Requiem for the Ripper
Page 23
"Why you, Kate? Why has it chosen you this time? You're not a male, or a Cavendish."
I was leading her and the thing on. I already knew what her answer would be, thanks to my new found source of intelligence.
"Oh, but I am, David, dear boy. The mother of The Ripper had other relatives, of course, and I'm simply the descendant of one the offshoots of that family. Miles Prendergast expressed surprise when he discovered my roots, and I've sworn him to secrecy for the time being. I told him it's important, historically, for me to check certain facts, before he enters the relationship into his genealogical records. He'll never have the chance to do so, of course. I'm afraid that poor, sweet Miles must meet with an unfortunate 'accident', soon after I leave Skerries Rock."
"Then, of course, I can't allow you to leave."
"Bravely spoken, David, but you and that thing within you must know that you don't have the power to destroy me, or it."
"Ah, poor Kate. You also forget that the guardian in me is well aware of the one frailty in your new found 'friend'. I know about water, Kate."
For the first time since my return to the croft, Kate's face bore a worried, uncertain look.
"What do you mean, water?"
"That thing within you has no body of its own. It also has an aversion to water. It can't simply fly over the sea, back to the mainland. There is no water in the vast tracts of space these beings originate from, as you should know, Kate. Their life essence is only able to traverse bodies of water if they are contained within the corporeal body of their host. Burton Cavendish almost destroyed it when he threw his son's body into the Thames, but he was too late. The essence, guessing Cavendish's intentions, had already left The Ripper and implanted itself in the journal's pages. All I have to do to stop it is to kill you!"
Kate screamed, her face a mask of contorted anger, as the realisation of what I'd learned dawned upon her, and upon the thing within her. She flew at me in a rage that belied her age, though, of course, she now existed under the control of the evil malevolence that controlled her body and mind. Sadly for her, I stood ready for just such an onslaught. Pulling my hand from my pocket in less than a second, where it had rested throughout our conversation, I drew out and fired the small calibre pistol that I usually kept stored in the boathouse. Even Kate, and the thing inside her, had no previous knowledge of it. The bullet struck her right in the heart, and she pitched forward, falling into my arms. I stepped back as her weight carried her onward and downwards, and I gently laid her inert body on the floor. There'd been no time for sad goodbyes, or apologies. I released my hold on her and stepped back to look down at the lifeless body of my friend. I knew that, deep within her, the malevolent and evil thing that had lived and cursed the Cavendish family for centuries would, even now, be trying to find a way to escape from her body and transfer itself to mine, but I had the protection of the guardian to protect me, and without a second's hesitation, I turned, and walked to the door of the croft, pausing only long enough to strike a match and set a light to the heavy door curtain. The flames that quickly lanced up from the material would soon consume the room and anything within it.
I ran as fast as my legs would carry me towards the boathouse, tripping a couple of time along the way, but always managing to remain upright and on the move. The boat stood at the boathouse dock, where I'd left it, and the pile of ash, that had once been William Forbes, was still lying where he'd been consumed by those awful flames. I soon had the engine running and, as I left my island home, I looked back, just once, to see the flames from my burning home stretching out their orange fingers towards the afternoon sky. Within two hours, I'd tied the boat up beside the dock at Balnakiel and set foot, once again, on the mainland. I made straight for old Sandy McMurdo's place and found him, as usual, behind the counter of the emporium.
The look on his face as I rushed through the door of his establishment quickly told me that I must have presented a terrible sight.
"My God, Doctor Hemswell. What on earth has happened to you? You look terrible!"
"Thank God you're here, Sandy. Just call the police, will you, please? They're dead, all dead," I blurted out, before collapsing from what I later learned had been deemed shock and exhaustion, right there, upon the floor of McMurdo's Emporium.
I woke up some time later, in the local hospital, with a police officer positioned in a plastic chair at the side of my bed. As soon as the man realised my eyes were open, he immediately rose from his chair, walked to the door of the room, opened it and called for assistance. A doctor and nurse quickly came, in response to his call, and I was soon being examined by the white-coated physician, who rapidly pronounced me to be relatively fit and healthy, as far as he could ascertain. It was then that the police officer spoke into the radio mike, attached to his uniform collar, and a minute later two plainclothes detectives entered the room.
After asking me to confirm my identity, and as the doctor and nurse departed from the room, the older and more senior of the two men spoke.
"Doctor Hemswell, it is my duty to place you under arrest for the wilful murders of William Forbes and Katherine Goddard."
As a look of total shock and disbelief spread across my face, the detective continued by issuing with the standard police caution and, as soon as they could arrange it, I was allowed to dress, and soon found myself in the back of a police car, being driven to an unknown destination for questioning. It was while I was sitting in the back of the car, my hands firmly cuffed to prevent any attempt at escape, that I realised the guardian had gone. I was alone, in my own mind, once again. Obviously, his job done, he'd left me and departed for ... for where? I knew I'd have a hard time explaining everything that had transpired since the arrival of William Forbes on Skerries Rock, but they'd have to believe me, wouldn't they? At least, I thought they would. I couldn't get that damn tune out of my head though. It stuck there all the time, playing over and over in my brain.
Epilogue
Ravenswood Special Hospital - June 16th
The Diary of Doctor Ruth Truman
It is an odd coincidence that placed David Hemswell in my care. After treating the notorious serial killer, Jack Reid, on both of the occasions for which he found himself here at Ravenswood, I now find myself as the physician in charge of treating the man who killed Reid's own legal representative, and one his own best friends, in a strange and perplexing case that still has the police somewhat baffled. At his trial, Hemswell stuck to his outlandish story of elemental beings, demonic possession, and some strange 'guardian' who helped him dispose of an evil being that had taken over the mind and body of his friend, Kate Goddard, after she, in turn, had murdered the unfortunate William Forbes by instigating some form of spontaneous human combustion to devour the poor man. Not one shred of evidence could be found to substantiate any part of his story. Hemswell insisted the police speak to Miles Prendergast, and a woman named Christine Westerman, who he said could provide evidence that would support his tale. Prendergast was able to confirm only that Kate Goddard had contacted him on some genealogical matters, and Christine Westerman confirmed that Goddard had approached her in an attempt to identify a piece of music that appeared to be connected to one of the victims of Jack the Ripper, but, apart from that, the notion that elemental beings, from some undefined location in the emptiness of space, remained just too fanciful to be taken seriously.
The result of the trial had an air of inevitability about it, and, it came as no surprise to anyone concerned with the case, when Hemswell was committed to Ravenswood 'At Her Majesty's Pleasure'. In other words, he received a mandatory life sentence behind the walls of this, the country's most secure psychiatric hospital. Only if he is one day considered cured of his illness, and no longer a danger to society, will David Hemswell be considered for release.
After nine months in my care here at Ravenswood, Hemswell continues to surprise me by refusing to accept responsibility for his crimes. I find it hard to accept that a man once regarded as one of the countr
y's leading criminal psychologists, sticks so rigidly to his unbelievable story and makes no attempt to rationalise his actions. Until he does, there appears little hope of me making much progress in his treatment.
Instead, David Hemswell continues to delude himself that he has, in some way, destroyed the being that was at one time Jack the Ripper and, at other times in history, a killer just as bloody as the Whitechapel Murderer himself, and tells me often that he is satisfied with what he has achieved in his life, and that no one else now needs to suffer as others have over the centuries. He often sits in his room, for hours on end, whistling to himself. He always whistles the same tune, an irritating little ditty that he describes, when asked, simply as the 'Requiem for the Ripper'. I see little hope for Hemswell's future rehabilitation ...
About the Author
Winner of The Preditors & Editors 'Best Author of 2009' Readers Poll Award, Brian L. Porter is the author of a number of successful novels. His works include the winner of The Preditors & Editors 'Best Thriller Novel of 2008' Readers Poll Award for 'A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper', and its sequels, 'Legacy of the Ripper', and this, the final part of his Ripper trilogy, all published by Double Dragon Publishing, and all signed for movie adaptation by Thunderball Films (L.A.), with 'A Study in Red' already in the development stages of production.
In addition to his works on Jack the Ripper, his other works include 'Pestilence', 'Glastonbury', 'Purple Death', 'Kiss of Life', Avenue of the Dead', and 'The Nemesis Cell'.
Aside from his novels, Brian is a dedicated dog rescuer, and shares his home with his family and a number of rescued dogs.
He is the Mystery/Thriller Consultant Editor to a UK Publishing House, an editor for a new US publisher, a science-fiction conceptual consultant to another US publisher, and is a member of The American Authors Association, The Military Writers Society of America, and The Whitechapel Society 1888, for whom he was the sole judge of their 2009 Short Story Contest.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue