Jack The Ripper: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Writer, Holy Ghost

  “Stop!”

  The man froze, his body tensed for flight.

  “I said stop! And turn around.”

  The man slowly turned to face Holmes, who was pointing a pistol at him. Julie scrambled up and ran behind Holmes for protection.

  “Well, we finally meet,” the man said. “What took you so long, Inspector?”

  “I had a feeling it was you, and I even think I know why you sought to frame me. You were on my list, I hope you know. I would have caught you in the end, even without tonight’s subterfuge.”

  “I must respectfully disagree—I wasn’t so sure you would catch me. Though now that you have, I must say I’ve had more fun than I imagined. This has been quite the sport for me.”

  The man was Francis Thompson, a poet and a writer. Exactly as Holmes had thought—though at first he had had trouble believing that a sensitive, intelligent man could commit such atrocities.

  “It won’t be so easy as you think to bring me to justice, however.”

  “Whatever do you mean? I have caught you red-handed—and I have a pistol, while you have only that knife. I think we both know who has the advantage here.”

  “Turn around,” snapped another voice from behind Holmes.

  As he turned, Holmes saw his friend, the coroner’s assistant Donald Hamilton, pointing a gun at him.

  “Well, my friend. You quite surprise me, although I had a strange feeling about you. I suppose you are the one who left my personal effects at the murders. It was so easy for you to get to my desk, wasn’t it? And I suppose into my home at well.” Holmes waited for an answer.

  “Yes, it was very easy. Almost laughably so.”

  “Why are you helping this lunatic?”

  “It all happened quite innocently. I nearly caught him one night, and he needed a lookout. I couldn’t turn down what he offered—and I was in the perfect position to help him. The pay has certainly been good.”

  Jack, or rather Francis, cleared his throat.

  “Put down the pistol, Holmes. It appears the world’s greatest detective has been outsmarted. Now, you will watch me punish this girl for your hubris—and then I will disappear. You will have it on your head, and I daresay the police may even begin to suspect you. Especially when I kill again, and leave something of yours on the body. I’m sure you received the little present I left on your desk—and you know I have other belongings of yours, as well. How careless of you to drop personal effects at the murder sites! I would never be so foolish.” Francis laughed, an edge of mania in his voice.

  Holmes did as he was told. The darkness enveloped them as Francis strode over and grabbed Julie by the arm to pull her back to him. At that exact moment, an arm came out of the darkness and snaked around Donald’s neck. A loud crack sounded and Donald fell to the ground.

  Holmes, Julie, and Francis turned to see what had happened. A smile crept over Holmes’ face...

  CHAPTER twenty-one

  Dealing with the Devil

  Dr. Watson stood behind where Donald had fallen. He had been in the military for many years and knew how to cleanly and efficiently snap a man’s neck—without mess and without noise, just instant death. Though he regretted having another life on his hands, it had been the only way to save Holmes and Julie.

  Holmes pointed the pistol at Francis once more. “Drop your knife and let Julie go,” he commanded. Julie, shaking with fear, ran to Dr. Watson’s side, keeping her eyes steadily away from Donald’s body on the ground.

  “Are you going to kill me?” said Francis, a coward now that his life was at stake.

  “I still could,” answered Dr. Watson. “But I know that my old friend has some questions he must ask you first.”

  Holmes nodded. “I suspect that your motivations are not merely the love of the kill—if my intuition serves me right, I would say you were sent by the Illuminati to destroy me because of my affiliation to the Sovereign Order of Monte Cristo. That is why you had Donald plant evidence linking me to the murders. Tell me it isn’t so.”

  “Yes, you are correct. Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. My benefactors paid me well, and I must say that with each murder I felt my creative powers growing. It was almost as if I’d been singled out by God—he gave me the key to unlock my gift. You should see how inspired I am after I kill—I write for hours! A man named Aaron Kosminksi approached me after my first murder—he said he was with the Illuminati, and he thought we could have a mutually beneficial partnership. Just how the Illuminati figured out the first murder was mine I will never know—but Kosminksi offered me a handsome sum to begin leaving clues that pointed to you. It made no difference to me whether or not you were caught—and I must say I grew to enjoy it. Murder is a delicious thrill—as perhaps your dangerous Dr. Watson knows.”

  “There is a difference between slaughtering the innocent and protecting the ones we love,” interrupted Dr. Watson stiffly. “We are not the same.”

  “Perhaps—perhaps. Tell me, though—how did you figure out the killer was me? There must have been more obvious suspects to investigate.”

  “Once I began thinking that the Illuminati was behind not the murders themselves, but rather was behind my personal effects being left at the murders, I started to look at the situation quite differently,” Holmes explained. “I asked myself if there was some connection between the murders besides the mutilation, but it wasn’t until my housekeeper mentioned lighting a candle to St. Raymond for her daughter that I began to piece it together. You see, her daughter is with child and she lit the candle to pray for her daughter’s continued health; when I asked her what day she had done so, she told me August 31. The feast day of St. Raymond fell on the day of the first murder—and St. Raymond is also the patron saint of innocence. How ironic, to murder a prostitute on that day!”

  A smile began to spread across Francis’ face.

  Holmes continued, “I then researched other saint days, and I realized that the other murders fell on symbolic days as well—Annie’s murder was committed on the feast day of the patron saint of butchers, while Liz and Catherine were killed on the feast day for the patron saint of doctors. More damningly, each body was left in a place that would once have been considered a place of sanctuary—land surrounding a chapel that would provide safe haven for the accused.”

  Dr. Watson seemed to have forgotten where he was—he was listening to Holmes intently, fascinated. “And how on earth did you connect this to the Illuminati?” Dr. Watson asked.

  “The Illuminati has long been dedicated to working against the Catholic Church,” Holmes answered. “This would have been just their sort of clever joke—one that very few people would perceive. And now I see how Kosminski fits in as well—do you remember the message on the apron, Dr. Watson?”

  “Yes!” Dr. Watson said, realization lighting up his eyes. “‘The juwes are the men who will not be blamed for nothing’—how strange I thought that, and now I understand!”

  “That tells me how you connected the Illuminati to the murders,” interrupted Francis, “but not me.”

  “I am getting to that,” answered Holmes. “One of the witnesses mentioned you to me as someone to interview; she told me you lived as a vagrant, though you had a privileged background, and said that very little happened on the streets of Whitechapel that you didn’t know about. In my search for you, I discovered you are an opium addict, given to hallucinations—and your sister even gave me a box of writings you left behind when I wrote to her inquiring about your whereabouts. In that box were some very disturbing stories and poems—and in them you write passionately about disemboweling women, in the same manner the victims were killed. And yet the stories were obviously written before the murders occurred. When I also learned you had studied to be a surgeon, I realized I had identified the killer.

  “But I still needed to know this beyond a doubt—and so I turned to the method I originally thought would be the key to solving the crime, fingerprint analysis. You see, iodine fumes reveal prints
on paper—and I had the postcard and note left at my house. Though I was not able to lift a print off the bodies, I did find a bloody print in Mary Jane’s room that appeared to match that on the missives. I had your writings as well, and the prints there connected it all together.”

  “It is rare a man has the ambition to turn his greatest fantasy into reality,” said Francis. “Yet I have done so in my work as Jack the Ripper. Those writings are juvenile—I have grown immensely in talent since, and I should have burned them. I shall, if I can get my hands on them again. I cannot believe it was something so simple that led you conclusively to me!”

  “Now it is my turn to ask a question,” said Holmes. “Why murder prostitutes, rather than any woman you found alone in the street?’

  Francis lost his smile at this question, and his lips curled into a snarl. “Because they are vile, lying trash,” he said. “Once, I believed I had found the love of my life—and I begged her to leave the streets, and let me take care of her. She would take my money willingly enough, but would not agree to become my wife—and eventually I heard she had been mocking me openly behind my back. True, she was older than I—and society may never have accepted our love—she broke my heart. I do not know where she has gone, but I hope she reads of these murders and cannot sleep at night from fear.”

  “The last piece of the puzzle,” muttered Holmes.

  “So do you now march me to Scotland Yard, to bask in the glory of catching Jack the Ripper?” Francis said with a sneer.

  “I have a deal to make with you,” Holmes said as he glanced at Dr. Watson’s forlorn face. “I do not want Dr. Watson to have to go through the rest of his life being publicly saddled with the death of this trash who lies before us. I also want the Illuminati to leave me alone, as well as my friend the Count of Monte Cristo,” Holmes said. “You have to make them stop. Do you have the power to do that?”

  “Yes, I believe I do,” Francis said warily. “I know many of their names and they will not want to be associated with me. They are people in high places.”

  “If we reach an agreement, we must not ever mention this night to anyone. We will leave Donald’s body to be found by someone else. You will return to your family, leaving London, and try to live the rest of your life out of the public eye,” Holmes continued. “You will resume life as a poet and scholar, and will devote your writings to some safer subject—God, perhaps. If I see similar crimes being perpetrated in our fair country, I will not hesitate to send a tip to the authorities of any city in which you reside. You must stop this madness.”

  “You would set free a murderer to save your friends?” Francis asked. “How can you be sure I will keep my word?”

  “I cannot—but I know you are a smart man, and probably wish to spend the remainder of your life pursuing your art, rather than finding yourself at the end of a hangman’s noose. Of course, you will have to find some less violent source of inspiration. I, myself, will write an account of what has happened tonight. It will be sealed and left among my belongings, with the instructions that the letter is not to be opened for one hundred years after my death. Then the world will find out the truth about Jack the Ripper.”

  Holmes still had his pistol pointed directly at Francis. A savage, dark part of him wanted to pull the trigger and bring justice to the murder victims—but Holmes knew that Dr. Watson and Edmond Dantes would be better served by letting Francis go free. He could leverage Francis to blackmail the Illuminati, and protect them all—at least for a while.

  Holmes slipped the gun inside the pocket of his overcoat, but kept his hand upon it and the barrel pointed at Francis. “Though you have proved yourself to be no gentleman, I trust you not to betray our agreement,” said Holmes. “You will leave tomorrow—you will think of some clever excuse, I am sure, for your hasty return home—and then we shall never hear from you again. And you will write to those men you know in the Illuminati, as well, and threaten to reveal them if they ever again attempt to besmirch my character, or that of Edmond Dantes. Dr. Watson, please escort Julie home and return home yourself—I will see Francis to the station and help him procure a passage to his parents’ home.”

  Holmes had more complex reasons for waiting with Francis as the sun rose than merely making sure he left London—he wanted first-hand insight into the mind of a serial killer who would speak freely, as there was no consequence for his crimes. And speak freely Francis did, describing each murder in detail and with relish. Holmes listened intently, though at times the man’s twisted nature sent chills down his spine. Holmes learned that most of the details in his profile had been perceptive and correct, though a few were disproven.

  When he had seen Francis off, Holmes knew he must return to work. He had to think about what to say to Grant. He guessed the investigation would have to go on for a while longer, even though there would be no more murders. Scotland Yard would not be convinced the Ripper’s reign of terror had ended for quite some time, he was sure. Holmes would also have to coordinate a story with Julie and Dr. Watson, but he trusted them implicitly and had no doubt this secret could be kept for one hundred years—as long as Francis did not take up the Ripper’s sharp knife once more.

  Epilogue

  .

  Dr. Watson sat in his den, going over the night’s happenings. Though he had killed men in the war, those deaths still haunted him, and he regretted adding another man’s life to his list of transgressions. He had to protect his old friend, however, as well as the innocent Julie. He would live with his remorse and keep the secret—after all, Donald Hamilton was almost as evil a man as the Ripper himself, and the world was well rid of him.

  Julie had surprised Dr. Watson by thanking him for helping to avenge her friend’s death—she appeared to have no ill effects from the night’s misadventures at all, and if she disagreed with Holmes’ decision to send Francis away rather than having him hanged, she did not say it. Dr. Watson closed his eyes against the bright morning sun, hoping that his old friend was safe and that he would hear from him soon.

  Holmes went home, his body weary and his head aching. He knew he would not find the sweet peace of rest for quite some time—there were details to be taken care of at Scotland Yard. He was hungry though, and needed to bathe and change his clothes. His trusty housekeeper was there to make his breakfast and not ask questions. She had learned by now that he preferred her conversation to remain focused on trivial matters, and for her hands to stay busy keeping his coffee cup full.

  While Holmes dressed for the day, she made him a breakfast of pancakes and scrambled eggs along with fresh sausage. She poured a cup of coffee for him as well. They made small talk as he ate and then prepared to leave. She knew she would probably not see him until that evening. He looked like a man with a purpose.

  Scotland Yard was buzzing with excitement. A body had been found. Yes, the body of one of the employees of the coroner’s office.

  “Have you heard the news about Donald Hamilton?” asked Grant as soon as Holmes strode into the office.

  “Just now—and I must tell you I am shocked.”

  “I do not think our murderer was the Ripper, unless Hamilton caught the fellow in the act and the woman fled and hasn’t come forward yet. The fellow had his neck broken—snapped clean. It had to be the work of some sort of professional I am sure, and a strong one at that. We have no clues to go on yet, but we will of course investigate every avenue.”

  “I hate to hear this news,” Holmes said, shaking his head. “He seemed like such a nice young man, with a bright future ahead of him. Were there any witnesses?”

  “No, not a one. A merchant delivering eggs found the body hidden in an alley. Your priority will remain the Ripper case, of course. Will we be returning to Whitechapel with Julie tonight?”

  “Let us revisit our strategy over the next fortnight,” answered Holmes. “As it is no longer the weekend, the Ripper is unlikely to kill—and Julie has withdrawn from the investigation. The night’s excitement in the pub proved too
much for her nerves. And perhaps there will be no more murders—perhaps London is finally through with this madness.”

  Grant agreed with Holmes’ request to postpone their next visit to Whitechapel, though with some hesitation—he knew Holmes was not a man to let go of a case until it was solved, and he did not understand his friend’s sudden withdrawal. Nevertheless, he was sure Holmes had some brilliant new tactic that he was not ready to share just yet.

  Holmes knew he could not just halt his investigation and the investigations of all of the other detectives. He would have to play along for a while, and give the appearance of being devoted to solving the murders. He knew that after a few weeks, the excitement and terror would begin to fade, the trail would go cold, and the files would grow dusty as Scotland Yard moved on to other matters.

  Though Holmes secretly longed for the world to know that he had, indeed, captured the world’s most notorious serial killer, his devotion to his friends and the Sovereign Order of Monte Cristo overcame his pride—he had protected those he cared about, which was more important than adding another great investigatory feat to his reputation.

  Maybe Jack the Ripper murders would not be solved for at least one hundred years…on that he would bet his last farthing.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Who is The Holy Ghost Writer?

  The identity of the author is part of an international contest, and the first person to correctly name the HG Writer from the clues found in the Count of Monte Cristo sequels will receive a reward of $5000. Visit the Holy Ghost Writer's Amazon Author Page for Details and see if you can discover the real identity of the author being heralded as the new Stieg Larsson for That Girl Started Her Own Country, the successor of Alexander Dumas for The Sultan of Monte Cristo and the next Ray Bradbury for The Boy Who Played With Dark Matter. Contact the author c/o books@illuminatedpublications.com