by James Reese
Said Caine, “But all along we have told the Inspector we know nothing of Tumblety. How do we recant now?”
“We are not going to write Abberline,” said I. “He is…. Tumblety is.”
“Impersonate him, do you mean?” I nodded to Caine and waved the villain’s latest letter.
“Well,” mused Speranza, “it is an idea. And if all Whitechapel is acrawl with the authorities Saturday next—”
“Will he not simply desist?” interrupted Caine. “Wait to strike another time?”
“No,” said Speranza and I simultaneously, though it was she who continued:-
“Remember, Mr. Caine, our enemy is driven by a demon, and no demon will demur before humanity. Was Lucifer not arrogance itself? So, too, will Tumblety proceed: arrogantly. But arrogance has been the bane of many a murderer, and by it they betray themselves.”
“And what if he succeeds at murder first?” asked Caine. “What then?”
No-one cared to consider the question. Instead Speranza said, simply, “Let’s begin”; and further asked if I had any red ink to hand.
“Blood-red, do you mean? Brilliant! Yes, yes, I have some upstairs: Henry insists that I log all debits in red.”
“Fetch it down, Mr. Stoker. And choose the pen of your preference, as I think it best you write the letter, my penmanship being execrable even by the standards of the criminally insane, and as for Mr. Caine’s shaking hands…. As said, Mr. Stoker, I think this falls to you.” And so it did.
I sat down to christen the newly-delivered escritoire. My friends overhung my shoulders, commenting on each writing style I tried. Too wild. Too left-slanting, &c. It was Speranza who spurred me to a suitable style in saying, “Remember, Bram: You are a madman.”
“So I am,” said I. “So I am.” And soon we set about composing.
The salutation came from Caine: “‘Dear Boss,’” he quoted, and I wrote it; for thusly had Tumblety referred to Abberline.
“He is an American, remember,” said Speranza.
“I shall bear it in mind,” said I. “But are we to hint at Tumblety in this? With Americanisms? With anatomical references such as a doctor might make?”
“I think so, yes,” said Speranza. “It is, after all, Tumblety they must be on the lookout for.”
“True,” said Caine. “And we must hint, too,—or more than hint—at his madness.”
“Yes, but make no mention of the demon,” said Speranza. “Rather much, that, for the men of Scotland Yard. A mere madman, a mere murderer must suffice.”
“All of which is well and good,” said I, sitting back; for my co-authors had come too near, each slavering for the pen as a dog does a bone. “But it is words we want now.” I gestured down at the still-blank sheet. “Words, if you please.”
Caine began to pace: to compose, in other words. Lady Wilde slowly lowered herself to recline upon the new crimson carpet, hoping her stays would not do to her words what they were doing to her once-waist. She worried needlessly; for when she next spoke, it was to proffer the first usable line, viz. a line on which two of us three were agreed. It was a reference to the many men whom the police have in custody at present:-
“‘I keep on hearing the police have caught me, but they won’t fix me just yet.’”
“Oh, yes,” enthused Caine, “quite good, that; especially the ‘fix me yet.’ But make special mention of the Jew they have in hand—or have they already let him go?”
“Leather Apron, do you mean?”53 And I fanned my fingers, lest my hand tighten and the writing seem…what? Sane?
“Leather Apron, yes,” said Caine. “How about this: ‘I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track.’” I underlined in red the word “right,” as Tumblety had his ha ha. “‘That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits.’”
“Good,” enthused Speranza from the floor. “Are you misspelling at all, Mr. Stoker?”
“I have not as yet.”
“Do so; but not badly,” said Caine. “Subtlety will see the job done…. What’s wanted now is something American? Something…boastful of all the blood. Bram?”
And so the next line was mine: “I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled.” It was at Speranza’s suggestion that I let fall the apostrophe on “shan’t.”
So it went, we three composing in uncommon accord till the letter read:
…“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.”
This last line was owing to my observation that the drying ink resembled blood not at all; and if I knew as much, so, too, would the police, surely.
I continued: “The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you.”
Caine objected that “shall” was not sufficiently American, and when I disagreed with him, it fell to Speranza, who threw the quorum toward “shall,” as it were, saying, “We have already used ‘shan’t.’ Simply avoid a second usage, Mr. Stoker, and we will spare ourselves having to recommence. I dislike multiple draughts…. Continue, please.” And we did, taking up the timing of it all and agreeing that we’d write & post it for receipt by Abberline on Friday next:
“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.”
And though I balked at any mention of a knife, lest my kukri ever come to light, I was outnumbered, and the mention remains. Now there was naught to do but sign the letter, and so I did, writing, before I knew it, “Yours truly”; and as that seemed so placid, so pale, I followed it up fast with “Jack the Ripper.”
“Capital, that,” said Caine. “Jack for Tumblety’s J., do you mean?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I supposed so, I said.
“But we made no mention of his being a medical man,” said Caine, coming to peer over my shoulder at the second page, and adding, “Plus, it’s far too neat. Soil it somehow, Bram.” And so I did, with ink spills and such, before adding:
“…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,” and that is how I closed, relieved to set aside the pen and the persona, both.
“Are we done, then?” asked Speranza. It took Caine and me both to raise her up from her recumbency on the rug. “Is it ready for a Friday posting to Abberline?”
“I don’t know,” said I, rethinking my original idea. “Do you think sending it to Abberline is perhaps too…too pat, too predictable?”
“Who then?” asked Caine.
I did not need to think long, for had I not just sent facsimiles to 400 members of the press announcing our season-opening Jekyll and Hyde? Indeed I had, and so it was I said, “The Central News Agency.”
“For dissemination?” asked Caine. “I hardly think—”
“Not at all. We shall send it to Abberline in care of the Central News Agency.”
“Well, it does seem to me something a madman, a murderer might do,” said Speranza. “Rather risky, after all, dealing directly with Scotland Yard…. But what if—Heaven forfend—the pressmen publish it?”
“They will not,” said I. “I know the men of the press, and they are as honourable a lot as one finds in any other profession. If the letter is, or rather seems, addressed to Inspector Abberline—and I will address the envelope to ‘The Boss’ as well—then they will see that he receives it. As concerns the Whitechapel outrages, who else might the boss be? No-one but Abberline, surely.”
Caine sighed and said, “Bram, having been a member of the press, I cannot say I share your high opinion of its personnel. T
hat said, I see by Lady Wilde’s wagging chin that she is like-minded with you in the matter: I am outnumbered, and so I desist…. Let us send it to the Central News Agency Friday next, a.m. Let us send it, and hope to Heaven—Heaven and Hell, both—that it finds its mark and all constabularies are called out Saturday next and that he, Tumblety, is apprehended at, nay before, pray let it be before he sees his threat through.”
And there the matter stands at present: The letter is written and waiting.54
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO THORNLEY STOKER
25 September 188855
Dear Thornley,
Do do do thank Noel for his note of last week. I have written doing so, of course, but a tap atop the head from his Uncle Thornley—along with a few words of what his note meant to his Ol’ Da, if you please—would be man-making to the boy, I’m sure. And Florence? I miss them much at present; but they must stay in Dublin, and these letters must do till this business be done.
Letters. Of letters other than those from loved ones, I’ve had quite enough of late. I cannot explain upon this page, but I shall do so as soon as we meet. Suffice it to say, now, that your last letter put a plan into action, and indeed we three have written. Look for a review to appear in the papers soon.
Bram.
P.S. Pray, Thornley, that our letter not be misdelivered. Pray that its purpose be achieved. For if he is not stopped, we are to see 2 more Saturday next.
TELEGRAM, BRAM STOKER TO LADY JANE WILDE
29 September, 1888.—Word from w/in the Yard. The letter has arrived 1 day later than wanted. They think it a hoax. Horrors to-night. C. & I to Wh.ch. at nightfall. News to you as it is known.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
29 Sept. ’88.—Fools! A hoax, indeed. Caine & I compose again: T-A-K-E H-E-E-D. Can only pray that they will. A card this time, and into the post with speed.56
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
30 Sept.; 5 a.m.—He has taken us to Hell.
CLIPPING FROM LLOYD’S WEEKLY NEWSPAPER,
SUNDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1888
MORE EAST-END TRAGEDIES
THIS (SUNDAY) MORNING.
ATROCIOUS MURDER OF A WOMAN IN ALDGATE.
THE VICTIM DISEMBOWELLED AND MUTILATED.
2ND HORRIBLE MURDER IN COMMERCIAL ROAD EAST.
About 25 minutes to two o’clock this (Sunday) morning a murder of a most atrocious character, in which the revolting details of the recent tragedies in Whitechapel have been intensified, was discovered by a City policeman on duty in Mitre-square, Aldgate, a thoroughfare at the junction of Leadenhall and Fenchurch streets. A woman, who appeared to be between 35 and 40 years of age, was found lying in the right-hand (south-east) corner of the square, completely disembowelled. Her clothes were thrown over the head, and this revealed the fact that a gash extending right up the body to the breast had been inflicted. There were, in addition, other gashes on both sides of the face, and the nose had been completely severed.
The woman is said to have been respectably dressed, and her figure well developed. The sound of a policeman’s whistle attracted attention to the square, and the first spectators who arrived were despatched for medical and other aid. A most sickening spectacle presented itself. The whole of the inside of the murdered woman, with the heart and lungs, appeared to have been wrenched from the body, and lay, in ghastly prominence, scattered about the head and neck, and on the pavement near.
The police and detectives speedily mustered in force, and blocked the thoroughfares leading to the awful scene, around which the most intense excitement prevailed.
Between 12 and 1 this (Sunday) morning a second woman, with her throat gashed and torn, was found in the back yard of 40, Berner-street, Commercial-road E., a few minutes’ walk from Hanbury-street. The premises belong to the International Working Men’s club. Mr. Demship, the steward of the club, went to the yard, and in a corner he discovered the woman. He at once communicated with the police on duty, and assistance was sent for from the Leman-street police-station, from whence officers were despatched with an ambulance. Dr. Phillips was sent for, who came at 1.30 in a cab. Other medical gentlemen subsequently arrived. In comparison with the horrible mutilation of the Mitre-square victim, this was said to be “an ordinary murder,” though reasons exist for believing that the assassin was disturbed, and thus his savage intention unfulfilled.
LATEST PARTICULARS.
NO CLUE.
On making inquiries at Shoreditch police station, at eleven o’clock to-day (Sunday), we were informed that the police were still without the slightest clue to the mystery. There is a growing belief that the two crimes were committed by one man, as the two bodies were found within a distance of each other which can be easily walked in ten minutes—one shortly after half-past twelve, and the other an hour later.
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO THORNLEY STOKER
2 Oct. ’88
Thornley,
The news reaches you.
We are not well. We know not what to do. Caine is prostrated, and, loaded with laudanum, he sleeps with a pistol beneath his pillow. Lady Wilde persists at wit’s end, repeating ad nauseam the motto of Paris.57 All the while I seek distraction—and the preservation of sanity—in the new season; for these bloodlusting Londoners flock to our Jekyll.
B.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
3 October, 8 a.m. o/c.—I sit here at home, attendant upon Abberline; for this latest news from W’minster tells me he will come calling.
Firstly, I record that we were there, Caine and I, in Wh’chapel Sat. last; but we witnessed nothing—no call came—and so we were helpless. The police were scant; or rather, no more a presence than they typically are. When finally a constable’s whistle rose so shrilly up from the scene in Mitre Square, we hastened home, helpless indeed and thinking it best we not be espied thereabouts by Abberline, by anyone. We summoned Speranza to No. 17; and, sitting silently through the small hours, we all three awaited word, viz., the newspapers. When finally word was had, our regret at having left Wh’chapel redoubled; for it hadn’t occurred to us that the victims would not be taken in tandem. Had we stayed, mightn’t we have spared the 2nd victim, a Mrs. Eddowes?
Naught to do these last days but watch the press and wait for word from w/in the Yard or from the Adversary himself. Or Abberline; to whom, we have agreed, innocence/ignorance will be pled regarding these late developments in W’minster:58
ANOTHER GHASTLY DISCOVERY IN LONDON.
A MUTILATED BODY AT WESTMINSTER.
About twenty minutes past three o’clock yesterday afternoon Frederick Wildborn, a carpenter employed by Messrs. J. Grover and Sons, builders of Pimlico, who are the contractors for the new Metropolitan Police headquarters on the Thames Embankment, was working on the foundation, when he came across a neatly done up parcel in one of the cellars. It was opened, and the body of a woman, very much decomposed, was found carefully wrapped in a piece of what is supposed to be a black petticoat.59 The trunk was without head, arms, or legs, and presented a horrible spectacle. Dr. Bond, the divisional surgeon, and several other medical gentlemen were communicated with, and from what can be ascertained the conclusion has been arrived at by them that these remains are those of a woman whose arms have recently been discovered in different parts of the metropolis. Dr. Nevill, who examined the arm of a woman found a few weeks ago in the Thames, off Ebury Bridge, said on that occasion that he did not think that it had been skilfully taken from the body. This fact would appear to favour the theory that that arm, together with the one found in the grounds of the Blind Asylum in the Lambeth-road last week, belong to the trunk discovered yesterday, for it is stated that the limbs appear to have been taken from it in anything but a skilful manner….
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL (CONTINUED)
I sent word to Abberline, as I’d promised I would when we stood before Speranza’s: Henry cannot aver that he did not drop the cloak somewhere, at some point in time; and so…
The door. It is he.
Later.�
��Indeed it was he: Abberline; come and now gone.
Caine came down at the Inspector’s insistence, and as we three sat in the parlour, I grew thankful for the many hours I have spent watching fine actors at work; for I had not only to dissemble, to feign a greater ignorance than I own at present, but I had also to time my responses to Abberline’s questions so as to preclude Caine’s offering his own, as, the laudanum lingering, my friend’s faculties were yet compromised. Brief: As I could neither step on Abberline’s lines nor cede the stage to Caine, timing was all; and I am exhausted.
Abberline informed us of what we had already supposed: The cloth in which the body parts found at Whitehall were wrapped was not a petticoat, as reported, but rather was a match, in size and fabric, to the torn and blood-stained Lyceum cloak found earlier in the vicinity. The two fit together puzzle-like. I feigned surprise. And I repeated Henry’s claim, adding to it a bit of stage business: I shrugged and presented my open palms as if to say, See, Inspector: I’ve nothing to hide. Alas, I am not an actor, and Abberline seemed…unsatisfied. He put more muscle into what next he said:
He had learned that the “ubiquitous Mr. Stoker” was not present at the Lyceum last Saturday evening. Was that not unusual?
“Quite;” said I, “but life does sometimes intervene in one’s work, Inspector. Mr. Caine and I—”
“Mr. Caine, you say?” And, turning to him, Abberline asked, “You were with Mr. Stoker on Saturday evening, sir?”
“He was,” said I; whereupon the Inspector stared at Caine till confirmation came in the form of a deep, deep nod.
Of me, Abberline then asked, “Is Mr. Caine not feeling well?”
“Indeed he is not,” said I, adding, my voice fallen to conspiring tones, “The creative temperament, sir…. You understand, surely. And so, too, was Lady Wilde laid low Saturday last. Indeed we were both—Mr. Caine and myself—at the bedside of our Lady Wilde, to which fact she will happily attest.”
“Both your friends similarly afflicted? Quite coincidental, is it not, Mr. Stoker?…Well, Lady Wilde must have been quite sickly Saturday last; for I am told by various persons in the Lyceum employ that you are rarely, rarely absent from that place the night of a performance.”