The Ripper Deception Read online

  “Oh,” she raised her hand to her mouth in horror and turned her head towards Lawrence. “Oh, it’s disgusting.”

  Lawrence pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose as he steered Violet away. “We won’t go past that. Come with me.”

  They turned into a narrow lane off Commercial Road which opened into a small square with an alleyway at the far end. A chink of light coming from a narrow window cast weak illumination for a few yards. They were alone, and it was deathly quiet.

  Violet leaned into Lawrence. She was still shivering.

  “We can go back, Violet,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He withdrew a candle from a small tin and set it on the ground. Then he struck a match and squatted on his haunches, trying to protect the flame from the chill air. The match went out. He lit another, and this time it remained alight long enough to ignite the candle. He held it in one hand and grasped Violet’s hand in the other.

  “Do you want to go on?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I'm better now.”

  They walked hand in hand across the silent square. A sliver of moonlight cut through the darkness. Lawrence and Violet continued their journey without speaking. The narrow alley magnified the sound of gravel crunching beneath their feet. They finally emerged at one end of White’s Row and looked down the street towards the lodging house. Two men were outside a building that could have been their destination. They were bareheaded with no coats and clad in shirts with rolled up sleeves, despite the bitter weather. Light from the two windows overlooking the street illuminated their sweaty, grimy faces. The taller man began to shout. He walked up to the other and pushed him squarely in the chest. The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a chunky metallic object which he fitted over his hand and ploughed into the stomach of the taller man who dropped to the floor. The fallen man clutched at his stomach, gasping while the other stood above him. He crossed and turned full circle to face the building behind and gestured towards the window goading the watchers inside. The man on the ground took advantage. He lunged towards him, seized his leg and pulled him to the floor. The two men began brawling, flailing around on the frosty ground, fists flying. The door to the building swung open, and a motley crowd of men and women piled into the street. They surrounded the two shirt-sleeved men, shouting and swearing words of encouragement.

  Lawrence pulled Violet away. “We can’t go there now,” he said. “They must be drunk as lords. Anything could happen.”

  He guided Violet into Crispin Street and towards a brightly lit Public House. The battered sign above the door read “The Paul’s Head.”

  “We can wait here for half an hour,” said Lawrence. “The worst of the trouble should be over by then. And there may be someone in here who can tell us more about Frances Coles.”

  Violet tiptoed towards the grimy window of the Public House. Even from the outside, she could hear a cacophony of voices and the screech of a poorly played fiddle. She rubbed the glass with her glove, and a circle of light appeared through the dirt. She peered inside. The large room was full of people. Two men in grubby jackets leaned against the bar. A small, squat dog stared possessively towards his master who wore baggy trousers and a wideawake hat. He listened intently to another man who sloshed the contents of his glass over the floor as he spoke. Large barrels occupied one side of the bar. A group of women rested their drinks on top while they chatted. All were unkempt, with dirty clothes and matted hair. Another barrel propped up a skinny man, almost insensible from drinking. His glass lay upended on the sawdust floor.

  “I’m not going in there,” said Violet.

  Lawrence looked inside. “It’s not that bad,” he said.

  “Look,” Violet pointed. At the far end of the room, a man's fleshy hand gripped a girl by the throat. She was young, in her teens. Her older and rounder companion waved a chubby finger menacingly in her face, his own a mask of rage.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Lawrence.

  “We should go back. It isn’t safe anywhere.”

  “Hang on a minute. That’s D’Onston in there.”

  “It can’t be?”

  “It is, I tell you. I wonder what he’s doing. He looks a mess.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “I think so, though his clothes are different. He must be in disguise. He’s talking to another fellow. A real ruffian.”

  “Then you had better leave him alone.”

  “I want to know what he’s doing here so close to White’s Row.”

  “I doubt it matters.”

  “Give me five minutes, Violet. I want to get close enough to hear what they are saying.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. D'Onston was furious last time he saw you. Anything could happen.”

  “He won’t see me. I’ll walk around the bar and stand by the pillar. I should be able to hear them without them noticing me.”

  “What about me?”

  “Come along. You’re wearing black. I don’t think you will stand out. Just don’t get too close to him.”

  “I’m not going in there, Lawrence, and you shouldn’t either.”

  “Well, stay here then. There’s plenty of light from the window. You can come and find me if you get worried.”

  “You’re impossible,” said Violet turning her back against the window. She crossed her hands and stared across the street as Lawrence walked into The Paul’s Head. The door banged shut, and Violet was alone. The road was empty save for a grey-haired woman hobbling in the direction of Bell Lane. The temperature had dropped further, and clouds covered the moon. The raucous sound of the fiddle that had irritated Violet before was strangely comforting. She returned to her spy hole in the window to check Lawrence’s progress. He was still close to the door and a woman was talking to him. She had evidently been drinking, and Lawrence was trying to disentangle himself from her clutches. He looked impatient and angry, his plan thwarted. Violet turned away and sighed. It would be a long wait.

  “Help me.”

  Violet spun around as she heard a faint voice. It was childlike, pitiful.

  “Help me, Miss.”

  She stepped away from the Paul’s Head and looked around. There was nothing — not a person in sight.

  “I’m frightened.” The voice was crying. She could not see the owner, but as she moved to her left, the sobs became louder and more urgent. Violet edged closer. She was stepping away from the illuminated window panes of The Paul’s Head towards inky blackness. Loud sniffs accompanied the muffled sobs.

  “Help me.” The voice led Violet towards another narrow alleyway. She peered around the corner. There was still nothing in sight, but she could hear the whispered gasps of someone trying to stifle their fear. Violet’s eyes adjusted to the dark. At the bottom of the alleyway, she saw a little girl. The child stood alone, clutching what looked like a hat. She trembled so hard that Violet could see her shake in spite of the darkness. The child was almost choking with distress.

  “Oh, come here.” Violet held her arms open. The girl did not move.

  “Come to me. I can help you.”

  The child remained where she was, rigid with terror.

  “I’ll find you, then.” Violet edged her way down the dark alley reaching out towards the terrified girl. She was nearly close enough to touch her. Glistening tear tracks ran down the sunken-cheeked, dirty face. The little girl wore rags, and a pool of liquid surrounded her holed boots where she had wet herself. Her eyes were round and anguished. As Violet knelt, the girl gasped. A sudden force propelled her forwards and bought her to her senses. She shrieked and darted up the alleyway leaving Violet sprawled on the ground. Violet stood up, disorientated and a shadow loomed ahead. It was a man, tall and menacing. She stepped back, sick with terror as the man moved towards her. A scarf covered his lower face, and his eyes were dark with malice. Before Violet could react, his arm snaked out and pulled her back into his chest. She heard a scream and realised it was coming fro
m her mouth. Something cold pressed against her throat. She screamed again. A volley of footsteps thundered down the alley.

  “Stay away,” hissed a voice as Violet’s assailant slunk into the shadows and vaulted a low wall at the end.

  “Are you alright, Miss?” Violet stared uncomprehendingly at her rescuer. He was a night porter and was holding a lantern. His face was kind. “Did he hurt you?”

  Violet clutched her throat. It was wet. She looked at her hand and placed it in the beam of light. Blood.

  “He cut me. Did you see him?”

  “I did. Let’s get you out of here.”

  He escorted Violet onto Crispin Street and towards The Paul’s Head. The doors were open, the drinkers now outside on the street, curious about the source of the screams.

  “Oh God, Violet.” It was Lawrence. He rushed towards her. “What happened?”

  “There was a man in the alley, a stranger. He cut me.” Violet’s hand was still over her wound. She was trembling.

  Lawrence took her hand and examined her neck. “Still bleeding, but superficial,” he said. “Here, hold this over the cut.” He passed her a clean white handkerchief. Violet held it to her neck and stared dumbly at Lawrence.

  “Oh, Violet.” He pulled her towards him and held her in his arms. He stood a head taller, and he rested his chin against her head. Her hair smelled clean, her skin fresh, but he could feel her fear. She was trying hard to be brave while shaking involuntarily. He kissed her on the forehead. “We need to get you to hospital.”

  “No. You said it wasn’t serious.”

  “You won’t bleed out,” said Lawrence, “but it needs cleaning up, and we ought to find a policeman.”

  “Did you get cut by the Ripper?” The woman who had accosted Lawrence in the bar tugged at Violet’s cloak. Violet recoiled at the stench of alcohol and rotting teeth.

  “Go away,” said Lawrence angrily.

  “Oh, my gawd,” cried the woman. “You’ve been got by Jack. He’s back.”

  Lawrence pulled away from Violet and faced the crowd.

  “Was it Jack?” asked the owner of the dog.

  “It ain’t safe,” said another woman. “And nobody cares about us.”

  A tall man brandished a piece of lead pipe. “I’ll kill ‘im, so I will.”

  “It wasn’t the Ripper,” said Lawrence. The mood was turning ugly. The situation would be easier to manage if the rowdy, unpredictable occupants of The Paul’s Head weren’t afraid.

  “Get back inside,” said the night porter. “Leave the lady alone.”

  The man with the lead pipe spat on the pavement. He glared at Lawrence then threw the weapon on the floor before returning to the bar. The other drinkers followed.

  “Do you have a whistle?” asked Lawrence. “We need a policeman.”

  “You’ll see one any minute,” said the night porter. “Crispin Street is on his beat.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “A little. I heard the lady scream. A small child tore out of the alley - nearly knocked me off my feet and I saw him with a knife to her neck. One more minute and it would have been, well, you know.”

  “God.” Lawrence put his hand to his mouth. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “Hey - you.” The night watchman darted across the street. “Rachel, come here.” He knelt by a large metal container on the other side of the road. “It’s alright. You’re safe. Come with me.” He returned to the front of the public-house hand in hand with a little girl.

  “Oh, you poor thing.” Violet reached towards the girl and stroked her cheek.

  “Who is she?” asked Lawrence.

  “Solly Cohen’s youngest,” said the night watchman. “I didn’t recognise her when she was running full pelt towards me.”

  “She was at the bottom of the alley - with him,” said Violet.

  Lawrence dropped to one knee. “Did you know the man in the alley?” he asked.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Why were you with him?”

  Rachel turned towards the night watchman and buried her head in his coat.

  “Don’t worry. You aren’t in trouble young Rachel,” said the watchman. “Tell the gent what you were doing there.”

  The girl sniffed. Her bottom lip trembled. “I was walking past the alleyway, and the man said he would give me a penny if I helped him look for his dog. I went with him, and he pointed to the coal cellar and said the dog was in there. I took my hat off and was about to go inside when he grabbed me and put a knife in my neck.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “No. I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt. The man said he wouldn’t hurt me if I did as he asked.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said I was to shout for help, but not too loudly, so I yelled, and it wasn’t loud enough. He kept saying shout louder or shout softer and jabbed me in the neck with the knife until I was so frightened that I couldn’t make my voice change. I couldn't stop crying. The child sniffed again, and tears fell silently down her cheeks.

  “Do you know where she lives?” asked Lawrence. The porter nodded.

  “Better get her home.”

  “There’s your policeman now.”

  The soft glow of a bullseye lantern proceeded PC141. “Come on Violet. We’ll get you to the police station then straight to a hospital.

  Violet opened her mouth to protest.

  “I mean it,” said Lawrence. They watched the night watchman and the little girl fade into the night. Violet removed the blood-stained handkerchief from her neck. Her legs almost gave way at the sight of her blood. She had been seconds away from death, and it was no random attack. “Stay away,” the man had said. It was personal.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Prevention Is Better Than Cure

  Thursday 5th April 1888

  Thank God I keep a journal. There has been another attack on a woman in Whitechapel, this time in Wentworth Street. It is only a short distance from the place that the unfortunate Annie Millwood met her fate. Or rather, that she met me. Not the real me, but the brute that wakes during the attacks.

  I have spent the short time since the last event, cataloguing my memories, such as they are and continue to analyse my behaviour and my symptoms. I have always found my condition fascinating right from the early days when it was of short duration and barely noticeable. I have never been afraid of it and even now, knowing the full extent of my actions, I no longer rail or panic as the memories return. Instead, I am passive, almost detached. The self-loathing comes later, usually as a result of reading newspaper reports.

  But I digress. I had not killed this time which meant that the preventative measures I employed were working. I no longer carry a knife, and I keep the tools I use in the course of my trade at work. They are not taken with me, as was my custom. I have stopped using the railway and, most usefully, I keep a detailed log of my movements. I note the time I leave, where I go and even how long I take to get there. It is all in my journal.

  The murder in Whitechapel took place on Tuesday. Another fallen woman, another alcoholic, felled by an unspeakable act in the dead of night. I heard about it as I walked through Holborn yesterday. The newspaper boys were chanting ‘another Ripper murder’ in their high-pitched cockney voices. Men and women flocked towards them to buy a paper and indulge in their unsavoury thrills. I was one of them, of course. I do not enjoy gratuitous violence, which might seem like a strange thing to say after recent events. I purchased the paper only because I needed to glean enough details to rule out my potential involvement.

  I felt sure of my innocence this time. There were no snatches of memory, nor recollections of my journey home from somewhere unfamiliar. I bought a paper and took it into the coffee room of the nearby Crown Hotel and spread it across the table while drinking the steaming liquid to steel myself. I scoured the paper, looking for the time of day for which I would need to account. When I found it, I took my journal from my coat pocket wh
ich I kept on my person at all times for obvious reasons. It was the work of a moment to establish that I was, as I already thought, at home that night. Not only had I stayed at home, but I even recorded the time that I retired to bed, which was a little after ten o'clock. I was not involved in the murder of Emma Smith, and it came as an enormous relief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Missing Page

  Wednesday 20th June 1888

  Something dreadful has occurred - a calamity, a dire situation that I cannot see a way through. It was all going so well. My journal keeping, avoiding the railway - everything worked as I planned. There were no further repetitions of the incidents of February and March.

  My illness lay mostly dormant with only one or two new episodes lasting a few seconds at most. I was in full control of my faculties until this afternoon.

  I travelled to Westminster, as usual, walking instead of using transportation. I had come to deplore transport of any kind. It might have been an overreaction on my part, but I concluded that the sounds and motion of mechanical carriers precipitated my attacks. The most severe incidents had happened during train travel, and it struck me that they could be similarly induced in a tram or carriage by the clip-clop of hooves. It was possible, and I wasn’t prepared to take the chance.

  I arrived at my destination in good time and joined the meeting, alert and interested. The June weather was fine and sunny. The windows were open, but I found my eyelids growing heavy, and my concentration began to lapse. I removed my jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, immediately feeling much better. The talk was fascinating, and at the end, I met the speaker, and we discussed the merits of his theories. We talked for half an hour, and one by one the other members slipped away until there were only four of us left in the room.

  I said goodbye and went to retrieve my jacket. Fear slithered through my chest as I saw that the journal had fallen from my pocket and lay splayed across the floor underneath the chair. I grabbed it and frantically stowed loose newspaper articles back into the notebook. I turned to see if anyone had noticed. Nobody was facing me. As my heartbeat slowed, I realised that it wouldn't matter if they had. There was nothing untoward about the journal, and it would not have looked suspicious even if they had seen it on the floor. I was panicking for nothing.