JACK THE RIPPER:
Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Holy Ghost Writer
Copyright © 2014 Holy Ghost Writer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1502716984
ISBN-13: 978-1502716989
DEDICATION
To the brave men and women of law enforcement the world over—you give your time, your courage, and even your lives to serve and protect the public.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgment
Chapter One Fulfillment
Chapter Two Cased Curiosity
Chapter Three Devil's in the Details
Chapter Four Insights
Chapter Five Profiled
Chapter Six Taunting Card
Chapter Seven In So Many Words
Chapter Eight Double Cut
Chapter Nine Brutality Rising
Chapter Ten Broken Letters
Chapter Eleven Outside Insides
Chapter Twelve Plan in Review
Chapter Thirteen Gripped in Fear
Chapter Fourteen Society of Secrets
Chapter Fifteen True Suspects
Chapter Sixteen The Set Up
Chapter Seventeen The Hours Before
Chapter Eighteen Swing and Miss
Chapter Nineteen Intuition
Chapter Twenty Revelations
Chapter Twenty-One Dealing with the Devil
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Sir Arhur Conan Doyle, for the inspired creation of the greatest detective the world will ever know—Sherlock Holmes.
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
—Sherlock Holmes
CHAPTER ONE
Fulfillment
“Polly! Polly, go upstairs like a good child. Mama’s got company.”
The little brown-haired girl picked up her doll and set of jacks and slowly climbed the weathered stairs leading up to her room. They creaked under her slight weight, and she took care to skip the board she knew was rotting. She glanced back and saw her mother pouring a glass of bourbon for a man who openly leered at her mother’s slender figure, which was tightly corseted in her best silk dress. Polly was used to such scenes. Her mother had many male callers, but she never wanted Polly to meet any of them. For ten-year-old Polly, this was disturbing and confusing—though not as upsetting as the laughter and noises that would spill forth from her mother’s bedroom in the middle of the night.
Polly’s real name was Mary Ann Nichols, but her mother had called her Polly ever since Polly could remember; if someone had called her Mary Ann, it’s unlikely she would have responded. Polly had never known her father; her mother said he had died when Polly was a baby. How she missed having a father, even if she was not sure quite what it felt like! She saw other young girls in public holding their fathers’ hands, or swept up against a bearded cheek with affection, and it gave her a pain in her heart. If only father was alive, then her mother would act as a proper mother should, like other girls’ mothers did—with civilized teas and household chores and directing the servants. But their household had no servants, and certainly no civilized teas.
In fact, Polly did not get to spend much time with her mother, who worked long hours at a factory. Instead, Polly spent most of her waking hours with Mrs. Johnson, the neighbor lady who kept her fed and clothed. Mrs. Johnson was a kind soul, but a little brusque, and she didn’t fill the deep need Polly had for love.
On that afternoon, Polly sat down in front of her mirror, which was propped up on an old table in her bedroom. A roach crawled across the worn toe of her shoe, but Polly was used to the scuttling insects and did nothing more than twitch her foot. The roach flew into the wall and squeezed into a crack in the boards, moving on to safer territory.
Polly stared at herself and wondered what her life would be like in the future. She wanted a mother and a father who would love her. She wanted to be famous, like the beautiful woman she had seen on a poster outside of a theater. Then she would never feel like a burden—everyone would adore her and clamor for her company, and she would never be sent upstairs to spend hours alone. She was determined to make her life better as soon as she could, and after she was tired of being famous she would marry and have children of her own. Polly knew she would love her family, cook their meals, mend their clothes, and be respectable in a way her own mother would not. More importantly, having a family would mean she never had to be lonely—and it seemed she could not get any lonelier than she was now.
Suddenly, the image in the mirror shimmered and changed. Suddenly there sat Mary, as she preferred to be called now that she was past childhood, staring at the image of a mature woman. She had been lost in a reverie, looking back on her childhood dreams and memories. Polly had been sure her life would eventually be a charmed one—but Mary knew that adulthood was dreary and disappointing.
Her mother had died when Mary was only fifteen years old, and with no relations she was cast out onto the streets of Whitechapel. With no other way to survive, she was forced to follow in the footsteps of her mother and entertain gentlemen—she scoffed at that word now—for a living. She was forty-three with few possessions, fading beauty, and a lonely life in a second-rate boarding house. Occasionally a roach or a rat would pay her a visit, but no true friends ever darkened her doorstep. She laughed bitterly at this thought as she looked at the peeling paint on the walls and the water spots on the ceiling.
Her long dark hair was piled up on top of her head. The lines in her face showed what a hard life she had lived, but still she had hope that one day one of the many men in her life would fall in love with her and take her away from all of this. It had happened for other girls she knew—perhaps they had been younger than her, or more refined—but Mary refused to let go of the dream, however foolish it was. It was the only thing of value she had.
She poured herself a stiff drink of bourbon. Yes, she had inherited this habit from her mother as well. She often drank to excess, but the liquor dulled her pain and helped her get through the empty days and desperate nights.
This night, she would go to the local tavern and find a man—or perhaps more than one, if she was lucky—so that she could survive for a few more days. She had been ill and unable to work for nearly a week, and she hoped the shadows of the night would hide the bags under her eyes and how loosely her dress now fit.
She slipped into a low-cut black gown, which displayed her ample breasts and smooth shoulders. She then plastered on makeup to help cover up all of the lines and wrinkles and perhaps make herself appear a little younger. As the final touch, Mary put on a hat, wrapped a shawl around herself, and locked her door behind her.
A few hours later, she was still at the neighborhood pub, well on her way to being very drunk and smiling flirtatiously at any man who looked her way. She had already had three customers that night, all of whom she took to an alley outside, where they accomplished what they wanted and pressed a few greasy coins into her hand.
As a result, Mary finally had a little money in her purse, but she was spending it wildly on drinks. Perhaps it was the afternoon she had spent reflecting on her life, but Mary was desperate to dull the pain. She would certainly not come out ahead that night. When it appeared she could interest no one else, Mary sat with another woman at the bar; she was tired and almost too drunk to walk back to the boarding house. Realizing she needed to return home, she staggered out of the pub door.
Buck’s Row in Whitechapel was a very seedy part of town—no on
e respectable dared step foot on that street. Drunks lined the sidewalks, and Mary was one of them that night. Several men propositioned her as she stumbled along, but she was too intoxicated and worn out to pay them any heed. She kept walking toward home, speaking briefly to friends or old clients she met on the way but determined to make it to her own bed. She did stop to share a smoke with a friend, Emily, who was none too sober herself.
“Mary, come back to my room,” Emily slurred. “We’ll have some coffee—you’re in no condition to be on the streets.”
Mary laughed at that. “Neither are you,” she said. “Neither are any of us poor buggers who live this life. Another time, perhaps—another night.”
Ten minutes later, on Friday, August 31, 1888, Mary would be dead.
She had turned away from the crowds, glad to finally have some peace, when a gentleman in a long trench coat, carrying a case, appeared in front of her. He was well-groomed, though his clothes were a little worn—at any rate, he had the confident look of a man with money. He was most decidedly out of place in a neighborhood frequented by unkempt sailors and blue-collar workers.
Mary decided she might have the energy for one more client when the man shoved her into an alley. She put out her hands to break her fall as she hit the pavement, and she dimly felt the sting of scraped palms. Some men liked their encounters with her rough—perhaps this fellow was the same, and she could charge him dearly for it. She clumsily started to pull up her skirts in preparation.
In her stupor, she was confused—that is, until she saw the glint of steel in the moonlight. Her confusion quickly turned to fear as she struggled with the man and tried to scream. He clamped his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, although nobody would have noticed the noise or thought it unusual in that part of town.
Mary had finally made her mark in history, destined to be remembered forever. She would become the first victim of Jack the Ripper, although she would not be around to enjoy that fame. The knife met its mark…twice in her throat, blood spurting all over her good black dress…and all of her thoughts disappeared. Her pitiful life was over.
CHAPTER Two
Cased Curiosity
At 3:40 A.M., a delivery driver found Mary’s mutilated body in the alley. Blood was everywhere, pooled thickly in the cobblestones—though in the darkness, it looked much like water. At first the driver thought the stiff figure on the ground was just a tarpaulin discarded by a tradesman or another worker. He edged closer and saw the mound of cloth was actually a woman, one whose skirt had been pulled over her head. He did not notice her throat had been cut, and he averted his eyes from her petticoats. He was certain the woman had been a common prostitute, but that was no reason to disrespect the dead.
Still, he thought to himself, I don’t know why it had to be me who found this body—I’ve got to finish my route. If I lose this job, I’ll be the next one dead in the streets—at the hands of my own wife. He jumped guiltily when another man entered the alleyway—suppose the newcomer thought he’d committed this vile deed?
“I turned the corner and came upon her like this,” the delivery driver sputtered. “I haven’t touched her—I haven’t been here more than five minutes, I swear it.”
The other man inched forward to examine the body, then raked his eyes over the delivery driver’s lanky frame. “No need to worry,” he said, waving his hand. “No call to think you did this—you’d be covered in blood.”
“What should we do?”
“We?” asked the newcomer in surprise. “I’m going to work—what you do is no business of mine.”
The delivery driver looked at his horse and buggy, and then back at the body. “I’ll report it to the next police officer I see,” he said. “I’m bound to run across one.”
That being decided, both men left with clear consciences.
Police Constable Neil was walking his beat in the early hours of that morning—though the neighborhood was a rough one, he enjoyed the peace of it once all the drunks had fallen into their gutters and the whores had fluttered home. As he passed the alley where Mary’s body was hidden, he perfunctorily shone his lantern down the passageway—and paused when he noticed the still form on the ground. Perhaps it was a drunk, passed out before she made it home; regardless, it was his duty to investigate.
As he stepped slowly closer, his heavy boot slipped in a slick puddle of blood, and he almost fell against the woman. Recovering his balance, he leaned over and pushed aside the woman’s heavy skirt from her face, recoiling at what he saw.
“My God,” he gasped.
The woman’s face was a death mask of horror and pain, and the bodice of her dress was soaked with blood. Neil immediately went for the local medic and coroner, Doctor Llewellyn, though he knew there was no hope for the poor creature before him.
When the other police arrived, the alley quickly became a scene of chaos and confusion. The coroner discovered that the two deep cuts on the sides of the woman’s neck had lacerated all of the blood vessels. There was also a deep, jagged cut on her left side and seven smaller cuts on her right side. This woman hadn’t felt these, for she had died almost instantly after her throat was slashed. She had bled out fairly quickly, thankfully.
The coroner also noticed that although the woman’s legs were warm, her hands and feet were cold, telling him that she had been dead for only about thirty minutes. The police carried the body to the morgue for further examination, and the coroner went home to fortify himself with an earlier-than-usual shot of whiskey.
There had been an increased number of murders in the area lately, but most had been attributed to robberies and muggings gone awry. Now the authorities weren’t so sure, but they did know this killer was a vicious one, based on the violence of the death and the disfigurement of the body afterward.
The strange murder was a source of interest for one man in particular: Sherlock Holmes. He had been keeping up with the news on a rash of killings in Whitechapel, but he had a particularly bad feeling about the most recent crime. News of the murder had reached the papers that morning and Holmes was sitting with his good friend, Dr. John Watson, discussing it.
“I believe this is a different murderer,” he told Dr. Watson.
“How many murders have there been in the area so far?”
“Well, six I believe. But the others appear to be muggings—the bodies were found stripped of all valuables. The culprit did take something this time—but entrails are certainly not of monetary value,” Holmes said. “And the killer also left a long cut across the victim’s abdomen. There must have been a reason for it—especially if the poor girl was already dead. Why would a criminal suddenly go from mere robberies to mutilation?”
“Only a very sick and twisted individual would do such a thing,” Dr. Watson replied. “But I would also surmise a person would have to know something about human anatomy to make such precise and purposeful cuts as this killer is reported to have made.”
“Exactly my thoughts, as well. I’m most interested in this case—most interested.”
“Is Scotland Yard going to consult with you? Solving difficult crimes is your forte, old friend,” Dr. Watson said. “And we have not had a challenge in quite a while—this may be just the thing.”
“I haven’t heard from Scotland Yard yet, but that’s not to say I won’t. After all, this murder just happened. I would be more than happy to solve this puzzle, though, should they need help—and if they do not, I may even look into it on my own.”
Mrs. Parker, Holmes’ housekeeper, brought in two steaming cups of coffee. The men had settled into their respective chairs and both enjoyed puffs on their pipes, the sweet scent of tobacco filling the air. They were grateful for small pleasures after the disturbing news in the paper. This was the place where they always sat when Holmes relayed his stories to his friend and cohort—but this morning, there were no other stories than those of the dead woman.
Little did they know that Sherlock Holmes was being discussed at Scotland Ya
rd’s headquarters in Westminster at that very moment.
“Sherlock Holmes would be an asset to this investigation,” Inspector Vincent Grant told his superiors firmly. “He often deals with the unusual, and he’s one of the brightest minds in England. At the very least, he may have some opinion or see something we’ve missed in the evidence we’ve already collected.”
It was agreed upon, and Inspector Grant left the office and headed for Holmes’ residence. He had passed the neatly kept brick townhome many times, but had never had cause to call upon the famous detective at home until now. They had worked together before, however, and he was sure he would receive a cordial welcome.
Mrs. Parker answered the door, her apron crisp and her stature upright.
“Inspector Grant,” he introduced himself. “I know I arrive unannounced and probably unexpected—I do hope it’s convenient for Mr. Holmes to see me now. It’s urgently important.”
Mrs. Parker had overheard Holmes’ and Dr. Watson’s discussion that morning, and she knew Holmes would gladly welcome the inspector.
“This way to the study,” she said as she led Grant through the house.
Holmes arose from his chair upon seeing the inspector and shook his hand. “Ah, my old friend! I’m glad you have come—I had hoped you would.”
“How good to see you,” Grant answered, “although you probably know why I am here. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”
“Yes, I suspected you might need help on this new case of yours—I read all about it in the paper this morning. You remember my friend Dr. Watson, I am sure.”
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