The Ripper Deception

by Jacqueline Beard

  “Scotland Yard would have unmasked the killer.”

  “Really? The men at the top of the SPR have conspired to keep this secret. They closed ranks. Any evidence will be long gone.”

  “You wanted to prolong The Ripper’s capture for money.”

  “There has been no money since the end of December 1888, and I had to fight to get that. You may have heard of Montague Druitt. He died that month by drowning. He was a Ripper suspect, and the SPR refused to pay any more money on the strength of his probable guilt.”

  “The name sounds familiar.”

  “It should. Druitt was one of only a few suspects seriously considered by Scotland Yard. There was good reason to suspect him. The timing was right, and the SPR claimed to have proof of his guilt.”

  “What proof?”

  “They did not say, and I could hardly press them. But I do not believe Druitt was the murderer.”

  “You were a suspect for a while. You knew so much, yet you allowed them to arrest you.”

  “I encouraged it, Mr Harpham.”

  “Why?”

  “Money. Why else?”

  Lawrence stared at D’Onston unable to comprehend the coldness of a man who put money ahead of life.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I will explain. First, I need a drink. Do you want one?”

  Lawrence shook his head. D’Onston grabbed a glass tumbler and filled it with a dark liquid from a chipped decanter. He knocked it back and filled another glass.”

  “Well, it’s like this. The SPR paid me after the murders of Millwood and Wilson. Later there were several other killings which seemed like the work of the same man, but it was far from certain, and I gave them the benefit of the doubt. Then Polly Nichols was killed in Bucks Row. Her throat was slit, and her abdomen ripped apart just like Annie Millwood. There were too many similarities to ignore. And look at this.”

  D’Onston stood up again and walked to the wall by his desk. Above the African mask, was a map of the world. He detached the two top corners and folded them down, revealing a large map of London on the rear with strategically placed red ink markers. “Look, here, here and here,” he said, pointing to the most easterly marker and working towards the west. This one is Ada Wilson in Maidman Street. This one in the west is Annie Millwood in White’s Row and this one,” he held his finger over the middle marker. “This is Polly Nichol’s in Buck’s Row.”

  “They are all along the same line,” said Lawrence.

  “Quite. The location is significant.”

  “The Ripper is a madman,” said Lawrence.

  Quite possibly. I did not say what significance. Perhaps it is a matter of transportation, or the Ripper might have had business in one of the local buildings. Maybe the area was unfamiliar, and he kept close to Whitechapel Road. Who knows? But I had time on my hands. Did I mention my confinement to the London Hospital throughout the latter half of 1888?”

  “No.”

  “I suffer from, well, you don’t need to know the details. It is enough to say that I was at a low ebb, lethargic most of the time and bored with life. But I am, as you know, a journalist by trade and I still required an income. The hush money from the SPR did not last long and hospitalised or not I had bills to pay. And so, I lay there, confined to my sick bed, embittered and angry. I am a clever man, Harpham. I decided to put my intellect to the test and resolved to unmask the murderer. I already had a head start on all the other amateurs, knowing, as I did, the connection with the SPR. But which one of them was it?”

  “You say you were in a hospital. Could you not leave?”

  “It was not a prison, but nor could I come and go at will. There were ward rules to follow.”

  “Did you make any progress?”

  “It was easy to get hold of copies of the SPR journal. They publish it monthly, and they name all members and associate members. But as for the identity of the Ripper, I am no further forward now than I ever was, though I have a greater understanding of how he did it.”

  “There must have been further communication from the SPR if you received another payment?”

  “I did, but it was torturous. I left messages in the personal column of The Pall Mall Gazette, as before, but they ignored them, damn their eyes. At quite a risk too. A less patient man than me might have given up and taken the matter to the police.”

  “Hardly,” said Lawrence out loud. The narcissistic man in front of him was not awash with morals nor the type to walk away from a lucrative venture. “How did you gain their attention?” he continued.

  “I waited to see if there would be another murder and there was. Annie Chapman, Hanbury Street died within a spit of White’s Row. And another left to right cut to the throat with slashes to her abdomen. This time, he took her uterus. Cut it right out. Cleanly.”

  Lawrence swallowed. He did not appreciate the evident glee in D’Onston’s voice. The more revolting the details, the more animated D’Onston became. He was enjoying it and bragged like an actor at the denouement of a stage play.

  “There was no doubt in my mind that it was the same man. I brooded over the matter for the rest of September, angrier than you could know. If the Ripper was on the loose again, I wanted more money. I attempted one more contact through the personal pages, but nothing came of it. On the last day of September, the double event occurred.”

  D’Onston was striding around the room now, red-faced and enraged as he recalled the impotence of his position. Lawrence watched him in disgust. His greed was unpleasant enough, but it was more than that. D'Onston disliked being ignored. Self-centred and vain, he had struggled to maintain the secret he badly wanted to share.

  D’Onston stopped at the window and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Finally, he returned to the map and placed a finger over a marker just south of Commercial Road and another to the west of Aldgate Station. “Elizabeth Stride, Berner Street and Catherine Eddowes, Mitre Square. The Ripper walked in a straight line from one to the other. Cut the first throat left to right, no further damage.”

  “Not the same as the others,” said Lawrence.

  “Exactly the same. The Ripper must have been disturbed.”

  “And he murdered the other woman the same night?”

  “Yes. And he did it properly, this time. Throat ripped, abdominal injuries and he took a kidney.”

  “Revolting,” said Lawrence, feeling queasy.

  D’Onston ignored him. “I acted at once. They would not disregard me again. I wrote to the police and copied my letter to The Pall Mall Gazette. Here…”

  D’Onston wrenched open a desk drawer and removed a handful of clippings. He selected one and thrust it towards Lawrence.

  It was a short article directed towards the SPR, goading and taunting them. The writing was derogatory and designed to provoke. The letter openly mocked the organisation, suggesting they use their influence to identify the Ripper. But it was the last few lines that were revealing. Their meaning would be apparent to anyone concealing the murderer. Lawrence read it aloud.

  “Clairvoyants, even if the mere local influence be insufficient to unseal their spiritual eyes, might set to work upon ‘Jack the Ripper’s letter and determine whether it be genuine or a hoax. Why does the Society for Psychical Research stand ingloriously idle?”

  Lawrence whistled. “Publishing that letter was risky, but they must have understood the warning.”

  A self-satisfied smile played on the edges of D’Onston’s mouth. “They did. They contacted me through the personal columns the following day. I collected an envelope from a butcher’s in the Strand with promises of money. They asked me to wait as it was a substantial sum to raise and they needed time, so I did.”

  “And they paid you.”

  “They did not.” D’Onston slammed his hand on the desk. “They reneged. And in the meantime, Mary Kelly died in Millers Court.”

  “I remember,” said Lawrence. “It was the only Ripper murder with which I was familiar. I r
emember reading accounts in the Bury Press. The violence and destruction were incomprehensible. I have never read such awful details.”

  “It was all wrong,” said D’Onston. “I still have doubts.”

  “But it was the final murder. The Ripper indulged himself until he could endure no more. Then the killings stopped.”

  “It does not fit the pattern,” said D’Onston. “I don’t believe it was the work of the Ripper and the killings never ceased.”

  “But you contacted the SPR again?”

  “Yes. I gave them until the end of November, but nothing transpired.” D’Onston leafed through his clippings and handed one to Lawrence dated 1st December 1888. Lawrence unfolded it.

  “You don’t expect me to read all of this?”

  “No. I had a lot of time to think about these crimes in hospital. One of the doctors shared my interest in the case, and we swapped ideas. I hid references to myself within the theories that I outlined in this article. There should have been quite enough to alert the SPR to my presence. They would know I was not a man to trifle with.”

  “It makes no sense to me,” said Lawrence scanning the article. “I don’t believe in black magic. What does the cross represent?” He pointed to a large cross on the right-hand side of the clipping.

  “The cross is a representation of the murders,” said D’Onston. “I did not include them all - just enough to justify my theory. The purpose of the article was to flag my presence. It did not need to be accurate.”

  “Forgive me for asking,” said Lawrence. “But your name is not on the article.”

  “It is if you look closely enough,” said D’Onston. “I have referred to the great modern occultist Eliphas Levi, and I have drawn a cross. Levi was a Rosicrucian.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s an esoteric order - a spiritual movement. You don’t need details, Harpham. I’m trying to explain how I gained their attention again.”

  “Go on.”

  “The literal meaning of Rosicrucian is rose coloured cross. Do you see?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “I have chosen the name, Roslyn. It is not my given name. The female equivalent is Rosalyn which means Rose. Do you see now? Rose and Cross. Rosicrucian. And if that was not enough to make the connection, the Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland is important in the Rosicrucian movement. I did not select my name for this reason, but many have assumed it.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Lawrence. “It is a big stretch.”

  “For you,” said D’Onston, “but the SPR members are well versed in esoteric lore. I knew the article would stand out, and it did. They contacted me again the next day.”

  “And you got your money?”

  “I received fifty pounds in an envelope through my door. There was also a letter telling me to contact the police if I wished, and be damned, but the murders were over. The Ripper was dead, and I would hear about it in the papers very soon.”

  “Not what you were hoping for.”

  “I was furious but side-tracked for a few days as I finally left the hospital in early December. It gave me time alone to consider my next move. I had a plan, audacious and risky, but it would bring me into public contact with the police without revealing what I knew.” D’Onston smiled wolfishly.

  Lawrence raised his eyes heavenwards and shook his head. “What plan?”

  “I collaborated with an amateur detective by the name of Marsh. Common sort of fellow, quite full of himself. I had spent many hours researching the murders by then, and after several discussions, he went running to the police convinced that I was the Ripper. As I told you, the police are stupid. They still don’t understand much about the Ripper’s methods, and they fell for Marsh’s story.”

  “I can’t see how interaction with the police helped your cause?”

  “Scotland Yard is a leaky sieve. It always was. It put me in a position to help the gossip along a bit, of course. I reported to the yard to help with their enquiries and gave them a good dozen reasons why my Doctor friend, Morgan Davies, was a better suspect.”

  “I still don't follow.”

  “They questioned Davies at length. A perfectly innocent, professional man was under scrutiny by Scotland Yard, on my word alone. A handy demonstration of how it would be if I chose to reveal the connection to the SPR. And it worked. Finally, it worked. At the end of December, I received a large sum of money anonymously together with a note reminding me that the Ripper was dead, and a body would soon appear. On the last day of the year, they fished Montague John Druitt out of the Thames. The young man appeared to have killed himself.”

  “Was he a member of the SPR?”

  “He may have been, for all I know,” said D’Onston. “I don’t have a full membership list. The point is that the Society knew. They warned me not once but twice of the impending discovery of a body. How did they know? I have contacts in London. It did not take long to find out that Druitt was a serious suspect for the Ripper. And the murders stopped, so I had every reason to believe it. I assumed he must have a connection to the SPR. How else could they have known in advance?”

  Lawrence pondered the matter. “How else indeed?” he said. “But everything you have told me is old news. None of it explains the attack on Violet.”

  “I don't know anything about an attack,” said D’Onston, rubbing his throat. “Who is Violet? Do I know her?”

  “She is my… she is a friend. A man attacked her last night. He had a knife. This man warned her to stay away.”

  “Nasty,” said D’Onston, “but her attacker could be any number of East End ruffians. There are plenty about who would slit her throat for a few coins.”

  “Would you feel the same way if I told you that she was in the Headquarters of the SPR earlier this week?”

  D’Onston whistled. “That’s a different matter. Good God. What was she doing there?”

  “Visiting,” said Lawrence.

  “Well, if I had a lady friend, I wouldn’t let her anywhere near that place.”

  Lawrence paused for a few seconds to think. He walked towards the window and stared outside, before turning to face D’Onston. “There wouldn’t be any danger if the Ripper was dead. You must believe he is still at large?”

  D’Onston nodded. His brow furrowed. “I first had my suspicions in July of ‘89,” he said. “There hadn’t been a murder since the double event - As I said, I don’t count the Millers Court murder. It wasn’t right. But in July 1889 they found Alice McKenzie with her throat cut in Castle Alley, not far from where Martha Tabram died. Throat slit left to right and cuts to the abdomen.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” said D’Onston. “The police played it down and said it wasn’t a Ripper murder. I had my own problems and was back in the hospital again with…” D’Onston’s voice trailed off, and he looked furtively around the room. He took a deep breath. Lawrence noticed that his hands were shaking.

  D’Onston continued. “Anyway, I decided it couldn’t be, and no noteworthy killings happened the next year, as far as I could tell. But now, Frances Coles is dead, and the method is similar. He cut her throat from left to right. There were no abdominal wounds, but there wouldn’t be if he was interrupted. Judging by the newspaper reports, a policeman only just missed him. No, I know as much about these murders as anyone outside the police force, and I think it is a Ripper murder. He is back among us.”

  “You should tell the police,” said Lawrence. “You should have told them a long time ago.”

  “What do you think will happen if I do?” asked D’Onston. “If they believe me, which I doubt, who will they investigate?” He lifted a magazine off his bedside table and passed it to Lawrence. “That’s October’s SPR journal,” he said, “one new member and eighteen new associate members.” He flicked the magazine open and ran his finger down the page, muttering under his breath. “There, that’s ten committee members too — twenty-nine names before the end of page two. The SPR is not a small org
anisation, Harpham. It is popular.”

  “The police have the resources to deal with it.”

  “You think the SPR will cooperate? Why should they? They could have called in the police and reported me. It would have saved them a considerable sum of money. No, we are discussing an organisation who have covered up the murder of one of their own. They are protecting someone who has murdered who knows how many women. They are not going to help the police make any progress. We need someone who can move among them without suspicion.”

  “Who?” asked Lawrence.

  “Don’t insult my intelligence,” said D’Onston. “You enter my home, question me about matters that don’t concern you and then you assault me. I may be a dipsomaniac and many other things of which I am sure you are aware but don’t take me for a fool. You are a policeman, or you were a policeman. One of the two.”

  “I am a private detective,” Lawrence sighed. “I was a policeman.”

  “Then investigate,” hissed D’Onston, “while you still can. If they find out what has passed between us, we are both in danger, and so is your lady friend. This matter will not go away. Find a way to get close. You are far more likely to succeed by stealth.”

  Lawrence bit his lip. “You are right,” he said. “I will do it. Have you told me everything?”

  “You know everything you need to know,” said D’Onston. “Don’t bother coming here again. It is too dangerous now I have shared my secret. I will pack up and leave today and lie low for a bit — a different hotel perhaps, or even a hospital. I am not a well man, and I will not be a sitting duck. You are on your own. Do not underestimate the danger you are in.”

  Lawrence nodded and left the room without another word. If D’Onston was right, he needed to infiltrate the SPR, and soon. But Violet was still in the hospital, and it was of the utmost importance that she was safe. Lawrence headed straight to the nearest post office and scribbled out a telegram which he addressed to Michael Farrow. ‘Get the first train to Royal London Hospital. Violet is in danger. LH’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A Conscious Choice