Gwen said nothing.
Mary looked up. “He is. He gets silly sometimes, but he don’t never make little of me, like your Riley does. And he’s never laid a hand on me, I swear.”
Gwen found it easy to believe. It all fitted with the Albert she knew.
Mary brushed a tear away with the back of her hand. “But the Ripper’s a real person sure enough, and maybe his wife don’t think he’d hurt anyone neither. What are we going to do?”
Gwen thought in silence for several moments. Mary had said nothing about the possibility that it could be Riley. But perhaps it didn’t need saying. The scarlet garter had come out of his pocket, after all. Did Mary even wonder if Gwen had put it there?
“We’re going to find out where they were on the other nights that the Ripper killed,” she answered. “If we can prove they were somewhere else, with a witness, that should be enough. Everyone knows they were all killed by the same person, done the same way.”
“Right,” Mary agreed. “It’ll be hard work, but we could do it!”
—
It was the middle of the second afternoon and the daylight already fading when they collected the last piece of evidence, a question answered by a delivery boy to whom Albert had tipped a generous amount, and the boy had not forgotten him. Albert was safe. Riley was another matter.
But it was late, getting darker, and time they went home. In fact, the streetlights were lit, wreathed in slowly settling fog and it seemed like a long way from the yellow glow of one, through the shadows to the glow of the next. The air was bitter with the choking stillness of the fog.
There were footsteps behind them and they both quickened their pace. Mary slipped on the ice and Gwen held on to her so she did not fall. The footsteps behind were closer, catching them up.
Mary lunged forward as if to run.
Gwen swung around to fight.
“What’s the matter with you?” Albert shouted as Gwen started towards him, swinging her string bag with heavy potatoes in it. Riley stood behind him.
“Albert!” Mary cried out in joy. “Oh Albert, you’re safe!”
He had no idea what she meant, nor did he care. He threw his arms around her and hugged her.
“Stupid! Stupid!” Riley said under his breath, but he was reasonably civil to Mary. It was only after both Mary and Albert had left and Gwen was alone with him that he changed.
“What on earth do you think you were doing?” he demanded roughly. “It’s nearly dark and you’re out here alone like some stupid street woman. Do you wonder they get killed. Practically asking for it.”
“Nobody asks to get their throats cut and their insides torn out!” she shouted back at him. “And none of them were killed at this time of day. And we were looking to find proof that Albert didn’t do it.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes, we did!”
“And me? Did you find that I’m not guilty either?”
“No…we didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t!” he said with a slight hiss to his voice. “You didn’t find proof of my innocence, because there isn’t any. And do you know why that is, then, Gwendolyn? You’re so busy, and clever, can you guess?”
He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. The question was too awful to answer. There was total silence, except for the slight sound of water dripping from the eaves somewhere close by. No footsteps. No one would come. Was this what it had been like for the other women, the five dead women who were so hideously disfigured and laid in bloody pieces on the ground?
Riley? Whom she had once loved, and now feared so much. Riley, who had steadily hurt and belittled her all these years. She had been living with a monster, and blind to everything but the petty cruelties, the words that bit and stung, the fear of violence in the air, like the odor of bad drains, getting into everything. And she had not known.
“Frightened, Gwen?” he said softly. “You stupid creature, you should be! You bought that garter, didn’t you? You put it in my pocket so it would spill out on the table and embarrass me. You wanted them to think I was Jack!”
She tried to jerk away from him, but he was far too strong. He yanked her back sharply. A hansom cab passed by, its wheels rattling on the cobbles, and he held her closely, up against the wall.
“Don’t want to make an exhibition of yourself, now do you? Tell perfect strangers that your husband is Jack the Ripper, now? You wouldn’t do that, would you, Gwen?”
Her heart was beating so hard she almost choked getting her breath.
“That’ll teach you to make a fool of me with some cheap garter,” he said with profound pleasure. “You’ll never know, will you? You’ll never know where I’ve been, or what I’ve done. You stupid cow!” He let her go and started walking swiftly ahead of her, and she had to run to keep up with him.
—
She had no choice at all. The next day she faced her fears. He was probably not Jack at all, but he might be. She had to know. She could not spend the rest of her life in this terror. As soon as he left in the morning, she began her search. If he were the Ripper, there would be something in the house that would prove it.
She must be quick. If he caught her searching, who knew what he might do?
When she found it she was not at first certain what it meant. It was just notations in bank books in his private desk. They amounted to regular payments of a nice sum, made to Albert Clandon, over the last ten years. Blackmail! For what? What had Riley done that Albert knew about? How did he know?
Simple. They were in it together.
But then why would Riley pay Albert?
If she did nothing, she would be terrified every day and every night for the rest of her life. How many women in London were standing much as she was, with something in their hands, wondering if it meant that their husband, or their son or brother could be the man who had become known as “Jack”? One of them would be right. Would she end up dead too?
She put the papers in her bag and went out into the street. The decision was made.
At the police station, she asked for Sergeant Walpole.
“Have you found something?” he asked gravely.
Could he possibly know already? Then it was Riley! Had Sergeant Walpole suspected all along? Was that why he was sorry for her?
It stung, but it barely touched the coldness of fear inside her.
“Albert knew about it,” she told him.
“It looks as if he took money to keep quiet,” he agreed. “He helped as a friend. Or perhaps he even understood.”
“Understood?” she said incredulously.
She felt Walpole’s hand on her arm, strong, but surprisingly gentle. “Ma’am, he’s not the Ripper. We’ve been looking into your husband since the first murder, and we found the truth. He’s not the Ripper, but he did lose his temper with a prostitute who stole from him. I dare say he didn’t mean to kill her. But even if it was rage rather than deliberate, he’ll still go down for it. It’ll be bad for a while.”
“You mean, he did actually kill somebody?” she said with incredulity, and then belief.
And he said, “I’m afraid so.”
“And what’ll happen to me? I didn’t know…”
“It’ll be bad for a while,” he said softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll marry again, someone who’ll love you like they should.” Then he blushed fiercely and she felt tears of relief run down her cheeks.
“I think that would be nice,” she replied.
Spring-Fingered Jack
SUSAN CASPER
“Spring-Fingered Jack” is the first horror story written by Susan Casper (1947– ), a remarkable achievement for the Philadelphia-born author who had no previous experience writing fiction.
Before turning to writing, she had worked in a record store, a factory that manufactured pants, a supermarket chain, the United States Postal Office, and the Pennsylvania Department of Social Welfare. Married to Gardner Dozois, the noted science fiction writer
and editor, she became interested in writing in the same genre and developed a successful career.
She went on to produce several stories in collaboration with Dozois: “Send No Money,” “The Stray,” and “The Clowns” (on which Jack Dann also collaborated), which were collected in Slow Dancing through Time (1990), which also included her essay, the solo effort “New Kid on the Block.” She also collaborated with Dozois to edit a Jack the Ripper–themed anthology, Ripper! (1988).
Casper has written more than two dozen stories for various anthologies, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Whispers, Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, Amazing Stories, and Asimov’s Science Fiction, for which she also wrote several nonfiction pieces.
“Spring-Fingered Jack” was first published in Fears, edited by Charles L. Grant (New York, Berkley, 1983).
SPRING-FINGERED JACK
Susan Casper
He knew where he was going as soon as he walked into the arcade. He moved past the rows of busy children, blaring computer voices, flashing lights, and ringing bells. He walked past the line of old-fashioned pinball machines, all of them empty, all flashing and calling like outdated mechanical hookers vainly trying to tempt the passing trade.
The machine he wanted was back in the dimly lit corner, and he breathed a sigh of relief to see it unused. Its mutely staring screen was housed in a yellow body, above a row of levers and buttons. On its side, below the coin slot, was a garish purple drawing of a woman dressed in Victorian high fashion. Her large and ornate hat sat slightly askew atop her head, and her neatly piled hair was falling artistically down at the sides. She was screaming, eyes wide, the back of her hand almost covering her lovely mouth. And behind her, sketched in faintest white, was just the suggestion of a lurking figure.
He put his briefcase down beside the machine. With unsteady fingers, he reached for a coin, and fumbled it into the coin slot. The screen flashed to life. A sinister man in a deerstalker waved a crimson-tipped knife and faded away behind a row of buildings. The graphics were excellent, and extremely realistic. The screen filled with rows of dark blue instructions against a light blue field, and he scanned them sketchily, impatient for the game to begin.
He pressed a button and the image changed again, becoming a maze of narrow squalid streets lined with decaying buildings. One lone figure, his, stood squarely centre screen. A woman in Victorian dress, labled Polly, walked toward him. He pushed the lever forward and his man began to move. He remembered to make the man doff his cap; if you didn’t, she wouldn’t go with you. They fell in step together, and he carefully steered her past the first intersection. Old Montagne Street was a trap for beginners, and one he hadn’t fallen into for quite some time. The first one had to be taken to Buck’s Row.
Off to one side, a bobby was separating a pair of brawling, ragged women. He had to be careful here, for it cost points if he was spotted. He steered the pair down the appropriate alley, noting with satisfaction that it was deserted.
The heartbeat sound became louder as he maneuvered his figure behind that of the woman, and was joined by the sound of harsh, labored breathing. This part of the game was timed and he would be working against the clock. He lifted a knife from inside his coat. Clapping a hand over “Polly’s” mouth, he slashed her throat viciously from ear to ear. Lines of bright red pulsed across the screen, but away from him. Good. He had not been marked by the blood. Now came the hard part. He laid her down and began the disemboweling, carefully cutting her abdomen open almost to the diaphragm, keeping one eye on the clock. He finished with twenty seconds to spare and moved his man triumphantly away from the slowly approaching bobby. Once he had found the public sink to wash in, round one was complete.
Once again his figure was centre screen. This time the approaching figure was “Dark Annie,” and he took her to Hanbury Street. But this time he forgot to cover her mouth when he struck, and she screamed, a shrill and terrifying scream. Immediately the screen began to flash a brilliant, painful red, pulsing in time to the ear-splitting blasts of a police whistle. Two bobbies materialized on either side of his figure, and grabbed it firmly by the arms. A hangman’s noose flashed on the screen as the funeral march roared from the speaker. The screen went dark.
He stared at the jeering screen, trembling, feeling shaken and sick, and cursed himself bitterly. A real beginner’s mistake! He’d been too eager. Angrily, he fed another coin into the slot.
This time, he carefully worked himself all the way to “Kate,” piling up bonus points and making no fatal mistake. He was sweating now, and his mouth was dry. His jaws ached with tension. It was really hard to beat the clock on this one, and took intense concentration. He remembered to nick the eyelids, that was essential, and pulling the intestines out and draping them over the right shoulder wasn’t too hard, but cutting out the kidney correctly, that was a bitch. At last the clock ran out on him, and he had to leave without the kidney, costing himself a slew of points. He was rattled enough to almost run into a bobby as he threaded through the alleys leading out of Mitre Square. The obstacles became increasingly difficult with every successful round completed, and from here on in it became particularly hard, with the clock time shortening, swarms of sightseers, reporters and roving Vigilance Committees to avoid, in addition to a redoubled number of police. He had never yet found the right street for “Black Mary”…
A voice called “last game,” and a little while later his man got caught again. He slapped the machine in frustration; then straightened his suit and tie and picked up his briefcase. He checked his Rollaflex. Ten-oh-five: it was early yet. The machines winked out in clustered groups as the last stragglers filed through the glass doors. He followed them into the street.
Once outside in the warm night air, he began to think again about the game, to plan his strategy for tomorrow, only peripherally aware of the winos mumbling in doorways, the scantily dressed hookers on the corner. Tawdry neon lights from porno movie houses, “Adult” book stores and flophouse hotels tracked across his eyes like video displays, and his fingers worked imaginary buttons and levers as he pushed through the sleazy, late-night crowds.
He turned into a narrow alley, followed it deep into the shadows, and then stopped and leaned back against the cool, dank bricks. He spun the three dials of the combination lock, each to its proper number, and then opened the briefcase.
The machine: He had thought of it all day at work, thought of it nearly every second as he waited impatiently for 5:00, and now another chance had come and gone, and he still had not beaten it. He fumbled among the papers in his briefcase, and pulled out a long, heavy knife.
He would practise tonight, and tomorrow he would beat the machine.
The Uncertain Heiress
ISAK DINESEN
Isak Dinesen is one of the pseudonyms of Karen Christence Dinesen, Baroness Blixen-Finecke (1885–1962). Generally known as Karen Blixen (the other pseudonyms being Osceola, Tania Blixen, and Pierre Andrézel), she is most remembered for her memoir, Out of Africa (1937), which recounts her years in Kenya. It is a poignant tale of her beloved farm and coffee plantation; the loss of her longtime lover, the English big-game hunter Denys Finch Hatton; and the erosion of the simple African way of life that she deeply admired. It was lavishly adapted for the screen by producer-director Sydney Pollack, winning seven Academy Awards, including for Best Picture. It starred Robert Redford, Meryl Streep, and Klaus Maria Brandauer, the latter two having been nominated for Best Actress and Best Supporting Actor, respectively.
Born in Rungsted, Denmark, Blixen married her cousin, Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke, in 1914. They moved to Kenya, where they owned and operated a coffee plantation and became big-game hunters. They were separated in 1921 and divorced four years later. She continued to run the plantation after their separation for another decade, finally forced to give it up due to drought, poor management, and the plummeting price of coffee. Having also lost her lover, who died when his plane crashed in 1931, she returned to Denma
rk and settled into a life as a writer.
She began writing short stories for Danish magazines in 1905, but her first book, Seven Gothic Tales, wasn’t published until 1934; it was followed by Out of Africa, Winter’s Tales (1942), Last Tales (1957), and the posthumous Carnival: Entertainments and Posthumous Tales (1977), Daguerreotypes, and Other Essays (1979), and Letters from Africa, 1914–31 (1981). Her only novel, The Angelic Avengers (1944), was written under the Pierre Andrézel byline. Her most famous story is “Babette’s Feast,” written in 1958 and adapted for a Danish film that won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 1988.
“The Uncertain Heiress” was first published in the December 10, 1949, issue of The Saturday Evening Post. It was retitled “Uncle Seneca” for its first appearance in book form in Carnival: Entertainments and Posthumous Tales (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1977).
THE UNCERTAIN HEIRESS
Isak Dinesen
Melpomene Mulock, the great actor’s daughter, got a letter that upset her peace of mind. It was an invitation from her late mother’s sister to stay with her for a fortnight at Westcote Manor, her country house.
Melpomene received the invitation on the twenty-eighth of November, 1906, which happened to be a Wednesday. She was accustomed to bills and summonses, but an invitation was a new thing to her. She said to herself, “I shall keep this letter for three days. On Saturday I will show it to father, and he will know how to answer it. Aunt Eulalia has waited eighteen years before writing to me. Now she can wait three days for my answer.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 30