Tales of Jack the Ripper (21 page)

“Jack.”

She puts on her stockings and her bra.

“Here are my hands.”

Runs her fingers through her hair.

“I am motion growing… An ancient lamp to unlock the truth of your chapters.”

Bends to take in the perfume of a bundle of peach-hued flowers united in a vase.

“I will show you the petals of silence.”

(Parliament Mothership Connection)

Villains, by Necessity

Pete Rawlik

It took five days for Thomas Newcomen, formerly Inspector Thomas Newcomen of Scotland Yard, to come out from under the influence of the pipe. He hadn’t always used opium, but he like so many others had developed a taste for it while in Afghanistan. His occasional use continued after he came home to London and found employment with the Yard, but never while on duty, and only in moderation. It killed the pain, dulled the memories of the things he had done in the war, and made being a civilian more tolerable.

All that changed after he botched a case; when he couldn’t see what was, in retrospect, quite plain. Who would have thought that the events of what became known as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde would have destroyed his career. How he had missed the obvious; after years of soldiering, of hunting and tracking, was inexplicable. Afterwards, there were reprimands and a review board. His use of opium and prostitutes came out. That he was fond of young men who could stand the lash seemed particularly troublesome. So was his war record; the incident in Dewangiri, for which he had received a commendation, was being scrutinized. Had he killed all those boys out of necessity or simply wanton bloodlust? How could civilians judge what had occurred in the heat of battle?

Rather than defend himself, he took early retirement, with a significantly reduced pension. Whether it was the boredom or the depression, he eventually began using regularly, and lost weekends or weeks, depending on how much dope he could afford, became common. He had been thusly incapacitated when the thugs came for him, so strung out that he couldn’t even put up a fight. They locked him in a room with a jug of water and a bucket and let him sweat it out. At times he screamed until his throat was raw, but in the end his gray skin gained some color, his eyes returned to normal, and his thoughts became his own. They fed him porridge with some bits of dried fruit, and he gained some strength. Gin and tonic water helped settle his nerves. Even so, when they came for him again he didn’t resist.

Despite the hood he knew from the smell that he was near the Thames. The bag they had used to cover his head reeked of dead fish, but even that wasn’t enough to cover up the Stink. That he was near the river was clear, but when his abductors moved him roughly through a door and then down several flights of stairs their clumsy footsteps echoed back at him. From these observations he concluded that he was in the basement of some kind of large open building, most likely a warehouse or some similar structure. The men who had taken him had smelled of green tea and rice water, but they barked at each other in a language that he did not recognize. They could have been speaking Japanese, or perhaps even a dialect of Malay.

Without warning he was shoved into a chair, wooden and ornate by the feel of it. He flinched as a knife cut the hood apart and grazed his ear in the process. Even in the dim light he could make out the shadowed forms of guards armed with guns and large daggers. These he knew were only hands, tools to be manipulated, those in control sat on the dais before him. The man on the right was Chinese, taller than others of his kind, with evil green eyes. His imperious attitude would have been evident even if he had been dressed in rags rather than in the fine silken robes embroidered with golden dragons that currently draped his form. The other man was Irish, dressed as a gentleman, but not as a dandy. His frame was bent, and the unobservant might consider him older than he actually was. His face was gaunt, such that his thinning hair made his visage appear almost skull-like. When he spoke it reminded Newcomen of the headmaster at his son’s school.

“Inspector Newcomen, do you know who we are?”

The old policeman nodded and spoke respectfully. “I do, Professor. Though I’ve never seen either one of you in person before, I know you by reputation, and from blurry photographs at the Yard, though the analysis suggests that the two of you in the same room is something that would be considered very unlikely.”

The Professor grinned maliciously. “Circumstances make for strange alliances, temporary though they may be. I and the Doctor,” he gestured at the Chinaman, “find ourselves with a common problem, one that we think you would be interested in resolving for us.” The Professor turned to look at his partner, and the Chinese Doctor gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval, but before either of them could say anything Newcomen protested.

“What makes you think I would do anything for either of you?” He tried to maintain a tone of respect even as he attempted to rebuke them both. “If you want favors you have an odd way of asking for them. Why me, surely there are plenty of other constables and inspectors in your employ?”

“You come highly recommended. Your former commanding officer says you are quite skilled with a gun. He would be here himself, but he is indisposed at the moment. He reports that excluding himself, you are the quickest shot he has ever seen. He also says that you lack certain moral compulsions that might prevent weaker men from accomplishing the task.” At the implication that the Colonel had recommended him for the job Newcomen relaxed slightly and motioned for the Professor to continue.

“These murders in Whitechapel; the Ripper, the Torso Killer, the Strangler, it is all very bad for business, not just in Whitechapel, but throughout London. People are scared. They are staying home at night. Pub patronage has dropped ten percent. Prostitutes have become uneasy, and some twenty-two have left the city for safer venues. Their clients are afraid as well: Of being wrongfully accused, of being attacked by nervous girls, of being targeted by George Lusk and his Vigilance Committee. Revenue from gambling has decreased by twelve percent. The use of opium has declined significantly.” The Doctor sighed heavily. “As long as these murders continue to be in the public eye our operations will suffer, our employees will suffer, and tensions between our two organizations will build. We sit on a powder keg, Inspector Newcomen, and with each murder a new match is lit. We have ordered our men to remain calm, but like two empires who are openly at peace, the actions of our client states may precipitate a war we would rather avoid. We need these murders to cease.”

Newcomen was perplexed. “I am sure that the police are doing all they can. Abberline is a fine man, as is Bond. I am sure they will catch the perpetrator of these horrid crimes, and the murderer will be brought to justice.”

“You misunderstand us, Inspector; we do not care about justice. We want these killings to end, and we want you to be the instrument we employ to end them. Perhaps, in doing this you will no longer be haunted by your failure to deal with Mr. Hyde.” The look on Newcomen’s face made the Professor elaborate: “Additionally, we will use our influence with certain agencies to create for you a new position. Not law enforcement mind you, but a place for you in one of our many legitimate private security companies. We have ties to the Continental Agency. A man of your talents has a place with us, if you want it.”

Newcomen smiled. “That’s a fair deal, and I would be more than willing to take it, but for certain obvious problems. I have no suspects. I don’t have access to the files, the evidence or the resources I would need. Even if I did, I’m not sure I am smart enough to figure out something my betters can’t. You need to approach someone else, perhaps Mr. Hol—”

“THAT IS NOT AN OPTION!” the Professor roared. “That man cannot be involved in this, though his interference is expected. He will be dealt with, managed, and misled. False leads and patsies are being created to distract him. This is one game he will not be joining.” He took a deep breath and coughed with a wheeze. “As for the files, that has all been taken care of. The Gentleman Thief has supplied us with copies of all the evidence and files available to Inspector Swanson and his underlings. We supplemented this information with our own investigations and observations. We have resources, capabilities; a lack of restrictions that allow us to do things the Police cannot, or will not. In this manner our logicians Mr. Fogg and Mr. Loveless have not only identified those who have committed these crimes, but their motives and hiding place. Even now our agent, a man we recently recruited from Paris, an expert in the art of remaining unobserved, and of subterranean labyrinths, has them under observation. When the time comes, he will act as your guide.”

“So you’ve confirmed that there is more than one man committing these crimes? That has always been the suspicion, but surely they cannot be working in together? With such varied methods, that would be almost inconceivable.”

Suddenly the Chinese Doctor was clapping, but his eyes were not on Newcomen, but rather on his fellow crime lord. Finally, the Devil Doctor himself spoke: “Congratulations, my dear Professor, your point is made. Your theory concerning the minds of those in law enforcement, as opposed to those involved in criminal exploits, is all but proven.” He turned to look at Newcomen. “It seems that we must lay things out for you, dear sir. The murders in Whitechapel have indeed been committed by more than one person, but it is not a pair of men that have done these deeds. There are twelve of them. A dozen maniacs stalk the streets of London seeking revenge on those they believed have harmed them, twelve individuals and most assuredly not men.”

“Not men? The Whitechapel murders were committed by a gang of women? Surely not?”

The Professor was suddenly sniggering. “Please, Inspector Newcomen, London has not been beset by the Dowager Calipash and her daughters. The culprits are all male, the sons of your nemesis, Mr. Hyde.” Newcomen’s face went pale as the man continued. “Surely you realized that Mr. Hyde was, how did Beccon put it, ‘Sowing wild oats’? What did you think he was doing with all those London whores, playing cribbage? He impregnated them, and they like so many others in their profession gave the children away. Now they have come home, and they seek revenge on those who have harmed them, their own mothers.

The aged inspector’s mind reeled as something dawned on him. “But Hyde was only with those women five years ago. His children couldn’t be more than four years old.”

The Devil Doctor sat back down. The Professor wrung his hands before grudgingly speaking once more: “Is that a problem? The Colonel did say you were the man for the job.”

Inspector Thomas Newcomen reflected back on his life and what was being offered him. The massacre at Dewangiri had been twenty-five years in the past, but he could still see the faces of the child soldiers that the enemy had sent in a futile attempt to drive back the British Forces. The Colonel had ordered a retreat, but Newcomen had refused, and instead held the position. He had killed dozens before the opposing forces had fallen back. Even then he kept firing at the fleeing boys who had been armed only with daggers and wearing little more than rags. The company surgeon had wanted him discharged, but the Colonel had ignored such nonsense. Newcomen would never forget those faces, the screams, and the sight of blood and gore exploding from bodies. He should have been discharged, for what he had done still haunted him. It was because of these memories that he had turned to opium in the first place. Not to drown the images from his mind, but to quench the desire he felt to relive the experience. He hated those memories, not because of what he had done, but because he couldn’t do it again. And now, he was being offered another opportunity to kill children, monstrous children, but still just children.

A smile crept across his face as they handed him a rifle. The weapon felt good in his hand, like it belonged there. “A problem? No, not at all.” For the first time in years, he felt complete.

When the Means Just Defy the End

Stanley C. Sargent

London, East End, late night November 8, 1888

A bone-chilling cold pervaded the late night air, and those few individuals out and about on the streets were not immune to the chill. They were brave souls indeed, ignoring not only the cold but the persistent warnings that the savage killer who had of late been so generously providing the newspapers with shrill headlines was likely still stalking the streets. The fog, actually more pollution than anything else, blurred visibility as it lingered above the slippery cobblestones. This eerie, almost impenetrable atmosphere conspired with those who lurked with ill intent, hiding them from sight till they should emerge to pounce on the foolish and the unsuspecting. Somehow the predators, at home in the clammy miasma, could see through it, counting on their prey being equally unable to see any more than a few paces ahead.

It was generally considered that those who haunted the particularly restive, poverty-stricken streets late at night were little more than human refuse, although many of them truly were penniless, homeless and desperately attempting to survive. It was not uncommon to encounter entire families huddled beneath makeshift shelters in an attempt to remain warm and safe while sleeping.

The rest of the nightly population was fleshed out by scatterings of pathetic drunks, gaudy “daughters of joy,” men of every rank seeking sexual satisfaction for a few paltry shillings, simple-minded miscreants, filthy street urchins, and other ne’er-do-wells. Nor was it rare to stumble upon a corpse lying in a gutter or secreted away in some dark doorway, the victim of the cold, starvation or foul play. Most residents had long ago learned the importance of keeping a bloodshot eye cocked skyward in order to avoid unannounced splashes of urine and fecal matter tossed from the windows of doss houses that reached as high as two or three stories. Along with the stench of offal that crept from gutters and many shops hereabout, the Whitechapel and Spitalfields districts had earned from London’s
Daily Mirror
the unflattering honorific of “Satan’s Cesspool.”