Jack The Ripper: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

CHAPTER five

Profiled

The week was a whirlwind of activity. Holmes and Dr. Watson worked tirelessly to verify witnesses’ stories, as well as to call in more people to give testimony—though most of it amounted to nothing. Poor Mary was buried, her mourners made up of people who lived in her lodging house or friends from the bar.

To Holmes’ immense frustration, the investigation was going nowhere. He grew tenser and more taciturn than usual, but he was loath to admit the murder was linked to the others that had taken place. It was too violent and too bizarre—he knew in his gut that they were not connected. A week later, on the eighth of September, Holmes’ initial reaction was confirmed: another body was found under much the same conditions as the first one.

Annie Chapman was a widow and the mother of three grown children who had long since moved on to live their own lives. She was short, about five feet four inches tall, with mousy blond hair; she was 47 years of age. Her husband had been dead for years, and she had never gotten back on her feet financially. John had died from cirrhosis of the liver and Annie, herself, was an alcoholic. It helped to deaden the pain of having no family around. At first, she had taken in needlework to make ends meet—when she still failed to earn enough to live, she turned to prostitution.

In September 1888, she lived in a lodging house where the boarders paid by the day. She had been down on her luck and did not have the money for even one more night. She told the landlord, as he kicked her out, that she would have the money when she returned; he did not believe her, although she begged him to hold her a room. He waved her off as she drunkenly left the house and stepped out into the streets of Spitalfields.

She would never need that room—for the next morning she was found murdered in the backyard of a house on Hanbury Street.

As soon as the police had been notified, Inspector Grant sent a messenger to Holmes and told him the address where the murder had taken place. Holmes immediately dressed and made his way to the scene, a notebook in his breast pocket. Dr. Watson did not come with him this time, being otherwise committed.

The poor woman lay there with two deep cuts on her throat, both of which reached her spine—exactly as Mary had been mutilated. Annie’s stomach had been ripped wide open and her uterus, upper vagina, and two thirds of her bladder were missing. All of her small intestines had been chopped and removed but remained behind, laid out upon her right shoulder. Portions of her pubic area had been put on her left shoulder. It was a horrid sight, and Holmes had to fight himself not to retch. The officers at the scene were pale and shocked, and the mood was a somber one.

“I guess this confirms it, Detective,” Holmes told Grant. “We have a serial killer now. These two murders are nothing like the other ones.”

“Yes, I am afraid you are right, dear Sherlock. The town will go wild when they know we have a monster in our midst,” Grant said. “We will have to post bulletins warning the women in this area—they must stay off the streets. Though I doubt many listen, as they rely heavily on any small daily income they make.”

“Did the officers touch the victim’s clothing?” Holmes asked. “Has anyone, to your knowledge, touched the body?”

“My officers swear they have not,” said Grant.

“Come with me, then,” said Holmes.

He and Grant knelt by the body, and Holmes took a small, soft brush from his pocket, along with a packet of dark powder.

“Graphite,” he said by way of explanation. “Though I have been thinking further about fingerprinting, and I doubt we would be able to get any from the body itself; any sweat, hair, or violent movement would interfere with a clear impression.”

“Will you dust all of her?” said Grant, looking worried. “That seems indecorous. We must respect the dead.”

“I will just dust the places where the Ripper might have seized her,” answered Holmes. “Her wrists, or her neck. Of course, if she was wearing a brooch or other piece of jewelry on which a fingerprint would show clearly, that would be ideal.”

Grant watched as Holmes methodically went about dusting the body, and a short time later the detective rose to his feet. “Nothing—this time,” he said. “But perhaps we will still gather important evidence from any witnesses who were nearby.”

“My officers are preparing a list according to the usual protocol,” said Grant. “Is there anything else we should know?”

“I have been thinking in depth upon this, yes,” said Holmes. “I suspect this killer has advanced knowledge of human anatomy—a layperson could not have so efficiently removed the missing organs, or even identified them in the carnage. Our perpetrator could be a doctor, a butcher, a medical student, and there are even more possibilities beyond that.”

“Yes, I thought of that too—that he must have some sort of specialized education or skill. He quite possibly lives in the area too, since these identical murders are less than a mile apart.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “Though he would be a bold and reckless killer to make his hunting grounds anywhere near his own home.”

Annie’s body was removed, and Holmes remained at the scene until he was sure he had left no clue behind; it was still quite early in the morning. He then went home to pick up Dr. Watson, for he knew his friend would be there waiting on him. Then they would go to Scotland Yard and work up a profile—it was finally time to employ a technique taught to him by his old friend, Edmond Dantes.

As Holmes waited for Dr. Watson to finish the breakfast Mrs. Parker had prepared for them, Sherlock began to look through several days’ worth of mail; though he was a tidy man, it often slipped his mind to sort it. When a postcard slipped from the mix, Holmes reached down to his feet to retrieve it—
how odd
, he thought.
None of my acquaintances have gone abroad or on any sort of trip
. The postcard had a picture of a bubbling brook on the front. Scrawled on the card were the words,
“The game has begun.”

A flash of confusion jolted through him. Who would send him such a cryptic message? Was this from the killer? Had he zeroed in on Holmes as a contact? It was not news that Holmes was working on the cases with the police—he was a prominent figure in London after so many successful investigations in the past—so it would have been quite simple to find out his address. There was no postmark, so someone had dropped the card directly into his mail slot. Holmes was intimidated by no man, but he was irritated that anyone would dare to disturb the privacy and comfort of his home, even with something as small as a postcard.

“Look, Watson,” he said to his friend.

After Dr. Watson had read the card, he looked puzzled. “Do you believe this is from the killer? Could he be targeting you?”

“I can’t think of who else would send me such an obscure message—and any friends or acquaintances would know I would not be amused by any sort of riddle or game.”

“Oh, Holmes. That worries me so. We have to find this killer before he does anything to you.”

“I don’t believe he wants to hurt me—we mustn’t jump to that conclusion. I think he knows of my skill as an investigator and is daring me to catch him. It probably amuses him to taunt me as he waits to find his next victim. Let’s be off to the Yard and get to work on that profile.”

“Immediately, of course,” Dr. Watson said, pushing himself away from the table.

“Also, let’s not mention this card to Inspector Grant for the time being. I want to decide what to do on my own,” Holmes told his friend.

“Rightly so. It is your business, after all, and I can’t see how Inspector Grant knowing of the message would help him solve the crime.”

Once Holmes reached his desk at Scotland Yard, he pulled out his notebook and pen and started jotting down thoughts as they came into his head. The great Count of Monte Cristo had taught him a few things about a method of investigation called criminal profiling, and he intended to finally put this knowledge to use. He wished his dear friend could be with him now—he was sure the Count would have some insight even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t deduce on his own.

“Watson, I do not believe this person is married. If he ever was, it was most likely to a woman much older, and the union failed a short time after it was started.”

Dr. Watson furrowed his brow. “And how have you concluded this?” he asked. “I’m not sure I follow your reasoning.”

“Both of the victims have been women in middle age,” Holmes answered. “There are legions of young, beautiful women on the streets as well—and yet our murderer is targeting victims of a certain age. I also believe that most of his sexual encounters have been with prostitutes. He seems to be focusing himself on them. He may even be impotent, since no violations occur either before or after the murder.”

“That is very interesting,” said Dr. Watson. “What else have you come upon?”

“I think that the clothes he wears are not his everyday attire. To approach a prostitute, he would need to look as if he has the money, and thus he dresses in his finest—if he appears wealthy, the women would be much more likely to go with him into a dark alley, in hopes that he would pay well for their services. I also feel he is a loner; otherwise, someone would notice the odd hours he must keep, not to mention any clothing covered in blood.”

“Well, what about his job? How can he be up all night to do these murders and still report regularly to work?”

“As I mentioned before, I believe he has to know the human anatomy to a certain degree. He could have a job where he works mostly alone,” Holmes continued. “He would be able to keep his own hours, or have some flexibility in them. Or perhaps he just doesn’t require much sleep. There have been two murders, with one week in between—one sleepless night a week would not affect a healthy, strong man in any real way. And he may not have a job at all.”

Inspector Grant walked up at that time.

“Have you had any luck in your profiling?” he asked as he pulled up a chair. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of your method, but I trust it will yield something of value to our investigation.”

“We are just getting started,” Holmes told him. “It is an involved process, and one that takes much concentration and thought.”

He passed over his notes and let Grant read what he had just written.

Holmes lit a cigar, took a long drag, and continued. “I think this man holds things inside and they come out in his doing destructive, awful things. Murder is the only way he can get relief from his inner demons.”

“So murdering these women is a way to vent his own frustration and anger?” Grant asked.

“Yes. I fear there will be more murders. He appears to just be getting started, given the distinctive signature he is leaving on each body. Maybe those other murders in the area gave him the impetus to get started, but I do not know.”

“What else do you suspect?” Grant inquired. “I will eagerly listen to any theory you have.”

“I do think he lives in the Whitechapel area, as you yourself suggested, and he could have some kind of physical deformity or other strange characteristic that makes him uncomfortable around people. That could also be why he strikes in the dark, where he can move with confidence.”

“Yes.”

“I also believe he is quiet and unassuming. Nobody would ever take a second look at this person. He may even have been interrogated as a witness already. We should undertake some door-to-door questioning of people living in the area of the murders, in case we missed a witness in our first sweep. Chances are, he will be one of those we speak to.”

Inspector Grant thought for a minute. “Please make a list of your thoughts that we can post for all the detectives to see. Keep working on your profile, but make haste with it. I also fear he is not done, and we need to work swiftly,” Grant told Holmes.

Dr. Watson wrote out the list, since he had impeccable handwriting, and it was posted for the detectives to see. Each patrolman had his own copy as well.

CHAPTER six

Taunting Card

The next day, Holmes and Watson went out into the field to conduct interviews about Annie’s murder. There weren’t as many witnesses as there had been with Mary’s murder, but Holmes still held out hope that they would discover something substantial.

Their first stop was to the Crossingham’s Lodging House on Dorset Street, the place where Annie lived when she could afford it. The cost was eight pence a night for a bed. They had made an appointment to speak to the landlord, Timothy Donovan, about his tenant.

“Mr. Donovan, can you tell us about the night before Annie was found murdered and anything else you remember about her?”

“Yes sir. Annie had a terrible time keeping her rent paid. She drank the money away most times and I could not keep giving her a room for free, so some nights I had to turn her away. This was the case on that night,” the landlord told them.

“What do you mean?” asked Dr. Watson.

“Well, she had not been feeling well and had come to the last of her money. She asked if she could sit in the kitchen with her friends for a while that night. I told her she could. She was a nice woman and did embroidery and sold flowers to supplement her income. I knew she had fallen on some hard times, but I can’t just give away my rooms. I have to make money too,” the man said, feeling a sharp pang of guilt for sending Annie into the night alone.

“Please continue.”

“She had two regular clients—a man named Harry, though I can’t remember his surname, and Ted Stanley. Ted visited here often and would pay me to turn her out if she had any liaisons with another. He will deny this and say he only visited her once or twice, I would bet, but trust me, he was a regular. I can give you his address if you want. He doesn’t live far from here, but I have to tell you he is married. If you do visit him, I’m sure he would appreciate discretion.”

“We will collect the address from you at the end of our talk,” said Holmes. “Do you have any other details you want to discuss with us?”

“Eliza Cooper is another guest here frequently, and she and Annie used to be friends, but they had a bad argument recently. She resides in room number three, and may be able to give you more details about Annie’s life than I can.”

“Thank you again.”

The men finished up their interview and asked to see Eliza, but were told she was out, so they decided to go visit Mr. Stanley and then come back. He said exactly what the landlord had said he would say, and upon conclusion of that interview they returned to Dorset Street to speak with Eliza.

“Ms. Cooper, we understand that you and the murder victim had an argument not long before her death,” Holmes told the woman seated in front of him at the kitchen table of the lodging house.

“Well, she borrowed some soap from me and never returned it. She let one of her men use it, and every time I asked for it back, she gave me some excuse. Money doesn’t grow on trees you know,” the woman said with a sneer. “I can’t be buying soap willy-nilly.”

“Of course—we do understand that. We also understand that you saw Annie in a bar and slapped her, which started an argument. Annie’s body had bruises on it, and they seem to be from you hitting her.”

“She had it coming. She threw a penny at me and told me to go buy a penny’s worth of soap!”

“That does not sound like cause for a fistfight,” Holmes told her.

“Maybe not—but I’ve always had a fierce temper. I am sorry she is dead. We used to be friends,” the woman said, growing pensive. “Are we safe here?”

“We are doing our best to make it so.”

Continuing, she said, “I do remember seeing Annie on Hanbury Street that morning about 5:30. She was talking to a man whose back was to me. The man said ‘Will you?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’ That’s all I heard. He was not dressed very sharply, so he probably did not have money, and those sorts of men do not interest me.”

“We are doing everything we can to catch the killer. If you have any other information you can give us we would appreciate it,” Holmes said as he took out a few business cards and gave them to her. “If you would pass that along to the other tenants, we would appreciate it.”

With that, the two men took their leave and went to see Albert Cadosh, who lived next door to where Annie’s body had been found.

“What can you tell us, sir, about this morning?” Holmes asked the man who answered their knock at the door and identified himself as Mr. Cadosh.

“It was about 5:30 A.M. when I went into the backyard of my house. I heard a woman’s voice say ‘no.’ That’s all. I was too busy relieving my bladder to snoop. But when my neighbor, John Davis, went into his back yard at number twenty-nine about 6:00 A.M. and discovered the body, I knew it had to be the woman I had heard.”

“Did you wait for the police and ambulance to come and get the body?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Have you been interrogated by any other police about this?”

The man told them he had, so Holmes and Dr. Watson knew they probably would not have much to add to this man’s file.

They found Amelia Palmer, their next witness, at the corner bar. When they announced who they were and asked for anyone to step forward if they had seen Annie that morning, Ms. Palmer walked over to them.

“Annie was my friend. I saw her just a few days before on the street. She had bruising on her right temple and looked very upset. She also opened up her dress and showed me bruising on her chest. She told me she had gotten into a fight with a woman at the tavern. I was real worried about her, because she had not been feeling well lately.” The woman fingered the buttons running down the front of her dress. “I also saw her a couple of days later. She looked no better, and I asked if she had eaten. She told me she had not, and that she had been feeling poorly, so I gave her a little money and told her not to spend it on drink. I don't know if she did or not.”

“Do you have reason to believe she was in danger?”

“I do not know, but I did pass her just yesterday, standing on the street corner with a man. She made some remark that she ‘couldn’t give it away, she had to make some money or she wouldn’t have a place to stay.’ Those were the last words I heard from her.”

“Do you recall what the fellow looked like?” asked Holmes.

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember the scene. “I think he was dark complected—I wasn’t paying much attention to his face, to be honest—but I do know he was wearing a leather apron. I thought that was very odd—of course, butchers and even surgeons wear them—but they usually don’t wander the streets in them.”

Holmes got a gleam in his eye at this time—one of his suspicions had been confirmed—but he said nothing further other than to thank Amelia for her time.

Dr. Watson had to return home, and Holmes walked to the station to rewrite his notes and compare them with any others taken from these witnesses. Inspector Grant, seeing the detective had returned, hurried over to his desk.

“Holmes, I need to speak with you.”

“Yes sir.”

With that, Grant tossed one of Holmes’ business cards on the desk before him.

“Where did you get my card?” questioned Holmes.

“It was found part-ways under the body of our latest murder victim,” Grant answered.

There was a stunned silence.

“I do not understand,” Holmes said.

“Could you have dropped your card during the examination of Annie’s body?” asked Grant.

“I suppose it’s possible.” But Holmes was thinking that he did not have any business cards with him that morning. He had taken a fresh suit and only put his cards into the pocket when he and Dr. Watson returned home. He did not reveal this little fact—his instincts told him to keep it as quiet as he had the message he received in the mail. He would discuss it with Dr. Watson later that evening. He was sure now that the killer was taunting him.

“Well, I thought that’s probably what happened. I just wanted to let you know. Keep up the good work, Holmes.”

With that, Inspector Grant was on his way.

More witnesses came in and out during the rest of the day, but Holmes was not involved in all of the interviews. His mind was only half-heartedly operating at that time. The question that kept running through his thoughts was,
Why is this killer targeting
me
?

CHAPTER seven

In So Many Words

Mrs. Parker prepared a fine supper that night. She had roasted a pig and sautéed new potatoes in garlic and butter with asparagus and cheese sauce. The bread was crusty and fresh, and the ale was chilled. The men’s mouths were watering just walking to the table. They were both famished, and they felt at that moment an immense appreciation for Mrs. Parker.

Holmes told his friend about the day’s events and asked for his advice.

“It does seem that our culprit is bringing you into this, Holmes. You have to be very careful, or else you will be accused of these murders before you know it,” Dr. Watson told him. “Especially if the police find another of your cards at a murder scene.”

“How well I know this—though I would like to believe that Scotland Yard would be clever enough to realize a murderer would not leave his own name at the scene of every crime. Do you think I did the right thing by holding my tongue about the postcard and what I know about the business card? Should I tell Grant?”

“No, I think you are doing the right thing at this point. We have to find out how the murderer got your card. Do you have any ideas?”

“No.”

“Well, I imagine there are any number of your cards circulating London—you leave them when you make a call, or investigate witnesses. Perhaps you have given out your card to the murderer without knowing it.”

“True. Both could be true. We will just see what happens next and be on the alert. I will need you to help me, old friend, by searching any future murder sites. If this vile fellow is trying to frame me, he’s not as clever as I thought—or otherwise he would not use so obvious a method. I think he is merely trying to catch my attention and let me know that he is very aware I am on his trail.”

The men stayed up most of the night going over the interviews from both murders. There did not seem to be a common thread among them as far as identifying a perpetrator. The only connection between the murders was that the way the killing was performed was almost identical; that the victims were prostitutes; and that the victims were of a similar age. Holmes and Watson needed to concentrate on the profile and pay close attention when they did their interviews as to whom among the suspects had the traits they had identified.

The next day at the precinct, a loud buzz of excited conversation blanketed the room. The mail had just run. A letter had arrived that was supposedly from the murderer. Everyone was called together and the letter read.

Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t 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 in 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.

P.S. 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. Haha

Silence. Everyone was deep in thought, and then the noise of chatter and speculation became deafening once more.

“Now everyone, we must focus,” Inspector Grant said. “Go by the profile Inspector Holmes wrote for us. Pay close attention to anyone you run across, no matter how mild-mannered or innocent they seem. Remember, this man more than likely looks just like an everyday citizen. He’s told us he’s planning another murder, so we must be swift and try to stay ahead of the game.”

Holmes stepped forward and gestured for the men to wait just as they started to disperse. “Sirs, please give me a moment more of your day. When you’re studying the profile and interviewing witnesses, you must keep one thing in the forefront of your mind: logic. There’s nothing more important in solving crimes.

“Though many cultures have had famed fathers of logical thinking, in England we are most familiar with the Greek philosopher Aristotle. There are many forms of logic, but the basis he gave us—which evolved into a focus on inductive and deductive reasoning—remains the most important for investigatory work in today’s era.