1888

by Andrew Hastie

  Sabien nodded gravely at the estimate. The two men were like poker players with neither showing any sign of emotion.

  ‘And suspects?’

  Eddington walked over to one of the larger blackboards which was covered in tiny chalk formulae and branching timeflows.

  ‘Currently we have seven major suspects with another twenty showing strong possibilities.’ He pointed at various names and lines that interconnected with those of the victims.

  ‘I have read your reports on the first two victims,’ the professor continued. ‘It appears there may have been some anomalies at the point of death?’

  Sabien nodded. ‘There’s no trace of the murderer.’

  ‘Have you considered that this may be a non-linear entity?’

  ‘No,’ the Inspector said, his eyes hardening. ‘I don’t believe this is the work of a demon.’

  Eddington shrugged slightly. ‘It is my job to consider all factors, I cannot discount any eventuality, including the intervention of an external influence.’

  Maddox could see how much the idea disturbed Sabien. That something other than a human was at work seemed to be unthinkable.

  ‘This is the work of a madman, that’s clear to me. What his motives are, I have yet to discover, but I don’t need the monster squad crawling all over this, it’s hard enough as it is.’

  ‘The Xenobiology department have already been informed,’ declared Eddington.

  Sabien swore under his breath and held out his hand.

  ‘Give me a list of the suspects, I’ll find your man.’

  17

  Eddowes and Stride

  [Goulston Street, Whitechapel. Date: Sunday 30, September 1888]

  The words were scrawled in chalk on the brick wall.

  “The Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing,” Sabien read aloud.

  Lying on the floor beneath the writing was part of an apron. It was dirty and covered in the blood of Catherine Eddowes.

  ‘Constable Long will be here in less than ten minutes,’ Maddox said, copying the text down into her almanac. ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘The East End has seen a massive influx of Jewish immigrants in this period. Mostly from Russia. Anti-Semitic feelings were running high before the murders. Whoever left this message was trying to stir up racial tension. They were already talking about a Jewish bootmaker called “Leather Apron” being a prime suspect before the second murder.’

  ‘The double negative sounds like a local dialect.’

  Sabien took off his glove and touched the letters, his fingers tracing along the rough wall as if writing it out himself. ‘He’s not our killer.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Call it a hunch,’ he said, putting the glove back on. ‘The message was written three days ago. If I were in charge, I’d have it cleaned off before it starts a riot.’

  Maddox closed her almanac. ‘Which of the victims do you want to see first?’

  Sabien nodded towards the apron. ‘Let’s begin with Eddowes.’

  [Mitre Square. Time: 0140]

  The square was overlooked on three sides by warehouses with small passageways leading off from every corner. The blackened windows were empty and lifeless, just like her eyes, Sabien thought as he knelt down to examine her body.

  The attacker had chosen the darkest corner of the square, away from the gaslight on the corner of Church Passage.

  Catherine was on her back, her head turned towards her left shoulder, one leg was straight while the other bent out at an angle. Her skirts had been pulled up and the abdomen was exposed and once again the intestines had been placed over her right shoulder.

  There were cuts to her face, her eyelids had been sliced and the tip of her nose was detached. Blood was pooling on the pavement to the left side of her neck where the knife had severed the left common carotid artery.

  Death would have been instantaneous, and silent, because the cut had sliced through her vocal cords.

  ‘Could he be some kind of surgeon?’ Maddox wondered, looking at the wounds on her lower body.

  ‘Or a slaughterman?’ said Sabien. ‘Someone who can work quickly, someone who’s used to cutting into flesh.’

  ‘We have reports of three witnesses standing at the entrance to Church Passage,’ she pointed in the general direction of the alley. ‘Claiming to have seen a sailor. “A fair-moustached man wearing a navy jacket, peaked cloth cap, and red scarf”, sometime around 0135.’

  ‘That wasn’t our man,’ Sabien said, getting to his feet. ‘When was the other murder?’

  ‘An hour earlier.’

  * * *

  [Dutfield's Yard. Time: 0050]

  * * *

  The blood was still flowing from her neck when they appeared in the darkened yard. Sabien used the light from his tachyon to light the scene. Although the woman was obviously dead, she showed none of the mutilation that they had just witnessed with Eddowes.

  ‘Elizabeth Stride,’ Maddox read aloud from her notebook. ‘Last seen alive by Israel Schwartz at midnight.’

  There was a silk handkerchief tied around her neck, and blood on the back of her right hand which lay across her belly.

  ‘He pulled her back using the scarf. Cut her from left to right,’ Sabien said, re-enacting the actions of the attacker as he stood over her body.

  ‘She’s still warm,’ said Maddox, touching her arm.

  They could hear singing coming from the old wooden building next door. Sabien stood and listened for a moment.

  ‘How long would it take to walk to Mitre Square?’ he asked, looking out toward the street.

  ‘Approximately fifteen minutes.’

  There was a pungent smell in the air, like the drains were blocked. Sabien turned to his left and walked further into the yard. ‘Toilets,’ he said nodding at the ramshackle building. ‘Some kind of club?’

  Maddox checked her almanac. ‘International Working Men's Educational Club,’ they’re about to finish for the night. Do you think he was disturbed?’

  Sabien shrugged. ‘Or it’s a copycat.’

  The singing finished and they could hear the footsteps of the members as they made their way down the stairs to the yard.

  Sabien took out his notebook and scribbled something down before disappearing into thin air.

  Maddox shivered as she stood alone in the dark, imagining for a second that the murderer was still there, watching them from the shadows.

  Then she took out her tachyon and hit the homing button.

  18

  Lipski

  [Scotland Yard, London. September 30th, 1888]

  Sabien paced around the interview room. ‘Your name is Israel Schwartz?’ he asked in English.

  The witness nodded, lowering his eyes to the floor in a submissive scowl. ‘Yes. I am he,’ Schwartz answered in a strong Hungarian accent. He was a swarthy-looking man with a large bushy, black beard, his hands were rough and scarred by years of manual labour.

  ‘Can you tell me what you saw this morning?’ asked Sabien. The translator repeated the question in Hungarian.

  ‘He says he saw a Dybbuk. A demon in human form.’

  Swanson tapped the table with his pipe. ‘Stick to the facts man.’

  The translator repeated the instructions back to Schwartz who swore under his breath and then continued. ‘I saw a man stop and speak to the dead woman, he threw her to the floor, and she screamed three times. I crossed to the other side of the street. The man called me “Lipski” to a second man, who had a pipe, like yours.’ He pointed at Swanson. I ran to the railway arch, but they did not follow.’

  ‘What did he look like? The first man?’ asked Sabien, coming to stand behind Chief Inspector Swanson.

  The translator repeated the words in staccato as Schwartz described the assailant.

  ‘About thirty years old. Fresh complexion. Light brown hair, small brown moustache and broad shouldered. Black cap with peak, but his eyes, his eyes were like those of a …�
� the translator struggled to find the right word. ‘A devil?’ Schwartz made a sign with his fingers as if warding off evil spirits.

  ‘The devil?’ scoffed Swanson.

  Schwartz looked up at Sabien. ‘A demon.’ He said in broken English.

  * * *

  ‘He saw the murderer.’ Swanson said, as they walked back towards his office.

  ‘Does the description fit any of the suspects?’ Sabien asked.

  Swanson shook his head. ‘It describes half of Whitechapel.’

  ‘Why would he call out to another man?’ Sabien wondered. ‘He’s not working with an assistant.’

  ‘A lookout perhaps?’

  Sabien shook his head. ‘I think Schwartz saw something, but not our killer.’

  ‘A Dybbuk?’

  ‘It’s a Jewish term for a malicious spirit,’ Maddox replied, reading from her almanac. ‘The dislocated soul of the dead — possession.’

  Sabien cursed under his breath. ‘For god’s sake don’t tell the Xenos. They’ll have a field day with that! The last thing we need now is a bunch of unicorn chasers following us around.’

  Maddox looked confused. ‘Why not? After all, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

  ‘Because this isn’t some fictitious detective story about some savant investigator with amazing powers of deduction. This is real life, where people kill people every day, sometimes with good reason, but mostly for all the wrong ones: love, hate, passion, sex. There’s rarely anything more complicated than that, and certainly no terrible monster lurking in the sewers, let alone a damned demon.’

  He stormed off.

  ‘Why does he hate the Xenos?’ Maddox asked Swanson.

  ‘He grew up listening to sermons about hell, the last thing he needs is to find out that it was actually real.’

  19

  Theosophy

  [Theosophical Society. 1887]

  Doctor Knox’s eyes had rolled back into his head and seemed to glow slightly in the dimly lit room.

  ‘Tell us, oh ancient one, what is your name?’ asked an unseen woman’s voice.

  ‘I have had many names,’ he replied. ‘Harpagus, Ptolemy, Fellows, Knox. They are all irrelevant.’

  ‘From whence do you come?’

  His face twisted into a sickening grin. ‘From before the time of man.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath from others who sat in the shadows.

  ‘And what is it that you seek?’

  ‘Eternal life.’

  ‘And how will you find immortality?’

  ‘Through the blood of the damned,’ he hissed.

  * * *

  Suddenly, as if a connection was broken, the seance ended and the maid turned up the gas lamps.

  The faces of Madame Blavatsky’s guests were ashen. Some of the women looked as if they were going to faint.

  Henry Olcott cleared his throat. ‘Thank you everyone. I believe that concludes our meeting,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  Everyone rose except for the Doctor, whose head was resting on his chest. Madame Blavatsky went to him and whispered in his ear, bringing him slowly out of his deep trance.

  The room had cleared by the time he came around.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Blavatsky.

  ‘Rejuvenated,’ answered the doctor.

  ‘That is the gift of the ever-living masters. You are their vessel.’ She picked up the old clay jar that sat in the middle of the table. Cradling it as if it were a precious child. ‘We are all but servants of the ancient ones, their powers are boundless.’

  ‘And the creatures?’ he asked, nodding to the jar.

  ‘You must persevere with your research; the masters demand it.’

  20

  Profiling

  [Scotland Yard, London. September 30th, 1888]

  ‘I don’t think he has to have been medically trained,’ Maddox said, staring at the autopsy photographs of the five victims. The Copernicans had pinned each one on to a blackboard in the boardroom and tried to extrapolate connections between them.

  ‘A slaughterman then?’ asked Swanson, tapping out the embers of his pipe and refilling it from a tobacco pouch.

  Maddox shook her head, resisting the urge to make a comment about the dangers of passive smoking. She walked over to the list of suspects written onto another board. ‘Doctor Bond said that there was nothing about the way they were cut that indicates any anatomical training, yet there’s something about the removal of their internal organs that bothers me.’

  Sabien was sitting in one of the chairs, reading a report from the police surgeon. ‘Bond states that: “In my opinion he does not even possess the technical knowledge of a butcher or horse slaughterer or any person accustomed to cut up dead animals”.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Maddox. ‘You’re not looking for a doctor.’ She crossed out the names of Francis Tumblety, Thomas Cream and John Williams.

  Sabien frowned as he continued. ‘“There is no evidence that he had an accomplice. He must in my opinion be a man subject to periodical attacks of homicidal and erotic mania”.’

  ‘Doctor Bond sounds like he would have made a good profiler,’ joked Maddox.

  ‘I don’t need a profiler,’ growled Sabien, closing the dossier. ‘All I need is a decent piece of evidence, preferably one that isn’t covered in the victim’s blood.’

  ‘What about the witness?’ asked Swanson, puffing out clouds of smoke.

  ‘He thinks he saw a demon,’ Sabien said, his tone doing little to hide his frustration.

  ‘What if it were a ritualistic act. Do the dates correlate with anything?’ Maddox said, staring at the large map of the East End that Eddington had annotated in his neat, if a little obsessive, handwriting.

  Sabien put down the report. ‘If we ignore all but the canonical four, as the Copernicans are calling them, the murders seem to occur on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday.’

  ‘Realistically it’s Friday night or Saturday night. Probably the busiest times to be about in Whitechapel if you’re looking for a whore,’ observed Swanson.

  Maddox winced at the word. ‘You make it sound like a curse.’

  ‘Would you rather I call them bangtails?’ asked Swanson, ‘or brasses, doxys, strumpets? They’re all the same.’

  Anger flushed Maddox’s cheeks. ‘A rose by any other name? It’s as if you blame them for the life they’ve been forced into?’

  Swanson sighed. ‘I suppose you’re one of those suffragist types. Looking for a way to cure the city of the scourge of poverty by re-educating the poor.’

  Sabien saw the fire in her eyes. ‘These working girls have little choice, they’ve had virtually no schooling, hardly any opportunities to gain honest employment. Mistreated by men who see them as nothing more than possessions and punch bags. To be honest I’m surprised there aren’t more murders. In the twenty-first century —’

  Sabien stopped paying attention and went over to the photographs. He had been studying the surgeon’s notes on the missing organs: the uterus and kidneys, yet the one thing that still puzzled him was the placement of the intestines.

  ‘Freemasons.’

  ‘What?’ the other two asked in unison.

  ‘The wounding could be masonic. Don’t they have a punishment for breaking the oath that involves cutting their throats and having their vitals being taken out and thrown over their shoulder.’

  ‘Ha, another male bastion. I’m surprised you hadn’t spotted that already,’ Maddox said, pointing at Swanson’s masonic signet ring.

  Swanson cleared his throat. ‘The initiation talks of the throat cutting, yes, and the vitals being cast over the left shoulder. Both Chapman and Eddowes were over the right. This could be someone trying to implicate the brotherhood.’

  Maddox rolled her eyes.

  21

  The Letters

  [Scotland Yard. October 1st, 1888]

  ‘You’re not seriously telling me
that he wrote that?’ Maddox exclaimed pointing at the article in the newspaper Sabien was holding.

  He read it aloud.

  “Dear Boss,

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.

  Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  Don’t mind me giving the trade name

  PS Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha”

  Maddox looked puzzled. ‘He sent that before Eddowes and Stride were killed?’

  Sabien nodded. ‘The Central News Agency received it on the twenty-seventh of September, but it was dated the twenty-fifth.’