by kindels
I couldn't help but feel an immense sorrow for the poor girl, probably one of many who'd made her way to the city from the outlying towns and villages in search of a better life, much like many of today's youngsters who head for London, Edinburgh, and our other metropolitan cities. Perhaps unable to find work, finding herself close to starvation, she'd turned to prostitution, probably for little more than the price of a bed for the night, or a cheap meal, giving herself to any man who offered the promise of a few pennies, the chance to live another day, to survive another night. Instead, she had ended her days on a dark, dank dockside wharf, her blood bleeding into a filthy drain, and her body viciously mutilated and literally thrown to the fishes. Whoever she was, she would probably remain as unknown in death as she had been in life. I knew with certainty there was little if anything I could do to attempt to identify this new mystery victim of The Ripper; she would remain as anonymous throughout eternity as she had been in life. I glanced at my computer, willing some form of reply to arrive from the police.
I said a silent prayer for the poor girls' soul as I sat in my comfortable office chair, her soul after all was known unto God, if to no-one else. Despite my own professional training, and though it wasn't a word much used by my modern colleagues, I knew The Ripper was quite mad; sick, yes, with many symptoms of the most terrible psychological disorders, but madness was the only term I could use to describe these acts of wanton violence and mutilation. Yet, his own soul must have been troubled also; for he was also known unto God was he not, if God truly existed? Would his deeds have placed him outside God's good grace, or would he have been welcomed into Heaven, alongside the souls of his victims, despite his sins, when the time came? I thought it best to avoid the theological question. That was for others to debate.
I glanced again at my computer screen, and saw the flickering icon telling me that I had incoming mail. I was amazed to find the information section of the police force in Edinburgh had replied to my e-mail in double-quick time. It appears that my original request had been passed to a civilian clerk in the department who himself was something of an expert on the force's history, and an avid crime buff as well. He was very pleased, so his e-mail said, to provide me with the information I'd requested, and also anything else I may require from him in the future.
The City of Edinburgh Police, as they were then known were established in 1805, meaning that Scotland's capital city were well in advance of London in the formation of their police force, the Metropolitan Police Force not having been established until 1829 you may recall. The Leith Burgh Police were formed a year later in 1806, as Leith was at that time a separate Burgh, (Borough). It was a fact that Edinburgh was much smaller in those days than it is today, and many of the suburbs lay within various county areas outside the city boundaries, and were therefore covered by either the Edinburghshire or Midlothian Constabulary, formed in 1840.
I immediately realized this could have led to certain logistical difficulties. If the various forces were anything like those in England, communication between them may not have always been of the highest degree, and if the girl had been killed in Leith, though she may have lived within the city bounds, or elsewhere, her disappearance may not have been recorded with any accuracy, if at all. A curious fact was included with the information from my Scottish contact. Although the headquarters of the force was at Number 1 Parliament Street, most of the city's citizens and the police themselves would refer to the building as 'the High Street' and it was common parlance to predict the fate of potential arrests as, "ending up in the High Street". Obviously The Ripper had been careful to avoid this fate.
The next fragment of information made my hair stand on end! In response to my query about unexplained or unsolved disappearances, my informant, with the fine Scottish name of Angus MacDonald, had come up with a tantalizing possibility. As far as he knew, he said, according to all the records still in existence from those days, there was only one unsolved disappearance in the area which may be of interest to me.
On the 30th of September 1888, a young woman named Flora Niddrie had walked into the police station in the village of Corstorphine, just west of Edinburgh to report that her friend, Morag Blennie, aged 22 years, had left for the city two months previously, and had never been in touch since, despite her promises to keep in touch. An orphan, Morag had been well-spoken, and with little education, had left the village in the hope of finding work in the city. Being a one-man station, the officer at the police station had taken the girl's statement about her friend, without placing too high a priority on it. After all, so many young girls followed a similar path, and just simply failed to go home, keep in touch, or make any form of contact with their former acquaintances. The constable was also aware of the possibility that Morag may have drifted into prostitution, and probably wouldn't want to be found by her friend or anyone else who knew her. Her disappearance would have been a low-priority item for the hard-pressed constabulary of the time.
The bloodstains on the dock had been found by early morning dockworkers, and investigated the day after the killing, and in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, the Leith Burgh police had concluded that a fight had probably taken place on the spot, (a common occurrence around the docks apparently), and that after much blood-letting, the protagonists probably crawled away home to lick their wounds.
On the night of the killing, a man on his way home from the pub had seen a man who he described as being in an agitated state, and with blood on his hands walking along George Street in the city of Edinburgh. He reported this to the police the next day, as he thought there may be a reward at stake if he'd witnessed anything of significance. With nothing else to go on, and no other reports of the man, or of any violent crime in the city, the Edinburgh City police had had no other option than to simply file the report, and take no further action.
When taken individually, all of these seemingly unconnected events meant very little, and yet, what if…? What if the young girl described in the journal had indeed been Morag Blennie? What if the bloodstains on the dock had been reported by the Leith Burgh police to the headquarters of the City police at Parliament Square, and what if the City police had then made a connection with the man witnessed in George Street with blood on his hands? Although she wasn't reported missing until the 30th of the month, some ten days after her murder, there may just have been a chance the police might have been able to do something. Maybe they would have checked the shores of the Firth of Forth, found some small piece of clothing, a shoe, just something that may have at least identified the poor victim of this senseless killing. Who knows what may have happened if they'd linked everything together, and traced the mystery man with blood on his hands to a hotel in the city, yes, I thought, what if…?
Though it hadn't answered any of my questions with certainty, I was grateful for the information supplied by Mr. MacDonald, and, at least in my own mind, I was inclined to think of that poor girl, her body floating down to the ocean in the dead of night, as Morag Blennie. I thought it better to give her that name than none at all.
My mouth felt very dry, and my head was throbbing. I looked at the journal lying on the desk in front of me, and I shivered…again. There was something very frightening about that collection of papers, almost as if it were carrying its message from the depths of Hell itself. The words themselves, the more I looked at them, seemed to be imbued with the life and the soul of the hideous hand that had written them down upon those worn, slightly faded pages, which strangely, felt almost warm to the touch. Of course they were warm; I'd held them in my hands for so long that my own body heat must have transferred itself to the pages, giving that impression. I berated myself for such foolishness, whilst at the same time half-believing in my own irrational and very unprofessional fears.
That he was able to think logically was evident to me from his knowledge that to leave his victim on display, as he had with the women in London, would have drawn an instant response from the police. Even though this la
test murder had taken place far from the streets of Whitechapel, surely word of a mutilated prostitute in Edinburgh would soon have reached the ears of the Metropolitan police, and brought investigators northwards. Even though he would have been long gone by then, it was evident he wanted no trace of his visit to Edinburgh to be known to the police, or anyone else for that matter. Yes, I could see logical thought processes at work in his decision to throw the poor girl's body in the water, to float, bleeding and torn into oblivion.
He still saw the prostitutes as a pollutant in society, a scourge to be destroyed, and he doubtless saw himself as some sort of avenging angel, that was clear.
I prepared to take up the journal once more, breathing deeply, my pulse quickening at the thought of just touching the thing, my sense of fear and loathing for what was yet to come growing by the minute. As I leaned forward towards the desk, I noticed my hands were shaking more than ever; I seemed to be gripped by man's ancient 'fight or flight' response. Should I pick it up, or run from the room and seek sanctuary in the safety of the lounge. Sanctuary? Sanctuary from what? I asked myself. Forcing myself to think rationally, I slowly reached across the desk, still shaking noticeably and just as I was about to pick up the journal once more…
The door bell rang! Damn, I'd forgotten all about Mrs. Armitage. It had to be her, come to check on my well-being. She'd be reporting back to Sarah without a doubt. If I didn't answer the door she'd be thinking all sorts of horrible thoughts, and worrying Sarah with all manner of invented problems. Taking a deep breath, and, I must admit, almost with a sense of relief at having the excuse to leave the study for a few minutes, I left the journal in the middle of the desk, rose from my chair and padded quietly from the study, almost too quietly I thought, down the hallway, and with trembling fingers turned the key to unlock the front door.
Chapter Eighteen
A Voice from the Grave?
"Robert? Robert, what on earth is the matter, you look absolutely terrible. Are you ill? Does Sarah know what a state you're in? Tell me what's wrong, why haven't you come round, or rung me? If you'd told me you were ill I'd have come to see you straight away."
Mrs. Armitage stood there, barely drawing breath as she launched into her concerned neighbour mode. In truth I didn't realise I looked too bad at all, considering the mental trial I was putting myself through with each page of the journal I read.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Armitage, honestly, what makes you think I'm ill?"
"Oh, come now, Robert, how long have I known you? You look as if you've been up all night and, my dear boy, you look so pale! If I didn't know better I'd think you were one of those men who goes into a decline just because his wife is away for a few days. When did you last eat?"
"Actually, I ate breakfast a while ago and a good meal last night, so I'm fine as I said. There's nothing wrong, I've just been working on something, and it's true, I didn't sleep much but apart from that I'm okay, honestly."
"Well, you don't look it, that's for sure, you look so drawn and, well, you look as if you've seen a ghost. Nothing's happened to frighten you, has it?"
"Oh now come on, Mrs. A, I'm a grown man for God's sake, what on earth would I be frightened of here in my own home? It's just work, that's all."
"Really, Robert, you were supposed to be taking time off to sort out your poor father's affairs, not to get bogged down with work. You should be taking a bit of a rest you know, you've had a stressful few weeks recently."
"Yes, I know. Listen, Mrs. Armitage, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I must get on. I'm okay, really I am, and I'll probably get a good night's sleep tonight, and feel much better tomorrow."
I didn't like to be quite so dismissive of our caring neighbour who was a busybody, but at least she did have a heart of gold. She meant well, and I knew it. She had taken the hint though.
"Very well, Robert, if you say so," she replied, "but I'll call tomorrow and see that you're alright. Sarah would never forgive me if I didn't make sure you were looking after yourself while she's away now, would she?"
At last, I was alone again. I watched Mrs. Armitage as she disappeared down the drive, out the gate, and turned toward her own house before I made my way to the kitchen. More coffee was definitely in order before I returned to the journal. Another five minutes passed as I pottered around in the kitchen, making coffee, and selecting a handful of chocolate biscuits to accompany me to the study. I was a little shocked that Mrs. Armitage had seen such a change in me as to be so noticeable. I would have to work hard to keep up my strength and not let the journal take me over too much, or had it done that already? I set myself a target of two hours at most to continue my exploration of the journal, after which, I promised myself I'd stop for lunch and get myself a dose of fresh air, maybe take a walk into the village to buy a newspaper or something. At least, that was the plan.
As I walked back into the study, the atmosphere within the room suddenly felt heavy and oppressive, as if a presence I couldn't explain hung in the air. I hadn't noticed it before, it was quite strange, I hadn't experienced anything like it previously. It was almost as though, in the time I'd taken to speak to Mrs. Armitage and make my coffee, the room had been invaded by some all pervading aura, a sense rather than a being. I was being stupid, spooked and anxious by the content of the journal, that was all. Stupid or not, the feeling was quite real and unnerving, and despite the sunlight pouring into the room through the study windows I switched on the desk lamp, its warm radiance casting a comforting glow across the desktop. I opened the upper lights of the windows to allow some fresh air into the room, and took my place at the desk once more.
If the sound of the doorbell had been my first surprise of the day, the second wasn't far behind it. As I turned the page of the journal, expecting to find The Ripper's next entry before my eyes, imagine my astonishment when instead I found, tucked between the previous page I'd read and the next entry, a page of old, good quality vellum inscribed in my great-grandfather's hand! It was smaller than the pages of the journal, thus ensuring it had stayed neatly in-between the pages, undisturbed, probably since my father had first read the journal.
It was undated, and addressed simply to 'My Son'. That would of course have been my grandfather. The handwriting was neat, very neat, as I thought befitted a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. My great-grandfather had written as follows:
My Son
I write this after the event. As such, it is easy to say I should have acted sooner, but at the time I thought my diagnosis was correct, and that I was acting in the interests of the patient, the man who wrote the journal you are now reading. I have placed this note at this point in the journal for it is at this time by the journal's own chronography that I became involved in these tragic matters. I wish that I had had a little more foresight at the time, but, the past is history, and cannot be changed.
It was on or about the 23rd day of September in the year of our Lord 1888. Yes, the 23rd, I'm sure of it. I was at my practice in Charles Street, between patients, when there was a loud knocking at my door. I was visited by two representatives from the Charing Cross hospital, who had called to request that I visit there as soon as I possibly could. It appeared they had a patient, recently admitted, who was in a state of much confusion, almost delirium. He had been taken to the hospital by a police officer after being found wandering around in daylight hours displaying signs of being highly disorientated, perplexed and disturbed. He seemed not to know who he was, where he was, or where he had indeed come from. He could recall nothing of his recent movements nor where he lived, so had been removed to the infirmary where he was seen by the doctors there. Though he could speak little, he had managed to give them my name as being of his acquaintance, and, with no other means of identifying him and being unsure of what exactly ailed the man, the doctor in charge of his case, a Doctor Silas Malcolm, had sent them post-haste to my door with this urgent request to attend upon him.
Now, Silas Malcolm was known to me from my days at
Lincoln's Inn Fields. We had studied together for a time and qualified as surgeons at about the same time as I recall, so it was natural that I should grant his request for assistance in this case.
Imagine my surprise, my son, when I arrived at the hospital and confronted the patient. I had last seen him some weeks earlier, certainly not long ago, and was appalled at his state of collapse. Silas Malcolm greeted me cordially, and, after I confirmed that I did know his patient, he ventured his opinion that the man was suffering from a brain fever induced by over indulging in the use of laudanum. I agreed, explaining that the patient, (I shall not name him here), had spoken to me privately some time ago and had indicated he was suffering from severe headaches and tiredness. I had suggested a regular small dose of laudanum may prove efficacious. It seems, however, that the patient had taken my words far too much to heart and had become addicted to the drug.
It was the following day before the patient was sufficiently coherent to speak lucidly to anyone, and he was somewhat surprised, though obviously pleased to see me at his bedside, when I visited the ward after my own surgery was over. He was still in a state of some confusion, believing he had been on a journey by train, though he could not remember where to, and obsessed with the thought that he had killed a girl. He said his mind was 'full of blood' and that he could not close his eyes without seeing the blood of his victim 'seeping down the drain'.
