or another attributed to The Ripper, but were soon discounted as being the work of others.
I looked again at the list of alleged suspects. From what little knowledge I'd gleaned so far, even I found some of them to be too fanciful for words. I'd already discounted the Prince of the Realm from my thoughts, and looked at those I thought to be the main suspects at the time of the murders.
There was 'Leather Apron' a name attributed to the Ripper before his later appendage, thought by many at the time to be a Polish cobbler by the name of John Pizer. A resident of Mulberry Street, Pizer, like some of the other suspects, was Jewish, (strange how many times the Jews have been the scapegoats for heinous crimes). Pizer was cleared of involvement by the police.
Another Pole, a Jewish hairdresser, also fell under suspicion. Aaron Kosminski was to be revealed in later papers as having come under suspicion at the time, and was at one time incarcerated in the Colney Hatch Asylum, where my great-grandfather attended patients from time to time. (A connection?)
The boyfriend and one time live-in lover of Mary Jane Kelly was Joseph Barnett. Barnett was interviewed at length by the police, and later released. It is thought Barnett may have committed the murders as a means of trying to get Mary Kelly to give up the world of prostitution, hoping the murders would scare her off the streets. When this failed, he killed her in a most brutal and sustained attack, only to retire from his murderous deeds thereafter. I admitted to myself that he would be a reasonable possibility.
Michael Ostrog, a man of many aliases, and of uncertain nationality, possibly Russian, maybe Polish, and surprise surprise, described as Jewish, had a long criminal record by the time of the murders, and a history of mental illness. Said by police at the time to be 'a dangerous man', he was one of the three chief suspects of Sir Melville Macnaghten, Assistant Chief Constable, Scotland Yard, from 1889-1890, later becoming Chief Constable.
Together with Ostrog and Kosminski, Macnaghten's third chief suspect appeared to be a respectable, but slightly unstable barrister by the name of Montague John Druitt. A first class sportsman and one time schoolmaster at Mr. Valentine's school, Blackheath, Druitt appeared to have been regularly though not lucratively employed as a barrister while having at some time taken to teaching either to supplement his meagre legal earnings, or for some other, unknown reason. That side of his life seems shrouded in mystery, as is much to do with all of those suspected of being the notorious killer.
There were others, many others, too many to warrant including them here. That is not after all the purpose of my words. I thought as I read and re-read those notes that perhaps in a few hours I would have the answer that had eluded the police of Victorian London, and all the scholars and historians since who had tried to put a name to The Ripper. I still believed it was as simple as that. Turn to the back page, and it'll be there, I told myself, see for yourself, if not in his own hand, then surely great-grandfather would reveal the truth, if he really knew him, and if the journal were genuine. I didn't do it of course, I couldn't, I've already explained that, haven't I? Whatever was waiting for me at the end of my strange journey into the past that was being generated by the journal would have to wait until I'd read every word along the way, felt the pain of the victims as the writer described his horrendous and heinous descent into what I now saw as inevitable madness, finally to discover, I hoped, the fate of Jack the Ripper.
It was now pitch dark outside, and the wind had become a howling gale, so much stronger than before. The dark shadow fingers of the tree continued to dance their dance across the window panes, and occasionally one would brush against the glass, sounding as though someone were gently rapping on the window, pleading to be allowed in, to escape the wind, the dark, the raging storm gathering momentum by the minute.
Knowing I couldn't put it off any longer, I reached out once more to take up the journal, and, making a great effort to steady my hands, and my nerves, I turned the last page I'd read, and watched the words of the next page float up to meet my eyes, as I left behind the raging storm outside the window, and found myself once more caught up in a storm of a very different kind!
Chapter Nine
Metamorphosis?
My first reaction on turning to the next page of the journal was one of shock. It took less than a second for me to realize the handwriting had changed. Whereas the previous pages had been written in a firm hand, almost displaying the rage in the words with the obvious pressure applied to the nib of the pen, and the expansive strokes displayed in certain letters, now suddenly, the writing appeared smaller, upright, and very ordered in its application to the page. Was this a different hand at work? I looked closely at the page, and attempted a comparison with the one I'd recently finished reading.
Close examination revealed that many of the letters, although smaller and seemingly more ordered in construction, displayed the same characteristics. The construction of the letter 'f' for example, and also the flourish applied to the 'y' were quite distinct in their commonality. There were other matches present, all of which confirmed to me that the writer of the two pages was one and the same individual. Of course, it would take a handwriting expert to confirm such a conclusion, but I had no doubts at all.
What had changed? Why had the Ripper's (I know; alleged Ripper's), handwriting suddenly undergone this strange metamorphosis? I guessed I might discover the answer to my question in the words I was about to read.
5th September 1888
The silence of the world sits heavy upon my weary shoulders. It's so quiet in here, so very quiet. I'm not sure where I am any more, or indeed who I am. This place is dark and cold, life is bright and warm, but I am not. The loneliness that steals me from the comfort of the day lies as a pall upon my heart. I am entombed in sadness. There's hopelessness in every breath I take, I want to be alive, I hate this place, I need to breathe fresh air, to taste just once the breath of goodness. These things are not me!
He was different, that was certain, at least for now. The rage displayed in every previous page was absent from this melancholy
extract. These were the words of an unhappy, extremely depressed individual, who appeared to fear loneliness above all else. He saw himself as cut off from the world, as though living in it, but not really being a part of it. At the time of writing these words, I doubt he even knew or realized what he'd done in the last few weeks. There was a lucid calm, though his thoughts were still distorted by anxieties and repression. In addition to those other psychoses I suspected he suffered from, this individual could have also been afflicted by what today would be referred to as a multiple personality disorder. The change in handwriting, the alteration to his sentence construction, and the sudden switch from rage to depression could have been symptomatic of this; though I couldn't be sure of course.
Had no-one noticed this man's problems, I wondered? Surely, he must have had some day to day contact with friends, family or colleagues. From what I'd read so far, he was a deeply disturbed individual who must have had some difficulty in masking all of his symptoms from those around him. Had no-one suspected his dark secret, or had someone tried and failed to get help for this man, maybe attempted to obtain treatment for him? Perhaps though, if one analyzed his words a little further, he was indeed a lonely man and therefore in all probability a loner, living, working, and killing alone. I'd read that there'd been theories about the murders being some sort of conspiracy, two or more killers involved, but, if the journal were the real thing, then there had been just one man, but that one man may have had many different faces, as of now, I'd just met number two! He'd mentioned a cold and dark place. Was that his mind, or had he sought help as a voluntary patient in some respectable institution? Such places did exist, though only the wealthy could afford the luxury of such a retreat. I concluded that no, he wouldn't have placed himself within the reach of anyone who might have discovered his secret. The place he referred to had to be his own mind, the place where his thoughts and his 'voices' had entrapped and entombed him a web of evil beyond rational belief.
