The Ripper Deception Read online

  Lawrence pulled a candle and matches from his pocket and surveyed the room. He was in a storage area containing all manner of household items neatly stacked around him. On a high shelf, above a dressing unit, three lamps stood side by side. He reached up, and eased one of the lanterns to the front, then used the candle to light it. He opened the door and ventured into a short passageway leading to the main body of the house. The hall, which he recognised, led to the library and he reached for the door. It was locked, but Lawrence had already noticed a collection of keys dangling from hooks in the storeroom. He returned, collected them and tried each in turn. The third attempt proved successful.

  The library was freezing and judging by the temperature, had been empty for several hours. A shaft of patchy moonlight glowed against the bookcases in front of the window. Lawrence held the lamp aloft. Fat snowflakes fluttered from the sky, twirling and dancing before his eyes as the wind buffeted them. He tore his gaze away, shivering as he approached the narrow desk. The lamp flickered as he set it on top. He pulled a wooden chair towards the desk, stifling a yawn as he sat down with a sense of relief. It was late, and he had been walking for hours. He opened the desk drawer and felt for the button. As soon as he pressed it, the secret drawer sprang towards him. With bated breath, Lawrence removed the inverted J key from his breast pocket and compared it to the lock. It was a close match. He inserted the key, exhaling as it unlocked with a satisfying click and he slid the drawer open. Inside were pieces of folded paper covered in scratchy handwriting. A sealed cream coloured envelope written in a different hand lay on top of the letters. Lawrence pushed it to one side and unfolded one of the documents. He scanned it, frowning, as snatches of sentences passed his eyes leaving no doubt of their provenance. He was looking at the writings of a killer. Lawrence opened another paper dated August 1888. The graphic details of the murder could only have come from the perpetrator. Haim must have written them. But why? And why had he kept them? No matter, it would be useful proof for Scotland Yard. Lawrence shoved the papers into his coat pocket. He could read them at any time. Better to finish as soon as possible and get away. He ran his fingers along the bottom of the small drawer to check he hadn’t missed anything. It was empty, but the cream covered envelope still lay sealed on the desk. Lawrence reached for a letter opener and slit the flap before removing two sheets of thin paper. Writing covered both sides and the ink had bled making them difficult to read. Lawrence adjusted the lamp until it shone on the leaves of paper and peered at the pages. He read them, eyes wide, as the full horror of the words dawned upon him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Truth About Mary

  15th June 1889

  I write these words in shame and apprehension. The shame requires no explanation, but my anxiety is borne of fear. Fear of the man I am sworn to protect.

  What price loyalty? Does love outweigh truth? Or respect come ahead of honour? How are these things measured? Pity me, for I have chosen loyalty over life, prepared to risk my freedom to protect my friend. We have stood side by side for so long that I feel compelled to safeguard his interests, and if all goes according to plan, we will both remain at liberty. But the extent of his failings has become more evident, and my life may be at risk. I have chosen to record the truth for posterity though whether anyone will read it, I do not know.

  Our friend, our dear friend, has ailed for some time. His affliction, though not widely known, was no secret from those of us who were close to him. But it grew worse, and the distortion of his personality became apparent, especially after dusk. We were wrong to conceal the murder of Edmund Gurney in June of 1888. We respected him, and he had been part of our organisation since its inception. There are some lengths to which I would not stoop. I want it known that I was not a party to Gurney’s murder. I did not become aware of it until after the fact. Gurney had discovered our friend’s involvement in the death of two women. Without wishing to sound trite, they were women of ill-repute. Their killings passed largely unnoticed. The police did not link the crimes to those that became known as the Ripper killings, and we did not connect them either. We would have been none the wiser if that weasel D’Onston had not become involved. D’Onston is a despicable man - a blackmailer and a fraud. I hold him partly responsible for the action I have taken which will be my undoing if my fragile mind survives it.

  We paid D’Onston to disappear, and for a while he did. We thought the matter was over, but a series of brutal killings occurred in the Autumn of 1888. D’Onston came to suspect the truth long before we, who should have known better, realised. When a double slaying occurred late in September, D’Onston approached us again through the personal column of the newspaper. It wasn’t until then that the three of us understood that the man they called Jack the Ripper was the man we were sworn to protect. We approached our friend and asked him outright, and he did not falter in his reply but confessed straight away. Our friend was contrite and terrified of exposure. He told us that a witness to one of the crimes had seen his face. He is not a monster, although he might seem like one. He is a good man afflicted with a terrible urge, but one that is containable. He trusted three of us with his secret, and we met that very night to discuss what we could do. We made two resolutions. The first was practical. At no time would he be left alone at night, and we arranged a companion to that end. The second resolution was to give him an alibi. To ensure his visibility elsewhere by reputable people in case D’Onston involved the police. It was a sound idea, but only achievable if there was another killing. We decided to manufacture one.

  How cold that seems in hindsight. How clinical and calculating. It is far easier to make a plan than carry it out. For the best effect, the killing would need to occur on a particular day. We selected the 9th of November as it was the Lord Mayor’s day and memorable. This death, unlike the others, must take place inside, where there was no chance of interruption. Somewhere that another man could replicate the previous murders. A man with no prior experience of killing. A man who had never even seen a dead body. A man who had never wielded a weapon in anger. I was that man. There was never any question of one of the others doing it. They were not practical men. Intellectual yes, but not cut out for the job in hand and the cold detachment it required. Neither, as it turned out, was I.

  We chose Mary Kelly because she lived nearby. Other fallen women lived closer, but none of them dwelled alone. Nor were they as accommodating and friendly as she. The location was important. Although I lived my life privately, a woman who lived in closer proximity might have recognised me. The time of the murder would not matter as long as it took place on the designated day. I prepared well, committing to memory details contained in a journal that our friend had foolishly written. His earlier entries were useless, but he committed the later murders with full awareness giving me an opportunity to duplicate them.

  Late on the 8th of November, I tracked Mary to her squalid room off Dorset Street. I could not find her, at first. She was out and had been drinking, so I waited nearby, and she went off with yet another man. She was absent for several hours. If she had been any later, I would have abandoned the task, but in the early hours of Friday morning, she staggered up the road, singing. I was standing in the shadows on the corner of Thrawl Street. I tapped her on the shoulder as she passed by and held out my palm containing twice as much money as she could expect to earn in a night. She reached for the coins, and I closed my fist. “You will have to earn it,” I said. She giggled and took my hand and led me to her room in Millers Court.

  It was that easy. Even with all the warnings and newspaper reports about the fiend of Whitechapel, she went like a lamb to the slaughter, the lure of money surpassing any fear. Yet it was that innocence, that willingness to please that almost stopped me in my tracks. When we arrived at her room, she reached for me, pulling me to her bed. She kissed me and began to remove her clothes. She was gentle and tender, and I recoiled from her. To commit the crime that I had steeled myself for, I could not afford to beco
me attached. Her kiss, the feel of her warm hand on my face, had already unnerved me. It was the closest contact I had with a woman in a long time, and Mary Kelly was neither dirty nor unkempt. She smelled clean, and she dressed well. In another world, at another time, I might have been tempted.

  She reclined on the bed smiling. “Don’t be shy,” she said, beckoning me towards her. I removed my heavy overcoat and hat, discarding them by the door and felt for the knife that I had secreted in the back of my trousers. I knelt beside her, and she reached towards me. Time froze as my heart thudded against my chest, and a momentary battle raged between my conscience and loyalty. Loyalty won. I grasped my knife and sliced it into her neck. She barely had time to register what was happening before a thick slew of blood gushed from the wound, and her head dropped to one side. Her dying eyes stared as I removed my shirt and trousers and steeled myself for what was to follow.

  Before beginning, I reached into my coat pocket and removed the cork from a blue glass bottle I had stashed earlier. I drained the bottle dry and waited a moment for the laudanum to take effect. Then I stood over her and began. At first, I attempted to replicate the killing of Catherine Eddowes, but I knew little about the interior of a human body. I had memorised every detail of the injuries I was required to mimic, but when I slit her abdomen open, she became less human. Viewing her like an animal to butcher, overcame my repulsion but not my confusion at the volume of blood and the complexity of her internal organs. After a while, the Laudanum took effect. A wave of euphoria came over me, and I became careless, less concerned by detail as I worked to make this woman resemble the last Ripper victim. The task was all-encompassing, and time sped by. Memories blurred as if I was in a dream, but I was not afraid or even revolted, not while the laudanum protected my mind and induced a reverie.

  After what must have been several hours, but seemed like a whole night, I stood up and surveyed my work. The mass of flesh before me no longer resembled a human being. I cannot bear to recount the details of what I did to that woman. Thank God some memories are clouded forever by the drug-induced haze. I can still recall dressing, leaving and walking home. And I have woken almost every night since haunted by the sight of her broken body. In every dream, I watch her through clawed hands dripping with blood. My hands, her blood, my living nightmare.

  We made an alibi that night. The others were grateful, but we never spoke of it again, and they left me to deal with my demons alone. I never used laudanum again. My drug of choice was gin.

  Though we cleared suspicion from the one we protected, his killings remained a burden for the organisation in general. D’Onston hadn’t gone away. He kept needling, provoking us with his pointed newspaper articles. We met again. It was tempting to see D’Onston off once and for all, but he told us that he had made plans in the event of his sudden death. We had no reason to doubt him and decided, instead, to provide a murderer.

  Montague John Druitt was known to the organisation and indulged in behaviours not approved of by many, but for which we were tolerant. The young man was a schoolteacher. An unknown member of staff had become aware of his conduct and was threatening to reveal what he was. The young man was in crisis and had written to us about his unhappiness. He was on the verge of suicide and felt there was no other choice. The last letter he wrote indicated that he was going to die. We took this opportunity to tell D’Onston that we had meted out justice to a killer who was one of our own and a body would soon appear. Whether Druitt took his own life, or we helped him, I cannot say for I was not directly involved. But his corpse weighed down with stones, turned up in the Thames in December of 1888. We gave D’Onston a final instalment of money. He must have believed that Druitt was the Ripper and to our relief, communication ceased.

  Time has moved on and the summer of 1889 approaches. Our plan was successful, and our work continues. We are all safe. Our friend is still admired and continues to live as always. He is seldom left alone at night and will need a companion for the rest of his life. On the rare occasions, he is home alone, we lock his bedroom door at ten and open it at daylight. He has never reverted to the savage he became when allowed to prowl through Whitechapel. We three do not meet to discuss him anymore. There is no need, but Mary Kelly haunts my every waking thought, and I have nobody with which to share my burden. I tried, once, to talk about it. To relieve myself of the loneliness but I was the recipient of a stern frown and a shake of the head. I never tried again.

  The voice of Mary Kelly is always with me. She beckons me still, calls me to her. I hold the knife sometimes, fingering the blade and imagine it plunging into my neck, slicing through my flesh until it hangs in ribbons. I expect it will end that way.

  February 1891

  Someone broke into my house in Gunpowder Alley recently. They ransacked it yet took nothing away. It has made me uneasy, distrustful. It might be him, though why it should be, I cannot say. Unless he knows about this letter, but even if he finds the drawer, he cannot access it without the key. As a precaution, I will move it from my house. I find myself torn between keeping his secret at all costs and preserving my life. I cannot predict which will come to pass, though I have planned for both. This letter has been cathartic. I have unburdened myself, and it helps mask the feelings of guilt. Perhaps that is enough. But for the sake of completeness, the trusted three are…

  The gas lamps ignited with a click. Lawrence gasped and dropped his lantern on the floor. Two men appeared in front of him, their faces covered by harlequin masks. “You won’t be needing that,” said a deep voice reaching for the letter. Lawrence stood and backed away.

  “Give it to me,” the man hissed.

  Lawrence looked desperately around the room. The only exit was via the door, and the two men were blocking it. If he could only reach the window, he could wrench it open and jump through before they caught up with him. But there was no chance for action. One of the men rushed towards him, catching him unawares. The man raised his hand, and Lawrence felt a crack as something slammed against his head. A searing pain crashed through his skull, and the world went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Under Attack

  Tuesday 10th March 1891

  Lawrence opened his eyes. It was daylight, but his brain couldn't rationalise what his eyes were seeing. His face was cold on one side and something wet lapped against his chin. Where was he? He tried to move his hand, but nothing happened. He could not see his arms or feel them - and he was deathly cold. He blinked again and focussed on a riverbank, white with snow. Though stiff and uncomfortable, he was mostly dry and must be under shelter. He tried to raise his head but only managed to move it an inch off the ground. It was enough to see that he was under the arch of a bridge with his head almost in the water. He concentrated. Where were his hands? Not by his sides where they should be. His heart raced and he began an internal dialogue. Stop panicking. Think. He tried to move them again - nothing. Try one finger at a time. Yes. He wiggled the thumb of his right hand and finally realised that it was behind his back. His arms wouldn't move because they were tied together. He raised his head again. It was snowing. He was numb with cold. He needed to get out of his bonds and soon.

  Lawrence tried to shuffle to one side, but his legs weren't moving either. It didn’t take long to understand that they were also bound together. He was trussed up like a turkey. How had it happened?

  He peered across the river, squinting as light stung his eyes. His head spun, and he felt sick. The indentation in the ground in which his head had been lying was red with blood - his blood. His head screamed with pain. His body was stiff and chilled to the marrow. If he didn't move soon, hypothermia would follow. He must get help. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. “Help…” The word came out, but it was inaudible. He licked his parched lips and tried again. “Help.” The word was a little louder this time, but there was nobody to hear it.

  He tried to remember how he had got to this unfamiliar destination. What was he doing? He searched in vain for
his last memory, but everything was foggy. Who was he? Oh God, he couldn’t even remember his name. All he knew for sure was that he needed urgent help.

  Lawrence wriggled his toes. They were numb, but not enough to prevent movement. He forced his legs towards the ground and the ropes gave enough for his feet to touch the surface. He ploughed the front of his shoes into the muddy ground and propelled himself forward a tiny distance. Gravel gouged his chin. Inch by painful inch, he wormed forwards across the riverbank until he passed around the bridge where there was a clearer view. A woman wearing a dirty coat and a threadbare shawl mudlarked on the banks of the freezing river. She had cleared snow from a patch of earth and was scraping it with a shovel. “Help.” Lawrence croaked, but she did not hear. He tried again, but his head was swimming. He wanted to sleep. No energy - one last try. “Help.” This time she turned her head. He gazed at her as she searched the river trying to locate the source of the sound. By the time she saw him and began her cautious approach, he had closed his eyes and succumbed to the cold. He was barely alive by the time she reached him.