by kindels
Requiem for the Ripper
The Final Episode of 'A Study in Red' Trilogy
Brian L. Porter
Requiem for the Ripper
Copyright © 2010 Brian L. Porter
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Double Dragon eBooks
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Cover art by Deron Douglas
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ISBN-10: 1-55404-758-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-758-1
First Edition June 3, 2010
Also Available as a Large Type Paperback
Also from Brian L. Porter
'A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper' (Winner of The Preditors & Editors 'Best Thriller Novel of 2008' Readers Poll Award)
'Legacy of the Ripper'
'Pestilence'
'Purple Death'
'Glastonbury'
'The Nemesis Cell'
'Avenue of the Dead'
'The Voice of Anton Bouchard'
'Dracula Doesn't Live Here Anymore'
'Kiss of Life'
'Murder, Mayhem and Mexico'
Dedication
'Requiem for the Ripper' is dedicated to the memory of Enid Ann Porter (1914 - 2004). Her belief in me, and my work, wavered not, though she never lived to see the first book in publication, and to Juliet, who provides the help and support without which none of my books would ever be completed.
Acknowledgements
Requiem for the Ripperis the final phase of my fictional trilogy based on the gruesome Jack the Ripper murders, committed in the space of a few short weeks during the autumn of 1888 in Whitechapel, London. Over the years, much debate and research has taken place in an attempt to identify and name the man responsible for those killings. So far, no authoritative answer has been provided and the mystery of who Jack the Ripper was remains just that, a mystery.
My own research for this book, and those that preceded it, was helped along the way by a number of people. It is a simple fact, that without their help this final book could not have appeared.
Therefore, thanks are due to my fellow members of the JackTheRipperForums.com for their help and support, particularly to Howard Brown and Mike Covell. And to the members of The Whitechapel Society 1888, in taking the trouble of inviting me to judge their first short story contest during 2009.
Science-fiction author Carole Gill joined my group of critiquing readers, which includes publisher Graeme S. Houston and my lovely wife Juliet. My thanks go to all who have helped with their critiques and comments during the writing of Requiem for the Ripper. Without their continued support and occasional inspirational ideas, this finished story might not be quite so 'finished'.
Finally, to all who have read and enjoyed the first two books in the trilogy, I pass on my thanks, for giving me the will and the inspiration to go forward and complete this final sequel.
Introduction to the Trilogy
Requiem for the Ripperis the third and final part of the trilogy of novels that began with A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper, which was followed by Legacy of the Ripper. For anyone unfamiliar with the first two books, the following introductory pages give a brief outline of their content and, I hope, will add to the reading pleasure of this, the third and final part of the trilogy.
A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper
Following the death of his father, psychiatrist Robert Cavendish is bequeathed a set of papers and a strange, age-yellowed journal. As he unpacks and begins to read the papers, he is astounded to discover that he is holding the journal of the infamous Whitechapel Murderer who stalked the streets of the East End of London in the autumn of 1888. The pages are warm to the touch, and a force of great malevolence seems to guide Robert's journey through the mists of time as he is transported by the words upon the pages into the mind, and the world, of the one and only Jack the Ripper! His mind begins to feel the pull of another time, another place, as images of The Ripper's crimes fill his thoughts, and Robert is beset by waking nightmares of such sadistic and terrible bloodletting that he begins to doubt his sanity. As he delves further and further into the demented world of the killer, Robert begins to sense that his family has been hiding a terrible secret for over a century, a secret that he knows will only be revealed when he completes the task of reading 'The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper'.
An Excerpt
Introduction
The London of the 1880s differed greatly from the city of today. Poverty and wealth existed side by side, the defining line between the two often marked only by the turning of a corner, from the well-lit, suburban streets of the middle classes and the wealthy, to the seedy, crime and rat-infested slums, where poverty, homelessness, desperation and deprivation walked hand in hand with drunkenness, immorality, and crime most foul. In the teeming slums of the city by night, the most commonly heard cry in the darkness was thought to be that of 'Murder!' So inured were the people who lived amongst such squalor and amidst the fever of criminal intimidation that, it is said, in time, no one took any notice of such cries.
It was into this swirling maelstrom of vice and human degradation, London's East End, that there appeared a malevolent force, a merciless killer, who stalked the mean streets by night in search of his prey, and gave the great metropolis that was London its first taste of the now increasingly common phenomenon, the serial killer! The streets of Whitechapel were to become the stalking ground of that mysterious and, as yet, still unidentified slayer known to history as 'Jack the Ripper!'
An Extract From The Journal
Blood, beautiful, thick, rich, red, venous blood.
Its colour fills my eyes, its scent assaults my nostrils,
its taste hangs sweetly on my lips.
Last night, once more, the voices called to me,
and I did venture forth, their bidding, their unholy quest to undertake.
Through mean, gas-lit, fog-shrouded streets, I wandered in the night, selected,
struck, with flashing blade, and oh, how the blood did run, pouring out upon the street,
soaking through the cobbled cracks, spurting, like a fountain of pure red.
Viscera leaking from ripped red gut, my clothes assumed the smell of freshly
butchered meat. The squalid, dark, street shadows beckoned, and under leaning
darkened eaves, like a wraith I disappeared once more into the cheerless night,
the bloodlust of the voices again fulfilled, for a while ...
They will call again, and I once more will prowl the streets upon the night.
The blood will flow like a river once again.
Beware all those who would stand against the call.
I shall not be stopped or taken, no, not I.
Sleep fair city, while you can, while the voices within are still,
I am resting, but my time shall come again. I shall rise in a glorious blood-fest.
I
shall taste again the fear as the blade slices sharply through yielding flesh,
when the voices raise the clarion call, and my time shall come again.
So, I say again, good citizens, sleep, for there will be a next time...
To my dearest nephew, Jack,
This testament, the journal, and all the papers that accompany it are yours upon my death, as they became mine upon my father's death. Aunt Sarah, and I were never fortunate enough to have children of our own, so it is with a heavy heart that I write this note to accompany these pages. Had I any alternative, I would spare you the curse of our family's deepest secret, or, perhaps I should say, secrets! Having read what you are about to read, I had neither the courage to destroy it, nor to reveal the secrets contained within these pages. I beg you, as my father begged me, to read the journal and the notes that go with it, and be guided by your conscience and your intelligence in deciding what course of action to take when you have done so. Whatever you decide to do, dear nephew, I beg you, do not judge those who have gone before you too harshly, for the curse of the journal you are about to read is as real as these words I now write to you.
Be safe, Jack, but be warned.
Your loving uncle,
Robert
Legacy of the Ripper
Jack Thomas Reid, nephew of Robert Cavendish, who first appeared in A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper languishes in the secure Ravenswood Psychiatric Hospital, sentenced to confinement 'At Her Majesty's Pleasure', for a series of apparent 'Jack the Ripper' copycat killings in the picturesque English coastal resort of Brighton. Jack's defence at his trial, that he is a descendant of Jack the Ripper, that the crimes were conducted by an unknown 'mystery man', and that Jack had been drugged and made to appear as the killer, came to be regarded as so preposterous and unbelievable that his sentence was never in doubt. When one of the policemen, who conducted the original investigation into the murders, begins to doubt the truth of the case against Reid, Sergeant Carl Wright and Ripperologist Alice Nickels begin an investigation into his story. What they find is told through the voice of Doctor Ruth Truman, Jack's psychiatrist at Ravenswood, and through a series of events that take place as far afield as the beautiful island of Malta, and in Warsaw, Poland. Slowly, but surely, and with the help of Wright's boss, Inspector Mike Holland, the link between the events that shocked and terrorised Whitechapel over a century ago, and their link with the case of Jack Thomas Reid, the terrifying 'Legacy of Jack the Ripper' is revealed.
An Excerpt
My Name is Jack - A Statement by the Patient
When did it start? That's what they all want to know. Doctor Ruth is always asking me:
"When did it start? What are your earliest recollections of these feelings?"
I keep telling her the same as I'm telling you all now. It's hard to put a time or a place on when it began, though I was young, really young, maybe four or five years old when I first realised I was 'different' from other children of my age. Even then I knew that my life was mapped out ahead of me, that I had a destiny to fulfil. At such a tender age, of course, it was impossible for me to comprehend what that destiny was. Only much later did I realise that I was being guided by a hand far more powerful than mine, one whose intelligence and guile was such that I had no doubts, when the time came, of the course of action I must take.
I was different, you see, different from all of those children who made my life a misery, the ones who called me names because I didn't want to join in their silly games, or take part in stupid group activities after school. When I was young, I didn't know that I held the power and the means within me to put an end to their taunting and name calling. Only when I reached the age of nine did I suddenly make a stand against those silly, laughing, taunting voices. That was the day when a group of children cornered me in the school playground, out of sight of the watchful teachers and playground assistants. Somehow, they'd heard about my regular visits to the child psychologist. My going, in itself, wasn't a secret, of course. They all knew that I had to attend regular doctors' appointments, but, as happens from time to time, word spread around the school about the real reason for my appointments.
"Bloodsucker, Dracula, do you eat your meat raw, Jack Reid?" they shouted in a cacophony of screeching, childish screams.
"He's a vampire, he sucks the blood from living cats, that's what I've heard," screeched Andrew Denning, one of the ringleaders of the haranguing group.
"You're a weirdo, Reid, that's what you are," Camilla Hunt shouted in my face.
I'd finally had enough. As Denning came closer to scream in my face once again, I waited until he was within touching distance, and, quick as a flash, I grabbed my tormentor with both hands, one either side of his face, and pulled him close to me. He struggled as I bent my head to the side, and the others screamed in panic, but no one came to his aid as my teeth sunk deeply into his flesh, biting hard on the tender mass of sinews and muscle that made up his ear. That was when the loudest scream of all erupted, this time from Andrew Denning himself, as I pulled my head back from his to reveal a large chunk of his ear still stuck between my teeth. Blood pumped from the side of the boy's head and the other children stood screaming, rooted to the spot in their fear and fascination.
In seconds, the sound of an adult voice could be heard shouting, "What's all this commotion? If you boys have been fighting I'll ... Oh my god! Jack! What have you done?"
Miss Plummer almost fainted on the spot, but, to her credit, she maintained her equilibrium enough to send two of the other children running for help. How she did it, I can't remember, but she made me open my mouth long enough for her to retrieve the bitten remains of Andrew Denning's ear, which she quickly wrapped in a handkerchief she pulled from a pocket in the side of her skirt. The others were quickly dismissed and Miss Plummer stayed with me and Andrew, who continued to scream until another teacher arrived and escorted him away. Soon afterwards, a car disappeared through the school gates, carrying the injured boy to the hospital. I learned afterwards that the doctors had sewn what they could of his ear back together, but, in truth, it would never look right again, and Andrew Denning, I'm sure, will never forget our encounter. I say that because I only heard these things second hand. After that incident, the headmaster summoned my parents to the school; I was removed from that particular place of education and sent to what is, laughingly, called a 'special school', where children with 'special needs' are taught. I thought it odd at the time, that no one really seemed to appreciate what my own peculiar 'special needs' were.
It wasn't until much later that I would begin to realise just where my life was heading, and what I was destined to fulfil, just after my eighteenth birthday in fact, my 'coming of age', as they call it. That was when things really began to fall into place in my mind, and that is why you and all those who follow you, and Doctor Ruth especially, will never, ever forget me. I'm sorry, I've been remiss. Perhaps I should introduce myself before going any further. My name is Jack, Jack Thomas Reid, and this is the letter that began everything that transpired after that fateful day when I received my legacy from Uncle Robert.
As for the rest, I suggest you go and talk to Doctor Ruth. She's the expert, after all.
*
And now, the final instalment begins.
Welcome to 'Requiem for the Ripper'
Chapter One
Skerries Rock
Skerries Rock is, to most people who've heard of it, one of the most desolate and unwelcoming places in the whole of the British Isles. Lying just a mile off the coast of Cape Wrath, the most north westerly point of the Scottish mainland, the island, which is rarely, if ever, shown on any maps, is barely one and a half miles long and less than a half mile across at its widest point. Once home to a small band of hardy crofters who, long ago, abandoned their tiny homes and sought wealth, or at least a decent living on the mainland, it has long been my personal idyll. The place where, if I could, I always promised myself, I'd retire to one day, living in
splendid isolation with nothing more than the seabirds and the sound of the constantly buffeting Atlantic winds for company.
I first visited Skerries Rock as a child, when my father brought me to the place during a fishing trip. We hired a boat from the village of Balnakiel, where my ex-ship's captain father was well known, and where he holidayed often, enjoying the panoramic views and the relaxation afforded by the local golf course, while staying in the village's only decent hotel. We landed on Skerries Rock on the third day of our fishing trip, accompanied by Hamish Foyle and his son Angus, comprising the oddly named Whispering Lady's crew. I never found out why the boat carried its odd name, who the whispering lady in question might have been, but, at ten years of age, such things were of little interest to me.
What did catch my attention, however, was the sheer beauty of the tiny island that my father had brought me to. Small as it may have been, it held a grandeur that penetrated my young mind and left a lasting impression upon me. On the cliffs that appeared to rise almost vertically from the sea on its eastern shore, I watched in awe as thousands (or so I estimated) of puffins, with their brightly coloured beaks, nestled together, gathered, as my father explained, for their annual mating season. Dolphins broke through the dark blue-green surface of the ocean as we approached the only practical landing point, a mile east of the towering cliffs. Here, a small wooden quay jutted out from a rocky beach. It stood in good repair; Hamish Foyle explained that the crofters, who once lived on the Rock, used this place for the receiving of supplies from the mainland, and for putting to sea in their own small fishing boat, from which they'd cast their nets, close to shore, in an attempt to augment their supplies with a regular infusion of fresh fish. They possessed the sense to build the quay on the leeward side of the island, where a degree of shelter from the towering Atlantic breakers existed. Anywhere else on the island would have made landing ashore a physical impossibility.