A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper (24 page)

The surreal imagery of the nightmare now gave way to a new dreamscape, which, though peaceful by comparison, was equally as terrifying. I now seemed to be floating above the ground myself, slowly traversing an overgrown, deserted cemetery. As the thing that was me hovered ever closer to the ground, the headstones, row upon row of weathered and dilapidated memorials to the dead, gradually came into focus. There, in sharp relief, were the names of Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly, and, beneath each of their names, in large letters, the single word, WHORE. As I stared in horror at the despicable and ungodly vista below me, I saw a cloaked and slightly stooped figure approaching the row of graves. He carried an old-fashioned wooden-handled spade, one of those that appeared to be attached to a broom handle with no hand grip. The figure moved slowly along the line of graves and then, to my horror, he swung the spade like a weapon and I heard not the clang of metal on stone as it struck the first headstone, but instead there was a dull thud, rather as though the spade had made contact with a human head. To my ultimate horror, the gravestone of Mary Ann Nichols began to bleed!

The trickle of blood from the stone rapidly became a flood until the grass surrounding the headstone was soon stained red by the river gushing from the stone. As I watched, detached yet feeling close enough to reach out and touch the figure in black, he moved along the row of headstones, performing the same act of vandalism on each, with the same result. As the blood from the final headstone joined that of the others, the ground around the graves opened up, and with a terrible sound, like a thousand anguished souls rising up in torment, the twisted, mutilated wreckage of the departed rose from beneath the blood soaked turf. In a grim and fearful resurrection, each one wailing in resemblance of their final agony, they surrounded me as I floated above the gruesome scene, reaching out, trying to touch me as I tried to twist away in abject terror. I had to escape, for to let them touch me would have tainted me forever, that's how it felt. I kicked out, and attempted to manoeuvre myself away from the howling discord of the dead, then suddenly, I was alone in a new and quiet part of the cemetery, staring down once more, this time at a single grave with an unmarked stone. Not a single word adorned that singular stone, though as I floated closer and closer, I saw at the very bottom of the stone, almost overgrown by the grass that had sprung up around it, a short set of words that, innocent enough in themselves, sent a chill through me even in my dream state. 'Unknown Whore, Edinburgh, 1888'. Even in the midst of my nightmare, the poor Scottish girl received no recognition, no remembrance. The figure returned, swung the spade once more, and the headstone exploded into a volcano-like eruption of blood, spurting upwards in a terrifying arc, until, unable to escape the force of the tide rushing towards me, I was struck by what felt like a tidal wave of warm, sticky, human life-blood. And then, by the greatest of mercies, I woke up!

I was cold, still fully clothed, and lying on top of the bed, where I'd collapsed into that deep nightmare infested sleep. My head still held the violent and horrific images from which I'd just escaped by virtue of waking up. As my mind retreated further from the horrors induced by the nightmare, and the trembling in my body and the palpitations in my heart slowly dissipated, I looked across at the digital clock on the bedside table. It read 4.15 a.m. How long I'd slept I couldn't say, I had collapsed into bed too exhausted to notice the time. Either way, the exhaustion that had accompanied me up the stairs to the bedroom had only been compounded by the fiendish nightmare I'd just endured, and, far from feeling refreshed from whatever sleep I'd managed to achieve, I felt worse than I had before I'd ascended the stairs.

It was still dark outside, and the wind had gained in intensity as I'd slept. I heard the whispering of the leaves on the trees in the garden, as if the voices in my dream had crossed into the real world, mocking me through their chorus. As I lay unmoving on the bed, the sounds from outside my window were without doubt the saddest sounds I'd ever heard. It was as though nature itself mourned the souls of those poor wretched women. Or was it the sound of the Ripper mocking those souls, delighting in their torment, and whispering his triumph on the wind?

My mind was in turmoil. I knew I had to leave the bedroom, make myself return to a semblance of reality, and leave the nightmare behind me for good. It took an amazing amount of willpower just to move my legs from that safe, tucked up position. I was like a new born creature struggling from the womb as I slowly stretched my legs, forced myself up on one elbow, and gradually swung myself over the edge of the bed until my feet touched the floor.

Ten minutes later I was in the kitchen, with every light still blazing as I'd left them earlier, and already downing my second mug of steaming hot coffee. I'd often wondered how Sarah could drink tea or coffee so hot, laughingly telling her she'd got an asbestos palate, but that night I admit to being able to swallow the hottest coffee I'd ever tasted without feeling the heat at all. I think that was a measure of how numb I'd become, both physically and mentally.

I couldn't go back to the bedroom, I was afraid that if I fell asleep on the bed again the nightmare would return. I could have taken more of Sarah's sleeping tablets of course, but decided against it. I wanted to avoid that hung-over feeling they induced, and I knew I had to conclude my study of the journal in the next day or so, before she returned, so I wanted to be as alert as I possibly could.

Instead of the bedroom I opted for the lounge, taking a pot of hot coffee for company. I turned on the gas fire and felt its warmth begin to suffuse the room, and me with it. I hadn't realised until then quite how cold I'd become, but the fire soon brought a modicum of cheer to my aching bones and befuddled mind. I resisted the urge to turn on the twenty four hour news channel on the TV. Judging by the events of the last two days, I wasn't sure what might be revealed had I done so, and I'd had enough for one day!

I pulled up the dralon covered footstool that Sarah usually commandeered to rest her legs on in the evening, eased my feet up and made myself comfortable, and sipped at my coffee. After another two mugs of the reviving brew I felt a little more relaxed, and promised myself that I'd try to complete my reading of the journal and great-grandfather's notes during the next twenty four hours. I think that was the last coherent thought I had before my head lolled to one side against the back of the deep, comfortable armchair, and then, with the gentle hiss of the gas fire for company, and the warmth of its flame casting a comfortable glow towards my weary aching mind and body, I fell asleep once more, and this time, there were no dreams.

I woke again at 7.30, more refreshed than I'd perhaps a right to feel. The wind had dropped, the early morning sun was shining through the wide panes of the patio doors, (I hadn't closed the curtains the night before), and the room was beautifully warm; the fire had seen to that. Everything looked and felt a little better now that daylight had arrived.

I made my way, first to the bathroom, where the reflection that peered back at me from the mirror shocked me. I looked pale, dishevelled, and my eyes looked as thought they'd sunk deep into their sockets. A long, hot soak in the shower, and a good shave soon did something about the way I looked though maybe not about how I felt. Next, it was the kitchen, where a breakfast of toast and marmalade, followed by a couple of boiled eggs and yet more coffee served to deal with the second part of the problem. And, though I admit that my mind still felt as though I were being dragged unwillingly into something I didn't understand in the slightest, I felt better, yes, definitely better. The problem with mental illness of any kind is that it can creep up on the sufferer without them being aware that it's there, and everything can appear normal, when in fact, it is far from being that.

Perhaps that's why, for the first time in the last three days I felt a little optimistic, maybe at the thought of finishing the journal, completing the journey, maybe finally putting the Ripper and his sad yet murderous story to rest. Of course, that just goes to prove how naïve even a man of my education and so-called intelligence can be. Things were never going to be that simple, were they?

Miller's Court

After clearing away the remains of breakfast, I made my way back to my study, filled with my new-found optimism. I admit to feeling a degree of trepidation as I prepared to enter the room, but satisfied myself that everything that had happened over the last two days had been simply a temporary state of mind, probably induced by the recent loss of my father, the loneliness I felt at being separated from Sarah, and an overactive imagination

Even so, I pushed the door open very slowly, and looked around it before entering; as if afraid I might disturb someone, or something, within the room. The room was exactly as I'd left it the night before, at least, I thought it was. As I neared the desk, my sense of well-being quickly evaporated as I noticed the computer screen. I was sure that I'd switched the computer off as I'd left the room, yet the standby light on the monitor was green, and as I touched the mouse the screensaver flashed into life. On the task bar at the bottom of the screen was the Casebook name. I clicked on the button. The page that flashed into view was not the one I last remembered consulting. This page contained the reports of the murder of Mary Jane Kelly, with some pretty graphic descriptions of her injures included. How on earth had that got there? I definitely couldn't remember having accessed that particular page, and yet there it was. I was mystified, and the equilibrium I'd so carefully regained over the last hour evaporated, as I felt once again that I wasn't alone in the house. I knew that the Ripper would probably have written his macabre and sinister version of her death, quite possibly on the next page I came to, but first, I wanted to read the facts as recorded at the time.

I couldn't escape the awful feeling that someone was watching me, peering over my shoulder, and I spun round as quickly as I could. There was no one there of course; it was just my foolish mind.

As I began to read the sad tale of the death of Mary Kelly I was struck at once by my own stupidity. She had been killed on the night of 9th November, yet the last entry I'd read in the journal had been dated the 26
^th
October. There was still over a week to go in the journal's chronology before he struck again. Why had I thought that the murder would occur within the next couple of days; how could I have so misread the notes on my earlier scan through them? Was this why the computer had somehow led me to the notes again? Was someone, or something, trying to ensure that I followed the story of the murders correctly, and made no error along the way? It was an eerie and uncanny feeling, knowing that the page I was reading had appeared as if by magic, placed there perhaps by an unseen hand, as though it knew I was drifting away from the true course of events and wanted me to focus my mind once more on the truth of the words on the pages of the insane journal.

The facts surrounding the last canonical victim of the Ripper were as gruesome and horrific as I think a human brain could imagine. As terrible as the poor girl's injuries were, I think it appropriate to record the worst of them here so that you, the reader, can perhaps appreciate the severity and wanton destruction of the Ripper's actions on that terrible night.

Mary Jane Kelly's history is shrouded in mystery, her early life recorded purely anecdotally by the stories she herself related to her friends in London during her time there. She appears to have been born in Limerick and moved to Wales as a child when her father obtained work there at an ironworks. She was one of seven or eight children, one a sister, the rest brothers. She married a collier named Davies in 1879, who was reputed to have died in a pit accident two or three years later. She apparently became a prostitute while staying with a cousin in Cardiff, and later moved to London, where she worked for a time in a high class brothel, not surprisingly due to her youth and apparent good looks. There are, unfortunately, no records to substantiate any of the above, all of it being simply what Kelly herself related to her acquaintances. At any rate, she eventually ended up in the cess pool of humanity that made up the vast heaving population of London's East End, and lived for a time with a long-term partner, Joseph Barnett, with whom she enjoyed a relatively prosperous existence until he lost his job, and she returned once again to the streets to eke out a living from the sale of her body. As the relationship grew more and more volatile, she and Barnett separated, and she continued to reside in the tiny, one roomed dwelling that bore the address of 13 Miller's Court, Dorset Street, one of the most run down and ill reputed streets in Whitechapel. It was in that small room that her body was discovered on the morning of 9
^th
November, 1888, Mary Kelly having last been seen alive at about 2 a.m.

Doctor Thomas Bond, police surgeon to 'A' Division (Westminster), reported as follows:

Position of body

The body was lying naked in the middle of the bed, the shoulders flat, but the axis of the body inclined to the left side of the bed. The head was turned on the left cheek. The left arm was close to the body with the forearm flexed at a right angle & lying across the abdomen. The right arm was slightly abducted from the body & rested on the mattress, the elbow bent & the forearm supine with the fingers clenched. The legs were wide apart, the left thigh at right angles to the trunk & the right forming an obtuse angle with the pubes.

The whole of the surface of the abdomen & thighs was removed & the abdominal Cavity emptied of its viscera. The breasts were cut off, the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds & the face hacked beyond recognition of the features. The tissues of the neck were severed all round to the bone.

The viscera were found in various parts viz; the uterus & Kidneys with one breast under the head, the other breast by the Rt foot, the Liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side & the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table.