Jack The Ripper: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Writer, Holy Ghost

“Were you instructed not to touch the body?”

  “I don’t remember that,” Hatfield said. “I undressed her, but I do not recall if I touched the body except to remove her clothes or not. My memory is not very good.”

  “Was she wearing stays?” Holmes asked.

  “I do not recall. Mr. Hamilton said she was when we talked later, but I can’t say I have any personal recollection.”

  This man’s demeanor seemed a little suspicious to Holmes and Dr. Watson, but it was unlikely he had had anything do with the murder. He was just a pauper forced into the workhouse by London society, and there could have been many reasons why he acted so oddly. They still did not know if he had inadvertently ruined any evidence.

  The next witness, Emily Holland, was a woman in the same profession as Mary. She was tall and thin, and seemed to be a little nervous and exhausted. She admitted to being a friend of Mary’s and even stayed in the same lodging house at 18 Thrawl Street. Indeed, she was the person the police had called to positively identify Mary, so she had already been to the stationhouse once that day.

  “I ran across Mary in the street after I returned from seeing a fire at the dry dock about 2:30 A.M., and I noticed that she was very drunk,” Emily told them. “I was in the same shape and suggested that we go to my kitchen and sober up, but Mary refused.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She told me how much money she had earned that night and also how much she had spent on drinks. She said she wished she could find a man to stay the night with,” the woman said. “After a few minutes, we said ‘goodnight’ and parted ways. That was the last time I laid eyes on Mary.”

  “Did she mention anyone following her?” Holmes asked, thinking back on the woman who heard yelling and knocking on doors.

  “No, not a word. She seemed fine to me…just drunk.”

  “Thank you for your help—we’ll be in touch if we require anything further.”

  Emily’s eyes began to water as she stood up, and Dr. Watson noticed she was trembling. “I hope you can find the monster who killed Mary soon,” Emily said. “There’s too many of us out there in the nighttime with no protection against such evil.”

  “We will do our best,” Dr. Watson said. “That we can promise you.”

  Holmes got up to stretch his legs. “Would you like some tea, Doctor?” he asked.

  “Yes, that would be splendid,” Dr. Watson answered.

  Holmes went over to the teapot and fetched two cups of steaming, hot tea. As he leaned over slightly to hand one to his friend, Watson heard a slight cracking sound.

  “My back is so stiff,” Holmes said. “This is not at all like sitting in my comfortable chair in my study.”

  “No, and we do not have dear Mrs. Parker to bring us coffee and sandwiches,” answered Dr. Watson. “But we are doing important work, so I suppose stiff backs and growling stomachs are part and parcel of the experience.”

  “Sagacious as always,” Holmes answered as he looked down at his witness list. Next on the list was Harriet Lilley; he called out for her to be sent in.

  “Mrs. Lilley. Where do you live?” asked Holmes as he started another page in his notebook.

  “I live at 7 Buck’s Row, right across from where the murder took place,” she said. “I happened to be sleeping in the front of the house and could hear everything that took place in the street. I heard a moan and a few faint gasps. On that street it is not uncommon to hear some of those sounds late at night—it gets to be so you don’t think anything about them. I also heard what sounded like voices coming from right under my window,” she continued. “I thought it may have been lovers having a meeting or prostitutes at work, so I rolled over and went back to sleep.”

  She shifted in her seat, apparently uncomfortable that she had not gotten up to look out her window.

  “In the morning, I mentioned the disturbance to my husband and then we found out about the murder, so now I believe what I heard was a woman being attacked.”

  “So nothing aroused your suspicions at the time?”

  “No, not until the morning. But now I realize the sounds were probably from someone in pain.”

  John Neil and John Thain were the two policemen who met Jonas Mizen at the scene of the crime. John Thain was a police constable and had arrived just in time to help load Mary’s body into the ambulance. He noticed the back of her dress was drenched with blood and had even gotten some of it on his hands.

  “It was dark, but I could tell the woman’s eyes were wide open. Blood was still oozing from the cuts on her throat,” he said. “Her hat was lying alongside her body, and I noticed her arm was cold. I knew we had another murder and sent for an ambulance.”

  “Did you check for any witnesses?”

  “Yes, I did check with workers at Essex Wharf to see if they had heard anything, but they claimed they had not. There were also a couple of men who worked at a nearby horse-slaughtering factory who came by to see what was going on. They had not seen or heard anything either.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” asked Holmes.

  “No. I stayed there until the ambulance took her away.”

  “Thank you for stopping by.”

  About that time, Inspector Grant arrived. “Are you getting anything useful?” he asked as he nodded to Dr. Watson.

  “Not particularly. A few of the blanks have been filled in, but I can’t say there have been any strong insights into the murder so far. I really haven’t had the time to study over my notes though, so I may find something yet.”

  “We are still trying to locate more witnesses, but I think you have them all. Most people are nervous to come forward with the other murders going on. I am still not sure if those crimes are connected to this one.”

  “I will say it again: I tend to believe, from what I have read in the papers, that this murderer is different. It may even be the man’s first murder, and I hope to God it will be his last, but unfortunately, another murder may be the only way we catch him,” Holmes said.

  “Well, keep up the good work and let me know of any resources that you need,” Grant said as he walked away.

  The next witness was John Spratling. He had arrived on the scene after the blood had been washed away by a neighbor boy and the victim was already in the ambulance. He and Sergeant George Godley were the investigators who checked with the surrounding neighbors to see if they could find any witnesses. There was not much to add there.

  “What did you do after you helped load the victim?” asked Holmes.

  “I searched the Great Eastern and East London railways, Essex Wharf, and the District Railway as far as Thomas Street for witnesses and clues. I did not have any luck.”

  That concluded the day’s interviews.

  CHAPTER five

  Profiled

  The week was a whirlwind of activity. Holmes and Dr. Watson worked tirelessly to verify witnesses’ stories, as well as to call in more people to give testimony—though most of it amounted to nothing. Poor Mary was buried, her mourners made up of people who lived in her lodging house or friends from the bar.

  To Holmes’ immense frustration, the investigation was going nowhere. He grew tenser and more taciturn than usual, but he was loath to admit the murder was linked to the others that had taken place. It was too violent and too bizarre—he knew in his gut that they were not connected. A week later, on the eighth of September, Holmes’ initial reaction was confirmed: another body was found under much the same conditions as the first one.

  Annie Chapman was a widow and the mother of three grown children who had long since moved on to live their own lives. She was short, about five feet four inches tall, with mousy blond hair; she was 47 years of age. Her husband had been dead for years, and she had never gotten back on her feet financially. John had died from cirrhosis of the liver and Annie, herself, was an alcoholic. It helped to deaden the pain of having no family around. At first, she had taken in needlework to make ends meet—when she still faile
d to earn enough to live, she turned to prostitution.

  In September 1888, she lived in a lodging house where the boarders paid by the day. She had been down on her luck and did not have the money for even one more night. She told the landlord, as he kicked her out, that she would have the money when she returned; he did not believe her, although she begged him to hold her a room. He waved her off as she drunkenly left the house and stepped out into the streets of Spitalfields.

  She would never need that room—for the next morning she was found murdered in the backyard of a house on Hanbury Street.

  As soon as the police had been notified, Inspector Grant sent a messenger to Holmes and told him the address where the murder had taken place. Holmes immediately dressed and made his way to the scene, a notebook in his breast pocket. Dr. Watson did not come with him this time, being otherwise committed.

  The poor woman lay there with two deep cuts on her throat, both of which reached her spine—exactly as Mary had been mutilated. Annie’s stomach had been ripped wide open and her uterus, upper vagina, and two thirds of her bladder were missing. All of her small intestines had been chopped and removed but remained behind, laid out upon her right shoulder. Portions of her pubic area had been put on her left shoulder. It was a horrid sight, and Holmes had to fight himself not to retch. The officers at the scene were pale and shocked, and the mood was a somber one.

  “I guess this confirms it, Detective,” Holmes told Grant. “We have a serial killer now. These two murders are nothing like the other ones.”

  “Yes, I am afraid you are right, dear Sherlock. The town will go wild when they know we have a monster in our midst,” Grant said. “We will have to post bulletins warning the women in this area—they must stay off the streets. Though I doubt many listen, as they rely heavily on any small daily income they make.”

  “Did the officers touch the victim’s clothing?” Holmes asked. “Has anyone, to your knowledge, touched the body?”

  “My officers swear they have not,” said Grant.

  “Come with me, then,” said Holmes.

  He and Grant knelt by the body, and Holmes took a small, soft brush from his pocket, along with a packet of dark powder.

  “Graphite,” he said by way of explanation. “Though I have been thinking further about fingerprinting, and I doubt we would be able to get any from the body itself; any sweat, hair, or violent movement would interfere with a clear impression.”

  “Will you dust all of her?” said Grant, looking worried. “That seems indecorous. We must respect the dead.”

  “I will just dust the places where the Ripper might have seized her,” answered Holmes. “Her wrists, or her neck. Of course, if she was wearing a brooch or other piece of jewelry on which a fingerprint would show clearly, that would be ideal.”

  Grant watched as Holmes methodically went about dusting the body, and a short time later the detective rose to his feet. “Nothing—this time,” he said. “But perhaps we will still gather important evidence from any witnesses who were nearby.”

  “My officers are preparing a list according to the usual protocol,” said Grant. “Is there anything else we should know?”

  “I have been thinking in depth upon this, yes,” said Holmes. “I suspect this killer has advanced knowledge of human anatomy—a layperson could not have so efficiently removed the missing organs, or even identified them in the carnage. Our perpetrator could be a doctor, a butcher, a medical student, and there are even more possibilities beyond that.”

  “Yes, I thought of that too—that he must have some sort of specialized education or skill. He quite possibly lives in the area too, since these identical murders are less than a mile apart.”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes. “Though he would be a bold and reckless killer to make his hunting grounds anywhere near his own home.”

  Annie’s body was removed, and Holmes remained at the scene until he was sure he had left no clue behind; it was still quite early in the morning. He then went home to pick up Dr. Watson, for he knew his friend would be there waiting on him. Then they would go to Scotland Yard and work up a profile—it was finally time to employ a technique taught to him by his old friend, Edmond Dantes.

  As Holmes waited for Dr. Watson to finish the breakfast Mrs. Parker had prepared for them, Sherlock began to look through several days’ worth of mail; though he was a tidy man, it often slipped his mind to sort it. When a postcard slipped from the mix, Holmes reached down to his feet to retrieve it—how odd, he thought. None of my acquaintances have gone abroad or on any sort of trip. The postcard had a picture of a bubbling brook on the front. Scrawled on the card were the words, “The game has begun.”

  A flash of confusion jolted through him. Who would send him such a cryptic message? Was this from the killer? Had he zeroed in on Holmes as a contact? It was not news that Holmes was working on the cases with the police—he was a prominent figure in London after so many successful investigations in the past—so it would have been quite simple to find out his address. There was no postmark, so someone had dropped the card directly into his mail slot. Holmes was intimidated by no man, but he was irritated that anyone would dare to disturb the privacy and comfort of his home, even with something as small as a postcard.

  “Look, Watson,” he said to his friend.

  After Dr. Watson had read the card, he looked puzzled. “Do you believe this is from the killer? Could he be targeting you?”

  “I can’t think of who else would send me such an obscure message—and any friends or acquaintances would know I would not be amused by any sort of riddle or game.”

  “Oh, Holmes. That worries me so. We have to find this killer before he does anything to you.”

  “I don’t believe he wants to hurt me—we mustn’t jump to that conclusion. I think he knows of my skill as an investigator and is daring me to catch him. It probably amuses him to taunt me as he waits to find his next victim. Let’s be off to the Yard and get to work on that profile.”

  “Immediately, of course,” Dr. Watson said, pushing himself away from the table.

  “Also, let’s not mention this card to Inspector Grant for the time being. I want to decide what to do on my own,” Holmes told his friend.

  “Rightly so. It is your business, after all, and I can’t see how Inspector Grant knowing of the message would help him solve the crime.”

  Once Holmes reached his desk at Scotland Yard, he pulled out his notebook and pen and started jotting down thoughts as they came into his head. The great Count of Monte Cristo had taught him a few things about a method of investigation called criminal profiling, and he intended to finally put this knowledge to use. He wished his dear friend could be with him now—he was sure the Count would have some insight even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t deduce on his own.

  “Watson, I do not believe this person is married. If he ever was, it was most likely to a woman much older, and the union failed a short time after it was started.”

  Dr. Watson furrowed his brow. “And how have you concluded this?” he asked. “I’m not sure I follow your reasoning.”

  “Both of the victims have been women in middle age,” Holmes answered. “There are legions of young, beautiful women on the streets as well—and yet our murderer is targeting victims of a certain age. I also believe that most of his sexual encounters have been with prostitutes. He seems to be focusing himself on them. He may even be impotent, since no violations occur either before or after the murder.”

  “That is very interesting,” said Dr. Watson. “What else have you come upon?”

  “I think that the clothes he wears are not his everyday attire. To approach a prostitute, he would need to look as if he has the money, and thus he dresses in his finest—if he appears wealthy, the women would be much more likely to go with him into a dark alley, in hopes that he would pay well for their services. I also feel he is a loner; otherwise, someone would notice the odd hours he must keep, not to mention any clothing covered in blood.�
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  “Well, what about his job? How can he be up all night to do these murders and still report regularly to work?”

  “As I mentioned before, I believe he has to know the human anatomy to a certain degree. He could have a job where he works mostly alone,” Holmes continued. “He would be able to keep his own hours, or have some flexibility in them. Or perhaps he just doesn’t require much sleep. There have been two murders, with one week in between—one sleepless night a week would not affect a healthy, strong man in any real way. And he may not have a job at all.”

  Inspector Grant walked up at that time.

  “Have you had any luck in your profiling?” he asked as he pulled up a chair. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of your method, but I trust it will yield something of value to our investigation.”

  “We are just getting started,” Holmes told him. “It is an involved process, and one that takes much concentration and thought.”

  He passed over his notes and let Grant read what he had just written.

  Holmes lit a cigar, took a long drag, and continued. “I think this man holds things inside and they come out in his doing destructive, awful things. Murder is the only way he can get relief from his inner demons.”

  “So murdering these women is a way to vent his own frustration and anger?” Grant asked.

  “Yes. I fear there will be more murders. He appears to just be getting started, given the distinctive signature he is leaving on each body. Maybe those other murders in the area gave him the impetus to get started, but I do not know.”

  “What else do you suspect?” Grant inquired. “I will eagerly listen to any theory you have.”

  “I do think he lives in the Whitechapel area, as you yourself suggested, and he could have some kind of physical deformity or other strange characteristic that makes him uncomfortable around people. That could also be why he strikes in the dark, where he can move with confidence.”

  “Yes.”

  “I also believe he is quiet and unassuming. Nobody would ever take a second look at this person. He may even have been interrogated as a witness already. We should undertake some door-to-door questioning of people living in the area of the murders, in case we missed a witness in our first sweep. Chances are, he will be one of those we speak to.”