by Tim Champlin
Abberline took the cup and sipped--a delicious, minty concoction spiked with something alcoholic.
"The exhibition will start in about ten minutes."
Abberline nodded, taking another swallow of the delightful punch. He plucked a meat and cheese hors d'oeuvre by its toothpick from one of several dozen bowls on the snow-white linen. "Certainly beats pickled eggs and rat trap cheese in the Three Bells. Maybe if I get outside two more cups of this punch, I'll be able to relax."
"We both need to get away from our work for a day now and then," Llewellyn said as they strolled out into the sunshine. He drew a deep breath. "Lovely day."
A dreary downpour of rain had finally ceased three days before. "Without a good sluicing now and again, Whitechapel would be even dirtier than it is," Abberline said.
"Huh! That goes for the rest of London as well," the doctor replied, pulling a flat cigar case from the pocket of his Tattersall vest. "At least out here, away from the city, there's not so much coal smoke and soot."
Abberline finished his small cup of punch, and was ready for another. He could scarcely believe he was surrounded by such opulence. This was a different world—the world of the privileged upper class, lawn parties and organized sporting events. If he inhabited this level of society, would he have the energy and creativity to work at spending unlimited pounds and filling unlimited time? The swarming East End labored and lusted, sweated and swore to maintain a miserable existence only a few miles from here. But it might have been on the Indian sub-continent, the contrast was so sharp.
Sir Charles Warren had talked to him eight days ago. It seemed like a month. Nothing had changed. The killer was still at large. Abberline had not come up with any new ideas to trap the deadly phantom. Yet, there'd been no frenzied slashings in more than a fortnight. Whitechapel prostitutes, sometimes traveling in pairs, were cautiously returning to the gaslit cobblestones and shadowy byways. Maybe it was all over.
"None of that today, my friend," Doctor Llewellyn said.
"What?" Abberline was jarred out of his reverie.
"I saw that look on your face. You were thinking about those murders. While you're here today, you will enjoy yourself. That's an order. No worry, no wondering—not even any thinking about work. Understand?"
Abberline relaxed and smiled. "Agreed."
Llewellyn struck a match and cupped a hand against the slight breeze to light his cigar. A few early autumn leaves fluttered down around them. "Most of these people," he continued, gesturing with the lighted stogie, "know I'm a doctor of some sort, but only a few close friends have any idea what I really do for a living." He gave a tight smile and smoothed his mustache. "I daresay, some of the more delicate ladies would be shocked if they saw me in my other life--up to my elbows in blood."
They moved back to the table and Abberline refilled his cup.
The doctor consulted his heavy gold watch. "Time for us to get a good seat."
They fell in with the crowd drifting toward the open ground on the far side of the trees. A set of bleachers accommodated most of the two hundred plus in attendance. The rest reclined on a slope of grass in the sunshine where they could get a good view of the broad field. The several acres of the East Sycamore Gun Club were encompassed by a low stone wall. The pitched roof and chimney of the clubhouse were visible in a distant grove.
"Have you attended Cody's Wild West Show?" the doctor asked as they slid into the second row of the temporary stands.
"No. Honestly, that type of entertainment doesn't appeal to me. Give me an occasional music hall performance."
"Completely different," the doctor said. "I've always been fascinated by the American West—a new, raw country. As a man who carries a pistol in performance of his duty, you know something of firearms. I think you'll appreciate what you're about to witness."
"So you've been to the show?"
"Oh, yes--twice," Llewellyn said. "It didn't take any effort on my part to persuade the president of this club to invite Annie Oakley to put on a shooting exhibition here."
Abberline recalled the faded wall poster he'd seen in Whitechapel trumpeting 'Buffalo Bill and his Congress of Rough Riders of the World', commonly referred to in the papers as 'Bill Cody's Wild West Show'. "Is this young lady really as good as the newspapers make her out to be?"
"Better." Llewellyn removed the cigar from his mouth and flicked off the ash.
Abberline knew his friend was not given to hyperbole.
"Cody's show also features a 15-year old California girl who's quite a marksman as well."
"Is she here, too?"
The doctor shook his head. "She was invited to the Wimbledon Shooting Grounds this summer and had a miserable day trying to shoot those iron running deer targets. In fact, she was fined for hitting several of them in the haunch. She left the grounds in a huff without paying the fine."
Abberline looked his question at his friend.
"Shooting a real deer in the haunch is disgraceful for a hunter. It's worse than a miss because the deer isn't killed and just runs off and dies slowly from the wound."
"Well, shooting's a big sport in England but I carry my Adams only for close range defense." He didn't add that shooting birds or clay pigeons with a shotgun or rifle—while good for sharpening hand/eye coordination—held no appeal for him.
While they talked, the last of the equipment was being put in place by members of the club—stationary and hand-held spring traps, a variety of clay pigeons, and glass balls, caged "blue rocks"—the lightning fast English birds that were used as live targets.
The doctor pointed at a lean man in a wide brimmed hat who was directing the positioning of everything, including the table that held a variety of long guns and ammunition. "Frank Butler, Annie's husband and manager."
The crowd applauded politely as if awaiting the beginning of a lawn tennis match. Annie appeared, removed a wide hat and placed it on the table, then curtsied to the crowd in the stands, only forty feet away. She was dressed in a long sleeved beige blouse, a pleated, fringed skirt and doeskin leggings. Her chestnut hair was tied back, but still hung past her shoulders. As she worked off her fitted gloves, Abberline gauged her height at no more than five feet, one inch. Petite, but athletic, he guessed. Under thirty years old—straight nose, full lips, and very pretty.
"Makes her own clothes, I hear," a lady sitting nearby said in a stage whisper.
For the next three-quarters of an hour, the audience witnessed a display of marksmanship that made even the skeptical Abberline, gasp with amazement. With hardly a break between each, Annie started with a short exhibition of shooting a .22 rifle. Then she switched to a short shotgun and shot two clay pigeons Frank sprang from a hand trap. Then she pulled the trap herself, snatched the gun and fired. Then she stood with her back to the trap, turned and fired.
But this was just a warm-up. She next waited until the trap was sprung, grabbed her shotgun from the ground and fired, breaking the clay pigeon. Then she repeated this trick with two clay pigeons. Standing twenty feet from the gun, she waited until the trap was sprung before she ran, snatched the weapon and fired. Then she held a ball in one hand, tossed it up and fired, breaking it. The trick was repeated, but she threw two balls into the air and hit them both. Between each, Frank Butler announced to the crowd what she was about to do, since her movements were so rapid, the eye could hardly follow.
The tricks grew more difficult. She threw a ball backward, over her shoulder, picked up the gun, whirled and fired. She broke six balls thrown into the air in four seconds. She broke five balls in five seconds, first with a rifle, then repeated the trick twice more, using two different shotguns.
As a finale, she was challenged to a shooting contest by the best marksman in the club--Quentin Brooks. He went first, firing at the darting blue rocks, and managed to strike 18 out of 25, standing at a distance of 25 yards from their release point.
Applause for this outstanding performance.
Then Annie stepped up and the cr
owd fell silent.
When the last blast faded, she'd hit 23 of 25.
Brooks bowed in concession to her superior skill while the no-longer-sedate crowd whistled and shouted their approval.
Lord Stanton, president of the East Sycamore Gun Club, stepped forward and presented her a souvenir of her visit—a gold medal larger than a five-shilling piece with some sort of engraving on it.
Doctor Llewllyn leaned over to Abberline under the applause, "That 20-gauge she's using is her favorite gun. Made special for her by Charles Lancaster."
"The famous gunsmith?"
"Correct. He saw she was using a shotgun that was too heavy for her and didn't have the proper drop at the comb. She was undershooting her targets. He designed and fitted that one to her. Shorter barrel, too. Weighs only five pounds."
The applause finally died and the crowd broke up.
Abberline stepped down from the stands and stretched, feeling good. He hadn't thought of his job in more than an hour.
"Now to finish this day off with a good meal," the doctor said, pointing toward the clubhouse where the crowd was meandering.
"A meal? What was all that food on the table, if not a meal?" Abberline asked.
"Loosen your belt; you're in for a treat," Andrew Llewellyn grinned.
CHAPTER 6
September 28th, 1888
The door to Abberline's office stood open and Roger Clark, one of his inspectors, strode in. His wild red hair habitually defied comb or hair tonic, and this morning was thrusting up the usual rooster tails, side and crown. "Something you need to see," he said without preliminaries. He shoved an open letter and envelope across the desk. "It was sent over from the Central News Agency at Ludgate Circus. They treated it as a joke, but I'm not so sure."
Abberline looked at the envelope first. It was simply addressed, "The Boss, Central News Office, London City", and bore a postmark of Sept. 27, 1888.
The letter, written in red ink, read:
25 Sept. 1888
Dear Boss
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I can do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name
A second postscript in red crayon was written at a right angle to the rest:
Wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now ha ha.
Abberline looked up. "What do you make of this?"
"I'm not sure. It's just one of many crazy letters. First one I've seen that was signed that way."
"Giving himself the name, 'Jack the Ripper'. Has the head of CID seen this?"
"Yes. It was given to Sir Robert Anderson first."
"What was his impression?"
Clark shook his head. "It was a puzzle. He thought perhaps the salutation, 'Dear Boss', might indicate a Yankee connection, since that sounded like American slang to him."
"The rest of this wording more resembles a casually educated Englishman to me," Abberline said, stroking his sidewhiskers. So many practical jokers, so many cranks. How to distinguish them from the real threats? "Quiet for three weeks," he mused, turning the letter over in his hands. "Now Mister 'Jack the Ripper' wants to stir things up; he wants notoriety. You'll notice he didn't mail this to the police or Scotland Yard. He sent it to the Central News agency of the city of London. Besides whatever sexual thrills the killings produce, and the game of fox-and-hounds with police, he most of all wants publicity. He wants the world to read and shiver at his exploits. He's laughing at the law's attempts to catch him and he's warning us he's about to strike again."
He got up and came around his desk. "I daresay the heads of the departments have conferred about this. But, to be safe, I'll walk this letter down the hall to Sir Charles. If this is from the killer, Mister Warren should want to increase his police coverage of Whitechapel. The constant, heavy presence of constables within whistle distance of each other on their beats might save a life. From what I've personally observed, surveillance has slipped a little, probably since nothing has happened for weeks."
"It's human nature to relax a little when things seem to be going well," Clark said.
"Probably what 'Jack' is counting on."
"Then why would he warn us?"
"Good question. I'd say he wants to make the game more dangerous—more thrilling."
"So you don't think this letter is a hoax?"
"Can't be certain, but I'm taking it seriously." He folded the letter and tucked it into his side jacket pocket. "Thanks for bringing it to my attention. I'll pass it along to Sir Charles."
"Would it help to compare the handwriting to the other letters we've received?"
"We have hundreds. It would take too long. Even if they found a match, what would it prove? That the same practical joker wrote more than one? It'd be worth the time and effort if it would tell us whether or not this writer is the real 'Ripper', as he calls himself."
He and Clark left the office together.
Abberline, frustrated from inactivity and lack of positive leads, decided to spend his own time this weekend prowling the streets of the East End. As a male, he had no fear of encountering the Ripper, but perhaps he could aid the constables.
He was glad to have something to call this lunatic besides the Slasher, the Phantom Killer, the Murderer, and other such names. The letter-writer had at least provided a more succinct cognomen, which law officers and newspapers could agree on. Somehow, it seemed to give the man an identity—Jack the Ripper—convenient and chilling at the same time. Visualize him however you might, the newspapers would jump on that name like a cat on a cricket.
Abberline had gone home from the office, exhausted from trying to figure out the problem and getting nowhere. He'd read all the reports of neighbors, witnesses, reconstructed the actions of the victims, viewed their backgrounds. All the suspects had been questioned, their lodgings searched, the acquaintances grilled. Each of the suspects had been in jail or a workhouse or a pub when a killing occurred, or were otherwise eliminated from suspicion because of circumstances. When Abberline closed and locked his office door on Friday, he was convinced—as much as he'd ever been—that the police had done a very thorough job of investigation, but had not found any solid clues that might lead them to the killer.
He took the night off, ate a good supper, and read a few chapters of a light novel to prepare his mind for sleep. His rest that night was deep and undisturbed, even by the usual colorful dreams.
Saturday he went to the police shooting range and spent two hours practicing with his handgun, refreshing his skills. He finally finished up, and signed out, leaving a record of his targets for the clerk to forward to the CID, updating his certification. He was not a natural marksman, but shot well enough, and often enough, to feel comfortable with his Adams revolver in case he should ever need it in a real emergency.
As he ate a light supper that evening at the Three Bells, he pondered the Jack the Ripper letter that was written in red ink in lieu of coagulated blood from a previous victim. That missive could have been the work of someone with a warped sense of humor, but Abberline had an uneasy feeling it was legitimate. When he'd first held it in his hands, he
could almost feel an evil presence emanating from the page. He'd said nothing to Roger Clark who would've thought him daft. The longer Abberline was in detective work, the more he was bending toward the belief that those who claimed to be psychics might very well have powers beyond the ordinary senses. One or two who proclaimed such paranormal gifts had volunteered their services to the police, but their visions and predictions had proven false, so law enforcement officials had given up on them.
He shed his black ulster, draped it over the back of a chair, then stretched his legs and sat back with a tall, foamy glass. It would be a long night, so he needed to pace himself. The Three Bells didn't close until 3:00 a.m. and he meant to make it his headquarters between strolls around the streets. Even if nothing happened, he wanted to feel as if he were making an attempt to solve this case.
His Adams, cleaned and reloaded with fresh .450 cartridges, was snugged into a shoulder holster out of sight beneath his light jacket.
A boatswain's pipe shrilled. Abberline jerked out of a doze. Another shriek. Not a boatswain's pipe—a police whistle. Hands of the big clock above the bar pointed at 1:10. He leapt up, knocking over his chair. Three men and two women in the Three Bells stared at him as he dashed out, banging the door. The whistle? A block north. He sprinted in that direction, straight up the middle of the empty street, his shoes slapping on the wet cobblestones. He scanned both sidewalks as he ran, but noticed only two women and no men abroad at this hour.
The shrill whistle continued. Following the sound, he turned a corner. Half way up the block, someone held a lantern. He slowed, seeing other forms milling about, silhouetted by the gaslight at the far end of the block.