The Big Book of Jack the Ripper

by The Big Book of Jack the Ripper (retail) (epub)

  “Ach, I’m telling you, Doctor, murder’s hard work. Unpleasant work. Much easier to write a letter. And, suddenly, guvs, I was on the front page again.”

  The articles had given Gladbrook and Adams considerable cause for concern. They had spent sleepless nights, many of them, worried that their killer was going to tell all in a subsequent missive. Notably: who was truly behind the killings.

  “But even the letters weren’t enough,” Adams said.

  “And so Mary Kelly.”

  “My Little Heart.”

  Adams blinked at the appellation, recalling the organ he had taken with him.

  “Which is why you butchered her more viciously than the others. To garner bigger headlines.”

  “That’s a fact, governor.”

  Gladbrook said, “And using the name ‘Jack.’ And ‘Jacky’? We thought you were mad to pick that, so similar to your own. But it’s clear now. At least a version of your name was in the public eye.”

  He nodded that this was on the mark.

  “All right, Jacques,” Gladbrook said. “What’s done is done. But now you must retire. You’ve had your notoriety.” Gladbrook scooped up the clippings and handed them back. Then he reached into his coat pocket and handed over an envelope, which contained a steamship ticket. Then a heavy leather purse.

  “And here’s fifty gold sovereigns.”

  “Blimey.”

  “Outside there’s a hansom to take you to the dock.”

  “But—”

  “There’s gold aplenty in there to buy what you need. You leave now. Jack the Ripper transmogrifies back into Jacques LaFleur tonight. You’ll go to France and thence wherever you like. But you are never to return to England.”

  He looked into the bag. “Well, yes, all right. As you wish.” He hefted the bag and pulled on his greatcoat. “I answered your questions. Now you answer me, if you would be so kind.”

  “And what might the question be?” Adams asked.

  “You never told me why you wanted her killed, Mary Ann Nichols. Was it she had a client you didn’t want the world to know about?”

  Gladbrook looked at Adams. The doctor answered, “Yes, that’s what this was about.”

  Jacques eyed them, one then the other, closely. “Well, you’re subtle birds, both of you. I hazard there’s more to why she died than some husband being where he shouldn’t’ve been. But the answer’s between you and God. Or more likely the devil. Good night to you both now. And thank’ee.”

  The man left and Gladbrook closed the warehouse door behind him. He poured a whisky for himself and the doctor and both men sat. They heard the horses’ hoof-falls and the clack of wheels on cobblestones as the killer departed.

  Gladbrook said, “So, Doctor, thank God you found him. It appears our plan worked.”

  After the killing of Mary Ann Nichols and Jacques’s rogue descent into murder, the two men, desperate to locate him, came up with a scheme to infiltrate Scotland Yard and discover what the police had learned. They would combine that with what they themselves knew about the real “Ripper.” This they hoped would provide sufficient insights so they might track down their renegade killer. And so Gladbrook, taking his cue from the Conan Doyle novel, suggested that Adams offer his services as a “medical detective” to assist the police.

  They knew full well, for instance, LaFleur’s appearance, his cologne, the restaurants he frequented, his clothing, and the tobacco he favored.

  Working with Inspector Wentworth, Adams learned other facts. He could tell from their posture in repose, and the smell of the garments, that the four later victims had been chloroformed before they were murdered. He also noted from the rent blouse he had examined, as well as the photographs, that both a particular type of knife and a surgical saw had been employed—though the killer was not, as the police surgeon had concluded, a medical man.

  And at the Mary Kelly murder, he had observed that there were blood and bits of skin beneath the victim’s fingernails. This would not be hers, but his, for she would have collected the crimson stains fighting with him to save herself as he pressed the chloroformed rag over her mouth. (Adams had used his kerchief on the pretense of examining the wound in her palm to remove some samples of the killer’s blood and flesh.) After leaving Mary’s room and returning to his laboratory, he had tested the blood and skin and learned something about Jacques they had not known. He suffered from the great pox—syphilis. Adams deduced this from large amounts of mercury, the treatment of choice for the disease.

  So he and Gladbrook had gone their separate ways, started making the rounds of East End chemists and medical clinics, enquiring about a man who fit the description of the killer, had purchased chloroform and certain surgical implements, and who was being treated for pox.

  It was Adams who landed the trout, narrowing the search to Aldgate High Street and, eventually, to shadowy, grim Somerset Street. Ironically, Adams now reflected, it was a news vendor who sent Adams toward Somerset, where a charwoman pointed out his flat. Just as Adams arrived at the place, however, Jacques had stepped outside. The doctor could not, certainly, summon a constable, so he’d pursued the killer discreetly—directly to Inspector Wentworth’s town house, where the killer was prepared to murder the inspector himself, and possibly his wife and maid as well.

  “And Wentworth suspects nothing?” Gladbrook asked.

  “I’m sure not. He believed I was truly trying to help…and he was genuinely impressed by my powers of deduction, if you will, in locating the chemist who sold Jack the preserving fluid.”

  The “discovery” of the chemist, which led to the warehouse on Anthony Street (and the flat on Barker’s Row), was a magician’s illusion. The real chemist, Owen Merry, had been impersonated by a hulking associate of Gladbrook’s, who sent Adams and the inspector to the warehouse where the Fitzgerald’s Preserving Fluid had been “delivered” (that is, set there earlier in the day by Gladbrook’s man). Wentworth would mark down Jack the Ripper’s absence to unfortunate timing, but was nonetheless impressed by Adams’s contribution and convinced of his authenticity and value.

  “And you will now proceed as we thought?” Gladbrook asked.

  “Indeed. I think it’s a wise course.”

  Adams would continue to assist Inspector Wentworth by providing insights and interpretations of the evidence to point the finger of guilt toward one of the suspects already in the sights of Scotland Yard and the City Police. There were several that seemed likely—though, of course, as both Adams and Gladbrook knew, they were completely innocent.

  Would that person ever be found guilty? The British system of justice was as sophisticated as any in the world, but it was not infallible. Perhaps, yes, someone would hang for the killings. Or maybe the mystery would remain unsolved for, who could say, a hundred years or more, at which time some investigator, or even some author, might take a fancy to the ancient case and would himself, or herself, try to solve the riddle.

  A rap sounded on the door and Gladbrook called, “Enter.”

  In walked Gladbrook’s aide, the muscular Cockney who had impersonated Merry the chemist. He took his hat off, revealing his largely bald scalp, perfectly round with a few renegade hairs.

  “ ’S done, sir.” He handed the bag of sovereigns and the steamship ticket to Gladbrook.

  “Potter’s Field?”

  “Yessir. ’E’s six feet down. Unmarked grave. ’E’ll never be found on this earth.”

  This had been Jacques LaFleur’s fate from the start. He would have died, murdered by this large man, right after Mary Ann Nichols’s murder, had he not vanished. Adams felt no guilt for the man’s death; he would have hanged for the solicitor’s murder in any event.

  Gladbrook fished into the bag and dug out three sovereigns. Handed them over.

  “Blimey, sir. Thank you.” The man tapped his huge pate, as might a soldier, which he had been, turned on his heels and left.

  The men each drained their whisky.

  Gladbrook ask
ed, “When are you going to Osborne House?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Please cable me what you learn.”

  “I will do.”

  The men rose. Gladbrook donned his top hat and overcoat. They left, stepping onto a foggy pavement. Gladbrook locked the door. He fished a cigar from his case and cut and lit it. “It has worked out to our advantage but, make no mistake, this has been a sad, sordid matter,” he muttered.

  “A matter of blood, you might say.” Adams turned his collar up against the damp chill and, relying on his cane, started off down the street.

  THREE

  Sunday, 11 November, 2 P.M.

  Osborne House, on the Isle of Wight, was the country estate that the royal family most favored.

  Located in East Cowes, the Italian Renaissance structure—complete with two Belvedere towers—had been designed largely by Prince Albert himself, consort, husband of Victoria. The other designer, and the builder, was Thomas Cubitt, whose firm also had constructed portions of Buckingham Palace.

  Dr. Richard Adams now eyed the splendid edifice from his seat in a brougham, as the horses slowed to a stop. The carriage was comfortable enough, though the uneven ground had toyed cruelly with his war-wounded hip. He now descended stiffly to the ground and, relying on his cane more than he normally would, followed a doorman into the house and thence to a sitting room on the first floor. The view overlooked the gardens in which Victoria and Albert’s children had grown vegetables, which they “sold” to their father and later cooked up themselves in the kitchen in Swiss Cottage, not far away on the grounds.

  A butler appeared with a tea service and Adams took a cup. As he left, the man said, “The princess will be here shortly, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  The princess…

  Victoria’s granddaughter: Ducal Highness Princess Viktoria Alix Helena Luise Beatrice of Hesse and by Rhine, known throughout the empire as Alix.

  It was this innocent child—sixteen years of age—who was the reason, albeit unknowingly, for the death of Mary Ann Nichols—and, Adams now knew, to his shame, the other four unfortunates.

  I hazard there’s more to why she died than some husband being where he shouldn’t’ve been. But the answer’s between you and God. Or more likely the devil…

  In August the girl had been injured in an equestrian fall and suffered a cut in her thigh.

  For most people, such an accident would not have had serious, much less life-threatening, consequences.

  But the princess was not like others; she suffered from the Royal Disease.

  The malady, known to doctors as hemophilia, was a rare but horrific scourge, in which a flaw in the blood prevents clotting. Even the most minor injuries can result in the victim’s bleeding to death quickly. The informal name, “Royal Disease,” arose because Queen Victoria carried the proclivity for this condition in her blood and passed it down to her heirs. Hemophilia is a condition that affects the male descendants most seriously (Princess Alix’s uncle Leopold died at thirty, after having suffered a minor fall, and the girl’s own brother, Frederick, died when two years old—a fall once more), but women can suffer as well. And while the princess was not bleeding in the unstoppable gush that killed her uncle, the seepage from her wounded leg would, sooner or later, take her life if not stanched.

  The queen’s aide, John Ashton, summoned Gladbrook with instructions to do whatever was necessary to save the girl.

  Gladbrook had, in turn, called upon Adams in his chambers.

  The suave man of court had implored, “Doctor, we need your assistance as a matter of highest concern to the Crown.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. How may I assist?”

  He had described the princess’s imperiled state.

  “Yes, I’m aware, from the press, of her riding accident. But I did not know she suffered a bleeding wound.”

  “It is being kept quiet. The Court physician feels she can survive two weeks at best.” After a pause, the man continued, “We of course pray for the child’s recovery, for her sake, and for those close to her, her grandmother in particular.”

  Everyone knew that Her Majesty had never fully recovered from the death of her beloved husband, Prince Albert, nor of their daughter, Princess Alice, Alix’s mother. Victoria also still mourned Leopold’s death and that of her infant grandson, Frittie, Alix’s brother.

  To lose the charming and vivacious Alix would be a catastrophe to the queen.

  “But,” Gladbrook had added, lowering his voice, though they were alone in the doctor’s quarters, “her survival is important for a broader reason. For the Empire itself to thrive, it is vital that England form allegiances with other countries on the Continent. Treaties pale in comparison to the more durable bond of marriage.”

  Princess Victoria had married Frederick III of Germany; Prince Albert Edward had married Princess Alexandra of Denmark, and Alix’s mother, Princess Alice, had married into the Hessian Duchy, now a part of Germany.

  “The princess must survive so that she might marry into a royal family, ensuring that that country’s fate is entwined with that of Mother England. Now, to my mission here, Doctor. We have heard of your work and it is in that capacity that we seek your help.”

  Adams was indeed, as Gladbrook had told Detective Inspector Wentworth, one of the most preeminent physicians in England, though not, as stated, for his Sherlock Holmesian skills at deduction. No, he was renowned for research into diseases of the blood and internal organs. He had indeed studied hemophilia and was working to determine what the flaw contained in Victorian blood might be and, once identified, how it might be neutralized.

  Gladbrook had said, “I’ve heard of this treatment you are performing. Transfusions.”

  Adams had pioneered the practice—taking blood from a healthy individual and injecting it into the veins of an ill patient who had lost blood from wound or lesion.

  There was one obstacle to this treatment, however, deriving from the nature of blood itself. The crimson elixir that flowed through one person’s veins might be of a different sort than that flowing through another’s. In order for a transfusion to work, the blood from the donor had to match the blood of the recipient. Without this compatibility, the introduction of a donor’s blood would be fatal. At present it was possible, before a transfusion, to combine two persons’ blood samples on an examination slide and, by observing the resulting mixture under a microscope, determine if the donor and recipient were compatible or not, though this required a painstaking process of comparing perhaps hundreds of samples of blood. Sometimes a match was never found.

  Yes, in theory transfusions could save a life under some circumstances, routine surgery or war wounds, for instance. However, with hemophilia, there was an additional—indeed, insurmountable—impediment to the treatment. Adams had told Gladbrook, “Even if we find a donor whose blood is in the same category as that of the princess’s, to counteract the bleeding I will need gallons of compatible blood: indeed, all of the donor’s blood. In future years, I will be, I hope, able to isolate a reagent to cause the blood to clot. But at present, no. I need pure blood and in sufficient quantity so that a donor would not survive.”

  “Ah,” the advisor had said. “Then we are presented with a difficult decision.”

  Adams had required a moment to grasp what the man was saying. “No. No! We are presented with no decision at all. I am a man of medicine. I cannot do what you are asking.”

  “This is to save the life of a royal and, perhaps, to preserve the Crown itself.”

  “That does not matter. I have my oath. I cannot take one life, even to save another. That’s the province of God.”

  Gladbrook had sat back in his chair, lit a cigar, and said, “Let me pose you this, Doctor. Say two patients are brought to your surgery simultaneously, both in extremis. There is only you attending. You have the time and medicine to save only one. By choosing the cooper over the baker, the lady over the lord, the hansom driver over the charwoman, are y
ou not killing the other?”

  “That’s a fatuous argument.”

  “I think not, Doctor. Every decision we make in life could have lethal consequences. Soldiers on the battlefield know this. Fishermen. Train engineers. Midwives. You as a man of medicine know this as well.”

  “Still, I cannot do it. I am sorry. And the queen would never condone it.”

  Gladbrook had leaned forward and said fervently, “Her Majesty will never know. Nor anyone else, save for the few it is necessary to inform.”

  Adams had blustered, “Well, it is impossible. We’ll speak no more of it.”

  “Then, Doctor,” Gladbrook had said, in a low and chillingly calm voice, “I’ll find another surgeon, fill his purse with sovereigns, and tell him to cut away and pump the girl full of another’s blood.”

  “No one other than I can perform this procedure.”

  “Nonetheless, I assure you, I will find someone else if you refuse to help us.”

  Adams, horrified at the thought of what Gladbrook was proposing, had fallen silent.

  Gladbrook had gripped his arm. “Please, sir. We need you, the Palace needs you.”

  Adams had whispered, “But who will the donor be?”

  Gladbrook had considered this question for a moment. Then his eyes had narrowed. “My illustration a moment ago? The cooper or the baker, the lord or lady? Now I would posit that the patients you had to choose between were…a princess and a whore.”

  Adams closed his eyes and uttered a simple prayer: God forgive me.

  The doctor had then hurried to an infirmary in the East End, run by nuns, who tended to, among others, many prostitutes in the area. Adams, with a vial of the princess’s blood in a satchel, had set up at a table in the infirmary and taken samples of the ladies’ blood to check for compatibility—provided, of course, that they showed no symptoms of the pox.

  Some categories of blood, the doctor had found, were common. Some were rare. As if God were excoriating those involved in the matter, Princess Alix’s blood fell into an exceedingly rare category, and for a time Adams despaired of finding a donor who was compatible. But finally a match was made.