Requiem for the Ripper

by kindels

  Indeed, so well had he progressed that he was able to secure employment as a trainee nurse and became, in fact, one of the star pupils of his course at his local teaching hospital until, the fateful day, when attaining the age of eighteen, he received notification from the family solicitors of his having been bequeathed a legacy from his uncle, the late Robert Cavendish.

  That legacy of course, turned out to be the journal. According to Jack Reid, he began to read it, late one night, in the privacy of his bedroom. The first thing he noticed was that the pages felt warm to the touch, as though the aged, yellow papers that made up the journal had been infused with a kind of life of their own. The words contained on the pages also appeared fluid, and Reid found himself falling under a strange, almost hypnotic spell as he read the words of the long-dead Ripper. The journal, so he told me, exerted such influence over him that he found himself compelled to read on, even when tiredness began to overwhelm him.

  The Ripper described the most appalling aspects of his crimes, and Jack Reid could feel himself being sucked in, as he described it, to the world of Jack the Ripper. He began to actually see, in his mind's eye, the events described on the sickly warm pages, even becoming able to mentally hear the cries of the victims as they gasped out their final breaths. Reid told me that the sights and sounds he witnessed, during his reading of the journal, were such that he found himself physically appalled, and his body began to be wracked with tremors as the full horror of the world of Jack the Ripper became overwhelmingly all too apparent to him. Alongside the journal itself were the letters and notes of Burton Cleveland Cavendish, and other notes added through the years by Robert Cavendish, and his own father and grandfather.

  All of them warned of the fearful consequences that any reader of the journal would be potentially exposed to and, as I did when Reid first told me this, you're probably wondering why none of the Cavendish men had ever had the sense, or perhaps the nerve, to simply destroy the journal, to end its evil influence, if they so firmly believed in it. Well, from the notes each of his ancestors had placed within the journal, Reid was able to ascertain that none of them had been able to destroy it as, first of all, they felt compelled by something to ensure that it remained intact and, secondly, each felt that the family secret should be carried forward through the generations, in order that the truth would always be known to at least one member of the family. It contained too great a secret to be expunged from history altogether, or so the collective thoughts of the Cavendish's believed.

  So, Jack Reid completed his reading of the journal, and it appears to have affected his mind so much that he felt the urgent need to seek help in deciphering exactly just what it all meant, not just to him, but to his family as a whole. His mind fought and tussled, with all manner of thoughts over the next few days, as he tried to decide how to handle the mind-staggering information he'd become privy to. Eventually, he decided that the only person who might have some knowledge of what had happened to Robert Cavendish and, therefore, have some insight into what may lie before him, was Robert's brother, Mark. He knew he'd learn nothing from Robert's widow, his Aunt Sarah. This was a male-only secret, and perhaps Robert had confided in his brother before his death. For that reason alone, Jack Reid took the decision that would irrevocably change his life.

  One day, without telling anyone, including his parents, he simply disappeared from home. He knew that Mark had, at one time, possessed business interests in the seaside town of Brighton, and it was to there that he set off in search of answers. He acknowledged to me that it was an illogical step, for, after all, he had no way of knowing if Robert had ever spoken to his brother of the journal, but he felt compelled to follow the path he'd set himself upon.

  He had little money and found himself living rough, on the streets of Brighton at first, as he began his search; but, of Mark Cavendish, there was no sign. Reid even sent a female acquaintance he'd made on the streets to the family solicitors in Guildford in the hope that she might find an address for his uncle, all to no avail. In short, he was clutching at straws. Perhaps he'd already become so influenced by the journal into behaving in a somewhat erratic and outlandish fashion. I shan't bore you with the full details, David, but if you've read of the case, as I know you have, you'll be aware that Reid was picked up off the streets by a man named Michael, who feigned friendship with the young man in order to recruit him as a partner in his drug peddling enterprise. What Reid wasn't aware of was that his uncle, Mark Cavendish, was, in fact, the paymaster who directed Michael's movements, and when Michael searched through Reid's belongings as he slept, and found the journal, he of course stole it and took it to the man, as Cavendish became referred to during Reid's trial. For Mark Cavendish, all his dreams had come true. It would seem that Mark was indeed the embodiment of The Ripper in a modern-day incarnation. He quickly used Michael to ensure that Jack was kept well supplied with enough drugs to keep him in a semi- comatose, but compliant and easily influenced frame of mind. They turned Jack Reid into a junkie, in no time at all, by lacing his food and drinks with the drugs.

  "When The Ripper copycat murders took place in Brighton, Mark Cavendish, through Michael, ensured that Reid was always on the scene so that they could drench him in the victim's blood, photograph him with the murder weapon in his hand and, between them, they did enough to ensure that Reid would believe himself to be the killer. The young Jack Reid, already partly disturbed by his encounter with the journal, would become the perfect patsy for Cavendish in his evil plans.

  I think you know what happened next. Three women were brutally murdered, in the exact manner that the victims of Jack the Ripper had been killed. Only the dogged work of Inspector Mike Holland and Sergeant Carl Wright, helped by Ripperologist Alice Nickels, who discovered that the killer had over laid a map of Whitechapel with one of modern-day Brighton, enabled them to predict where the killer would strike next. So, they were on the scene when the third killing took place, though they were too late to save the unfortunate victim who had been killed a day earlier. And Reid was left, still remaining in a drugged state on the scene, ready to be picked up and charged with the crimes, as indeed transpired.

  Despite his protestations of innocence and his claims that The Man had done it, Reid's insistence that he was a descendant of Jack the Ripper only served to help convict him, by reason of insanity, of the terrible crimes. The trial judge thus sent Reid into the custody of Ravenswood Special Hospital, the secure psychiatric unit, where he remained under the care of Doctor Ruth Truman until the case took a surprising turn.

  Alice Nickels and Sergeant Wright were concerned that Reid may have actually been telling the truth at his trial and set out to dig further into his story. Nickels checked for similar murders in other European countries and professed herself astounded to find that a series of similar crimes had taken place in Poland. After garnering enough evidence to suggest that another Ripper copycat had been at work (surely more than a coincidence so soon after Brighton), they managed to convince Inspector Holland to reopen the case. Holland, himself, visited Warsaw, where he found that the crimes on Polish soil were exact replicas of those in the UK.

  When the body of a man, who could have been the mysterious Michael, turned up, Holland felt he might actually be on to something. Later, the body of another man was discovered, after a horrendous accident that saw the car he was travelling in catch fire and crash, over the parapet of a bridge, into a river. This time, traces of what proved to be the much disputed journal of Jack the Ripper were found in the car and floating in the river, and the police were convinced that this could be none other than the body of Mark Cavendish, the real Brighton Ripper.

  At a subsequent appeal court hearing, Jack Reid found himself exonerated of the crimes and, controversially, set free. I say controversially, because Ruth Truman held out for his continued incarceration, on the grounds that he displayed sociopathic tendencies and could prove a danger to himself, and the public at large. No matter, the judges released him anyway.<
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  Her belief proved, of course, to be tragically vindicated when Reid went on to commit the subsequent series of murders in Whitechapel itself. Perhaps those lives could have been saved if the Appeal Court judges had taken notice of her fears; but, that is a matter for their consciences, I'm afraid. So, Jack Reid was soon identified as the killer, tracked down to his lair in Whitechapel, as I previously told you, apprehended. His mind, to all intents and purposes, had become totally immersed in his belief that he was the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper, and the judge, at his new trial, had no hesitation in sentencing Reid to his second, and this time, permanent spell in Ravenswood.

  And that, David, is, in a small nutshell, the story of the Cavendish family and their strange, and at times incomprehensible connection to the so-called Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper."

  William Forbes leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, as he allowed himself to relax a little after appearing to have been on a knife-edge of tension throughout his narration of the odd tale of Jack Reid and his forbears. He looked me in the eye, as though waiting for me to say something. When I did speak, I confess to feeling a little mystified. So far, he'd told me nothing that would explain his own fears; his belief that he was, in some way, a target for this so-called evil malevolence of Jack the Ripper, his belief that Jack had sought him out, across the great divide of time.

  I considered my words carefully, before speaking.

  "William, what you've just related to me is indeed fascinating, and, if wholly true, of great historical importance; but, you have not as yet told me anything to explain your own condition, or belief that you are in some personal danger, or that such danger emanates from Jack the Ripper, who, I firmly believe, must have died over a hundred years ago, and who can have no possible bearing on events of today."

  "Of course," he replied, "but I'm coming to that, for obviously my own involvement in the case only began after I started to see and record Jack Reid's story. If you'll indulge me a little longer, I'll tell you everything. I'm coming to it, David, truly. I just needed you to understand the full background to what's been happening and, to do that, I had to tell you the full story of the Cavendish family and their involvement with the journal."

  "Okay, William. Let's say I take what you've told me as factual, for the time being, without any queries from me, though I may have some questions for you later. Now, please, tell me just how all of this impacts on you and your life."

  Forbes took a deep breath, and his body tensed, as though steeling himself for some great ordeal. I knew that he was about to reach the crescendo of his story, the part that he believed would convince me of the veracity of his tale, and he would obviously want to make it as convincing as possible. He cleared his throat, looked at my lap for a long moment, perhaps checking that the plastic sleeve still sat there, and then, just as he prepared to launch into the next part of his narrative, the lights in the room began to flicker. I assumed the generator was up to its old tricks again, though it shouldn't have misbehaved after my earlier repair job. William Forbes, however, saw it as something else entirely and, in the flickering light from the overhead bulb, I saw his face pale, his whole demeanour changing to one of a man in mortal fear. He began to shake once more, as his eyes darted around the room and took on that odd, haunted look he'd previously exhibited.

  As the sound of the wind outside rose once again to a crescendo, and the door rattled as though being rapped by some unseen hand, the lights at last guttered and failed, plunging the two of us into almost total darkness, broken only by the iridescent orange-blue flames of the log fire, and William Forbes, unable to control his terror any longer, his face contorted in horror, let out a blood-curdling scream. His demons had returned!

  Chapter Ten

  A Phone Call in the Night

  "God help me! He's here," screamed Forbes into the darkness, his voice a falsetto of fear and panic combined.

  "There's no one here, William," I retorted, trying to remain calm, though Forbes's reaction to the extinguishing of the lights certainly succeeded in giving me a moment or two of illogical panic. Almost as quickly as the lights had flicked off, however, they returned, bathing the room in the safe, warm glow that should have brought Forbes back to the world of reality. They didn't. His face had become a mask of sheer terror. Whatever lurked within his mind, real or imagined, had taken such a hold on William Forbes that it was soon apparent to me that, this time, his panic bore deep-seated roots. He certainly believed that someone, or something, was with us, in that room. His eyes flashed their terror and his brow dripped with the sweat of fear. The intensity of the wind outside my croft, had gathered strength, and the howling of the burgeoning gale added to the feeling of isolation and loneliness of my island home, and that, perhaps, also had an effect on him. I couldn't be sure. All I knew was that I had to find a way to end his torment, even if only temporarily.

  As Forbes thrashed around in the chair, his mind a mass of confusion and dread, I continued to speak calmly to him: "William, it was just a slight fault in the fuel line on my generator, the one that provides me with all my power. There's no mains electricity here on the island. These things happen now and then. It's really nothing to panic about. There's no one else here, just you and me. William, please listen to me. You're safe here. Do you remember where you are? You're on Skerries Rock. I'm David, remember? Doctor David Hemswell. You came to me about the strange things that have been happening to you. I'm trying to help you, William, and I will help you if you'll let me. But first, you must calm down, please."

  Slowly, almost excruciatingly slowly, Forbes began to lose that terrified, haunted look. His bodily spasms grew less intense and his rapid breathing returned to normal. Eventually, he relaxed, and sat, slumped in the chair, looking, for the entire world, a broken man. Only now did I realise just how much his inner fears and beliefs, however illogical, had affected the man. No matter that, I remained keen to hear the rest of his story. My own experiences as a doctor first, and a psychologist second, made me aware that what the man sitting in front of me needed at that time was rest, preferably the kind of rest that comes from a decent night's sleep. Forbes had, of course, told me that it had been a long time since he'd enjoyed a full night's sleep.

  "William," I began, when I considered him ready to resume normal conversation once more. "Are you okay now? That was quite a scare you gave me."

  "I'm so terribly sorry, David. Really, I am. You see, I know you still don't believe me, but he really is with me, in me, somehow, and when the lights failed I just knew it was him, or at least I thought it was him, coming to infest my mind with those terrible images and sounds once again. I don't want to experience those things anymore. They're just too terrible to contemplate."

  "I presume by 'he' you're referring to Jack the Ripper again?"

  "Of course I am. You'll understand more when I tell you the rest of the story. I wish to God I'd never heard of Jack Reid, certainly that I'd never accepted the task of becoming his legal confidant. If I'd never gone to Ravenswood, never spoken to him, heard his awful tale and come into contact with that awful document," he nodded in the direction of the plastic sleeve on my lap, "then, perhaps, none of this would have happened, at least, not to me. I daresay some other poor soul could have ended up like me, but, I'd rather that had happened than this."

  "Look, William, I know you want to tell me the rest of your story, but, really, it's getting late. It's almost eleven thirty, and you're in no fit state to continue. I can give you a sedative, something to help you sleep, and we can start afresh in the morning. I think a good night's sleep, and a decent breakfast on waking, will do you the world of good. What d'you say to that?"

  Forbes sighed, whether through tiredness or resignation I couldn't say, but his body suddenly sagged against the back of the chair. It was perhaps a relief to him that he wasn't being forced to relive the full story in one sitting. At least, that's how I read it.

  "Perhaps you're right, David. I really do w
ant to tell you everything, but maybe your suggestion of a rest is the right one. I'd welcome the sedative you mentioned. It might be the only thing will enable me to sleep without being carried away by the terrible events that usually haunt me in my sleep."

  I quickly went into my bedroom, returning a minute later with a syringe loaded with a reasonably powerful sedative, designed to put Forbes to sleep for at least eight hours. Before he allowed me to administer it, however, Forbes made me hand over the plastic sleeve containing the page from The Ripper's journal, which he quickly locked in his briefcase. I'd steadfastly stuck to my agreement not to read it until he told me to, but at that moment I wished that I'd been able to cast a quick glance at it during the course of our first evening together. Forbes had remained adamant, however, that to read it, even to touch it without the protective sleeve, could have serious repercussions for me, and even during his previous bout of terror I'd managed to resist a natural curiosity, and maintained a resistance to the temptation to take a close look at the contents of the sleeve. In a way, with its removal from my possession, I admit to feeling a slight gratitude to Forbes for removing any chance of me giving into further temptation through the night.

  Forbes obediently rolled up his right sleeve and sat quietly as I administered the injection. That done, I led him to the spare bedroom, where he quickly undressed, and changed into a pair of blue-striped pyjamas as I rolled back the duvet for him. He slid beneath the warm covers of the bed, just as the sedative began to take effect, and I stayed with him until, a minute or two later, he fell into a deep sleep. Despite the fact that the sedative would keep Forbes soundly asleep through the night, I left the bedside lamp on as I took a last look at my guest/patient, as I now thought of him, before withdrawing from the room, leaving the door ajar, just in case... well, just in case.