A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper

by kindels

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  A Question of Ethics?

  As I turned yet another page in the grim story unfolding before me the words of my great-grandfather were once again lying in wait for me, as before, tucked tightly between the pages of the Ripper's journal. The explanation for his not having responded to the Ripper's letter was staring at me as I began to read incredulously his latest addition to the journal.

  My son,

  It is well after the fact that I sit and write this note, which I hereby append to the awful tale you are now reading. As you know, events in London took a terrible turn in the weeks of Autumn,1888, and, after my dear friend Sir William was spoken to at length and on various occasions, it was of course my turn. As you know, the police interviewed me, in addition to any number of eminent (and not so eminent) members of my profession, it having been widely suggested by many so called experts that Jack the Ripper was a doctor. I cannot for the life of me conceive that anyone would seriously suggest such a thing, yet the official police force seemed to have granted the theory some degree of credibility. The inspector, whose name was Abberline, was quite polite, but seemed to carry out the interview with no great conviction, as though he deemed me irrelevant to the case, and was merely questioning me on the orders of some superior.

  I am grateful to you for having received me so graciously after the ordeal of spending so many hours in the company of those worthy officers of the law, who I managed to satisfy as to my personal innocence. I cannot thank you enough for your warm hospitality and for allowing me to spend those few days in the comfort and sanctuary of your home.

  You can imagine my disbelief, and my shock then, when, on returning home, I found there, lying in wait for me, a letter of the most heinous kind, and by its contents I was perplexed and at the same time damned by my previous inability to grasp the truth and to act upon it.

  I insert this note at this point in the journal as it is to my mind the relevant location for it. Why did I not believe his earlier attempts to confess his guilt to me? I can never answer that, though now I will surely be damned for all time. He wrote to me in advance of the killing of the poor woman Mary Jane Kelly, and detailed for me the injuries and mutilations he fully intended to carry out upon the person of that poor unfortunate. Had I not been ensconced first of all with the officers of Scotland Yard, and thereafter a guest in your home, I would have found the letter the day after the crime. As it was, it had fallen to me to discover the awful truth too late, and my heart and mind were fearful and undecided as to the correct course of action to pursue.

  Had I disclosed the information I am now privy to it would not only have destroyed the good name of our family, but would doubtless lead to the arrest, trial, and probable execution of the man who was after all, your half-brother, my own son. Despite the fact that he was most seriously ill with the most foul disease of the mind, I knew that the cries for retribution would have led to his being denied the defence of insanity, the public needed revenge, and I am sure it would have swift and terminal. I wished to spare him, and his mother's memory that disgrace. Though I do not expect you to have any thought or feeling for the man, who you have never, and will never meet, please think of the quandary that so beset my mind. If I turned in evidence against him, and my own shortcomings in the case were revealed, not only would my professional reputation be visibly and most publicly brought into disrepute, but think also of the effect that such a revelation would have had on your poor mother. She of course knows nothing of his existence, and I intend that she never will.

  I had to decide what best to do, for I could not of course allow him to continue to kill and mutilate his fellow beings; that goes without saying. His employer, a man of great compassion and forbearance would appear to be losing patience with his continued absences caused by his 'illness'. How he has continued to even attempt to carry on with his daily routine of life is beyond my ken. He has duped not only me, but the entire world around him. How could he have perpetrated such fiendish crimes and continued to live a normal life in the face of such damnable acts? Time was running out, for me and for him, I had to act, to put an end to the killing, and to prevent a scandal that would destroy your mother, you, and everyone connected with the family.

  Read the conclusion of the journal my son, and then let my actions be judged by you alone, for it is with your future in mind that I have done the things I have done. When you have read what is yet to be revealed I beg of you to forgive me, and, if it possible, somewhere in your heart, forgive the man who was your brother, for he was incapable of preventing the fate that destroyed his life.

  Your father, Burton Cleveland Cavendish

  A sense of fear and helplessness was beginning to envelop me as I placed the journal down lightly on the desk. My own great-grandfather had himself been interviewed and questioned by the police, and by Frederick Abberline himself, famous as one of the leading detectives in the hunt for Jack the Ripper. My great-grandfather had missed receiving the Ripper's letter because he had gone to stay with my grandfather, Merlin Cavendish after his discharge from the police station. He'd spent a number of days there; that much was plain by his words and in so doing had perhaps made his own position harder to sustain when he eventually did receive the letter. The police may have wished to know why he had delayed in passing on the information supplied by the Ripper, and may not have immediately believed his story of having stayed with my grandfather without having returned to his own home first.

  Not only that, but I understood how he must have felt, finally realizing that his own bastard son had been telling him the truth all along. He really was Jack the Ripper, and my great-grandfather could, as he had said in his original letter at the beginning of the journal, have done something to stop him! I could only begin to imagine the turmoil he must have felt. How does one admit, and then decide what to do when faced with the fact that one's own son is the most hated and evil murderer in living memory, with all of London holding its breath as they followed the police investigation, waiting and hoping for the arrest of the monster they lived in fear of?

  A greater fear had griped me, however; the fear that a far greater secret was hidden just around the corner, that my great-grandfather was still holding something back. Now that his connection to the Ripper had been most firmly established in my mind, I needed to know what had happened to both of these antecedents of mine after the conclusion of the murders. I knew of course, roughly, what had happened to my great-grandfather. Burton Cleveland Cavendish had retired in 1889, (I think), and had left the city of London, settling with my great-grandmother and his son, (my grandfather) not too far from where I live today. Of course, it would have been far more 'countrified' in those days, and they would in all probability have lived a fairly comfortable, almost idyllic life. He had died at home peacefully not long before the outbreak of The Great War, soon after my great-grandmother, (it was said by my father that he had died of a broken heart, unable to go on without the love of his life). No major events in his life had been recorded or passed down in the family history, and until now, I had never had reason to think of him as being any different from any other respectable Victorian medical professional. That left me with the one burning question. What had happened to the Ripper after the murder of Mary Jane Kelly? The thought suddenly struck me that the journal or my great-grandfather's notes may not be completely comprehensive on the matter, and that thought terrified me more than I can possibly relate in words.

  I had to know what had happened to him! It had become the single most important requirement of my life. As I sat there in my study, with the house enshrouded in fog, cut off from the real world by thoughts real and imagined, and all manner of demons playing within my mind, I knew that my own future, like that of my grandfather's, would depend on discovering the fate of the killer of Mary Kelly and the other poor unfortunates who suffered at his hands. Such would be the mental turmoil were I to be left in the dark about the conclusion of my great-grandfather's involvement
with the Ripper, and the subsequent actions taken by both of them. I knew that my own sanity was also very much on the line. In less than three whole days, my world had been turned upside down, my mind taken on a journey into a strange and terrifying world where the realities of time and space had appeared to be suspended, at least within the confines of my study. I was now on the verge of discovering the conclusion of this strange and compelling sojourn into the world of the surreal, and I had to be able to dispel the irrational thoughts that threatened to take hold of my psyche. I needed to be able to dismiss the Ripper and his insanity from my world, and return him to the pages of history where he belonged.

  The hands on the clock seemed to be in a hurry to reach midnight as I prepared myself for the concluding pages of the journal. I just had to hope that what I needed to know would be waiting for me as I turned a page once again, and saw the handwriting of the Ripper reaching out to me from another faded yellow, yet still warm and sticky leaf of the incredible journal of Jack the Ripper.

  Chapter Forty

  A Time of Decision

  The date is uncertain. My last few days have passed in a haze, and I have not dared to venture out. I am in such pain, such turmoil and I know that I am becoming worse. My voices have deserted me, they are silent, and I am alone, though perhaps not quite. Cavendish at last came to see me. He was much affected by my appearance and demeanor, and was I think quite sympathetic toward me though he exhibited such horror at his belief in my pronunciations at last. He knows the truth now, and I am sure he will not turn against me, the fruit of his loins. Ha! He has advised that I stay within the walls of my home, and has promised to visit each day and to care for my ills and ailments. He has prescribed for me, and the effects of the drug are quite debilitating. I can scarce move from my chair, but must from time to time to eat and drink. He has assured me that all will be well, and that he will ensure I am well provided for. I must not continue in my work, he has made that clear, though I admit I have no desire to slit another whore. The smell of the blood of the last slut is still heavy in my nostrils, and the sight of the meat that I sliced from her body is engrained upon my eyes, I can do no more, for now at least. I have showed Cavendish this journal, so that he is in no doubt of my claims. He read a portion, no more, and his shock was amusing. What a good man he is!

  This entry, undated by the writer revealed his rapid descent into a sort of fugue, he was becoming lost. Perhaps he was becoming more and more detached from reality. He talked of my great-grandfather visiting him, and appeared quite content that Burton Cavendish at last believed that he was Jack the Ripper. He showed no remorse for his crimes, simply a lack of desire to commit any further atrocities, at least for the moment. I assumed from his words that my great-grandfather had prescribed some form of sedation for him; in order perhaps to prevent him from becoming enraged enough to venture out into the streets once again in his desire for yet more bloodletting. Whether my great-grandfather was truly sympathetic towards him, or just trying to placate the man whist deciding on his next course of action I was yet to discern.

  The answer to that question lay just around the corner, or should I say over the page, as I turned to the next leaf in the journal to find great-grandfather's words awaiting me once more.

  Burton Cleveland Cavendish M.D. 30th November 1888,

  My heart is heavy, my soul troubled. Though I would not wish to admit it to a single living soul, I now know the truth about the child I sired in such unfortunate circumstances. For whatever reason, he has lost his mind to the madness of insanity, and is the monster sought by the police and the whole of the respectable population of the land. How do you tell anyone that your own progeny is none other than the murderer known to everyone as 'Jack the Ripper' Knowing what happened to his poor dear mother I should perhaps not be so surprised at his state of health, but, even so, it saddens me that he has sunk to this. I know that my duty lies in giving him over to the constabulary, and yet, I cannot escape the fact that he is not entirely responsible for his crimes, for he cannot help the illness that has taken over his mind. I am sure though, that no-one would believe that to be entirely true and that the world would not be happy unless he were to end his days swinging at the end of a rope. I can not wish that gruesome end upon him, as much as his crimes may demand brutal retribution. But, I am left with the quandary of what I should do next. I have given him medication, and that should keep him housebound for a while, (as long as he takes it every day). If he stops, and goes on to repeat his crimes, I should have no alternative other than to give him up to the forces of the law.

  My son, if you are reading this I must beg that you try hard to understand the troubles of my mind. Would I be less than sympathetic to your plight if it had been you in such a troubled state of mind? Of course not, and you would expect no less, would you not?

  Still, I have hard decisions to make. I cannot let him simply go free to kill again, and if I were to admit him to a hospital, his rantings and ravings would soon attract the wrong kind of attention, and my failure to act sooner on his protestations of involvement in the killings would have serious repercussions both for my career, and, I fear, for the good name of our family, not to mention breaking your poor mother's heart.

  I have decided for the time being to visit him each and every day, to try to keep him sufficiently sedated with large doses of opiates until I know for certain the actions I shall finally take to resolve the matter. I think I know in my heart that there can be only one way to end this once and for all, and to ensure that his name, and that of the family remains unsullied. He must not be brought to trial, and only I can prevent him from perpetrating more atrocities. I must reconcile my heart and soul with God, and do what must be done.

  BCC.

  The words of my great-grandfather chilled me through and through, for I had no doubt as to his intended actions. He had tried, I'm sure, to do everything he could for his illegitimate offspring, but on finding him to be the killer of those poor unfortunate women, he had been placed in a virtually impossible situation. How could he reveal the truth, without shaming and exposing his own family to the slurs that would surely be directed at them? Certainly, his professional reputation would have been severely damaged by his confessions of omission, his failure to act, based purely, (as it would be seen), on his fatherly connection to the killer.

  The sound of the clock on the wall suddenly intruded upon my thoughts, its constant ticking seeing to grow louder by the second. My head was filled with the sound, though in reality it must have been as quiet as always. The thud, thud, thud, of the second hand as it continued its journey around the clock face became an incessant clamouring dissonance in my brain, and my head felt as though it were about to explode. Outside, the fog lay in a thick cloud around the house, and the dark starless night cast its pall upon my suddenly shrinking world. I was gripped by a fever of panic, a fear threatening to engulf and drag me into a strange world of half-remembered images and reminiscences, as though I were ready to lose myself in the thoughts and deeds of those who had lived and died so long ago. Without conscious thought my mind broke free, and I threw the infernal thing from my hands. As it crashed with a thud into the opposite wall of the study I was snapped back into the real world, my shaking hands slowly returning to normal, and my brain, my mind, regaining their grip on reality, long enough for me to gain my composure, and take long, deep breaths, until the pounding in my head had ceased. I was once more left sitting quietly and alone in the chair with the journal and its hideous contents lying in the corner of the room, against the wall where it had fallen.

  I sat there for ten minutes without making any effort to move from the chair. I simply sat staring at the journal, wondering how it could exert such an influence over me, how it could possibly engender such fear, such terrible thoughts within me, and most of all, how it could have brought me in so short a time to the edge of sanity and reason.

  There was only one way to find out, one way to finally answer whatever questio
ns about the Ripper remained in my mind. Finally, with a great effort, both mentally and physically, for my limbs seemed numb, I rose from the chair, and moved to pick up the journal from where it lay. As I did so, I could have sworn I heard a sigh, low and weary from somewhere close, but of course, there was no-one there, it could only be my imagination.

  With a deep sigh of resignation I seated myself once more, and turned to the next page. I was shocked to see that it was blank, as was the next, and the next! I was struck by a rising tide of panic and terrible foreboding. Being only a few pages left in the journal it wasn't hard to see that the Ripper had made no further entries in his journal of terror. What had happened? Why had he suddenly stopped writing? Surely his ego, his sense of self aggrandizement and his need to justify himself, even in the privacy of his journal would not have made him give up making his entries. With a rising sense of panic, fearing that the answers to all the questions I still needed resolved would be denied to me, I flicked over page after page, and finally turned to the last two pages of the book, and there, between them, as had happened so often, was another note from my great-grandfather.

  Chapter Forty One

  The Last Confession

  With shaking hands I settled myself as comfortably as I could for what I assumed would be the conclusion of the tragedy that had befallen my family so many years ago. Barely able to contain my feelings of impatience and fascination, I began to read my great-grandfather's final entry in the hideous secret journal of Jack the Ripper.

  January 1889

  Jack the Ripper is dead! There will be no more killing, no more butchery of the innocent, though in putting an end to the beast who stalked the streets of our city I have sullied myself for all time, and only God in Heaven can be my judge. I could no longer bear the torment of seeing him in the state to which he had been reduced, both by his illness, and by my own ministrations of increasing doses of morphine, with which I hoped to sedate and control him in those latter days. With each subsequent visit he appeared to grow worse, though he confessed to having missed taking various doses of the drug due to the adverse effect it was having upon him. He had even gone so far as to venture into the outside world once again, and I feared not only for him, but for others if he should relapse into his murderous state once more, especially as he spoke quite vociferously of the continuing newspaper exposure of the hunt for the Ripper. It was clear to me that he could never be free of the demons that had invaded his brain, the madness that had enveloped his nature to the exclusion of any good that may have been within his soul.