Requiem for the Ripper
Page 15
Forbes drew in a breath, stunned at the thought.
"Don't worry, we are here to help you. Now listen, I also don't believe that the paper you entrusted to David is harmful to anyone but a descendant of The Ripper himself. I'd like to take a look at it in a moment, if you please, David. You see, William, I believe that the journal did exist; but, you must remember that if we are to believe Burton Cavendish, it was he who 'disposed' of Jack the Ripper, his illegitimate son, and so the journal was never passed on to a soul by The Ripper himself, but by Cavendish, so we cannot assume that any malevolence was passed on directly by The Ripper through his journal."
"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "Are you saying that any evil that comes from contact with the journal comes not from Jack the Ripper but from Burton Cavendish?"
"I don't know," Kate replied, barely pausing for breath as she went on, "but I do believe we need to look closely at every aspect of the journal, to the best of our abilities. That's why I wish to read that paper, William. You see, it appears odd to me that the effects of the journal are intended to strike at members of the Cavendish line, but have not affected every generation since Burton's death. From what our friend, William, has gleaned from Jack Reid, and I know there's more to come before you say anything, William, it would appear that neither Cavendish's own son, nor his offspring, Robert Cavendish's grandfather or his father, were affected. Even Robert, though disturbed by his reading of the journal, didn't become a crazed copycat killer like Jack Reid did. Robert's younger brother, Mark, apparently did, though we are led to believe that the journal was always passed to the eldest son, therefore Mark was never intended to come into possession of it. He must obviously have been made aware of the journal's existence, by his brother, and perhaps the mere knowledge of it triggered a psychological effect on the man. So, what are the criteria for the journal to work its so-called magic? Why would The Ripper place some sort of curse on his journal when, we assume, he wasn't intending to die at the hands of his own father, and therefore had no precognition of his demise?
Something just doesn't add up in my mind, though I admit I could be totally wrong. What I do suspect, however, is that in order for the journal to affect a person, they have to carry a certain genetic coding, a particular gene that makes them highly susceptible to the effects of the journal, which we have to assume are genuine, even though we don't understand them."
"And that gene, of course, we have no way of identifying or predicting," I replied.
"Exactly," said Kate, who then turned to face Forbes. "As for you, William, the possibility exists that you are a descendant of The Ripper, through your mother's side, and are, therefore, in danger of being affected in some way by the journal, even though you possess only one page of it."
"But," Forbes protested, "I know who my grandparents and great-grandparents were. My great-grandfather was killed in the trenches during the First World War and my great-grandmother died soon afterwards. I was told all about them as I was growing up. My grandparents all lived to ripe old ages and my father was a respected solicitor, as I was until recently. None of them were serial killers, and I'm damn sure I'd have known if we had a Jack the Ripper copycat in the family."
"But that's just it, William, don't you see? You and your family wouldn't have known. No one knew who The Ripper was, let alone who his family was. Burton Cavendish didn't actually name him in his letters, and you have no idea what your great-grandfather did or didn't do in his private life. If he'd been committing a series of murders after dark, I doubt he'd have publicised the fact, now would he?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," said Forbes. "I'm really rather confused."
"So am I," I added.
"Look, the way I see it, we need to do three things," Kate said, gaining the attention of both Forbes and me. "First of all, we need to get Miles Prendergast to research William's family background, post haste, in the morning. Where did the majority of your ancestors live, by the way, William?"
"Mostly in the country, I believe down in Devon."
"Thank-you. Where was I? Oh yes, secondly, we need to try and identify that melody that seems to play a part in the dream. I don't know why, but I feel it has some significance in whatever is going on. If you can hum it and David can record it, we can take steps to identify it. I have a friend who has extensive knowledge of the Victorian era: theatre, music hall, and so on. She may be able to help us identify it. You do have a recorder, I presume, David?"
"Yes, of course, we can record it straight onto my computer and send it to your friend, if she has the Internet."
"Oh, she does, most definitely, and Kate, do you have a friend who can help in almost any eventuality?"
She laughed.
"Oh, come now, David. You should know by now that I have a most extensive network of friends, both personal and professional. There's not a lot I can't find out if I really need to."
"So it would seem," I replied, at which point Forbes chimed in once again.
"Er, excuse me, Kate, but you mentioned three things we have to do? That's only two so far."
"Oh, yes, number three. If I may, I'd like to take a look at that page from the journal now."
"You okay with that William?" I asked as I reached down to pick up the plastic sleeve containing the page, which had fallen to the floor beside my chair when I'd left the room earlier. Slowly, I stretched my arm out to offer the sleeve to Kate. As her fingers came within a couple of inches of mine, we both sensed the sharp intake of breath that emanated from Forbes.
Kate turned to face him directly.
"William, it's all going to be okay. Don't worry. The page can't hurt me, or David come to that. We're still not entirely sure if it can cause any effect on you, are we?"
Forbes said nothing, but nodded imperceptibly. Kate at last took the plastic sleeve from my grasp and, with no hesitation, withdrew the musty, old, yellowed page from within. Without waiting for Forbes or me to say a word, she simply began reading from it.
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 bloodfest,
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...
Her voice trailed off as she read the last, chilling line, penned by no less than the Whitechapel Murderer himself, we all believed. Rather than launch into a discourse on her view of the document, she stood quite still, saying nothing until I felt I had to prompt her. For God's sake, we needed to know what she thought!
"Well?" I asked, as Forbes stood open-mouthed, waiting for her to speak.
"Oh dear," she said quietly, shaking her head as she spoke. "Oh dear, oh dea
r, oh dear. I do apologise, gentlemen. I fear that I may have been terribly wrong about everything, and this document confirms my error completely."
As she slumped into the armchair beside the fire, and I stepped forward to make sure she was okay, I could have sworn my mind suddenly filled with the sound of music, a silly, Victorian melody, just for a second or two, and then, silence ...
Chapter Twenty
An Eternal Entity?
"How could I have been so stupid? I see it all now."
I'd never seen Kate quite so crestfallen. She was usually so sure of herself, but something she'd read on that decrepit page had quite clearly shaken her belief in herself.
"Come on, Kate. Don't be so hard on yourself. We're all shooting in the dark, so to speak, aren't we? After all none of us have ever encountered anything quite like this phenomenon of William's before."
"Yes, I know dear boy, but you see, I'd become so convinced in my mind that Jack the Ripper couldn't have been behind all of this, that it must somehow be connected to the Cavendish family, through something that Burton did, that I was prepared to dismiss the obvious."
"Will you please tell us what you found in your reading of the journal page?" asked Forbes. "I've read it and reread it, so many times, and apart from it being the apparent rantings of a madman or a psychopath, I don't see what else it can mean."
Kate passed the page to me.
"Read it again, to yourself, David. Tell me if you see what I see."
I did as she asked, but, like Forbes, found myself unable to discern what Kate was getting at and what had disturbed her so much that she actually doubted her own abilities.
"I'm sorry, Kate. I can't see what you're so obviously seeing. You're going to have to tell us, I'm afraid."
"It's right there, at the end," said Kate. "All the way through his rantings, he's making it quite clear that he's referring to the murders, the ones he's already committed. He speaks of 'voices', of a blood lust that must be fulfilled. Do you realise he never once refers to himself as being the one responsible for any of the killing. It's always them, the voices."
"Surely a symptom of his paranoia," I ventured.
"Perhaps, and perhaps not, David. You see, as he gets to the end of the page, I believe he reveals far more than you may think. Listen. This is what it says:
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 bloodfest,
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...
Let's take it one step at a time. 'Beware all those who would stand against the call.' To whom do you think he's referring?"
"The police, or perhaps the authorities, anyone who would get in his way and try to stop him?" David asked.
"That's what I thought at first, but no. I believe his meaning is more literal. Beware all those who would stand against the call, of the voices. In other words, anyone who does not respond to the call when they receive it."
"But," I replied as realisation of what she was saying hit me; "you're intimating that, perhaps he, 'Jack the Ripper', wasn't the first one to receive this mysterious 'call'. That perhaps there may have been others before him?"
"And after him, David, yes."
"I'm sorry, I'm not following you," said a confused Forbes.
"What Kate's trying to say is that she thinks Jack the Ripper may have been just one of a number of killers who were, in some way, influenced by these so-called 'voices'. There could well have been others before him."
"That's right," Kate confirmed.
"But, surely, we would have heard of other Ripper-type killers in the past if there'd been any?"
"There've been plenty of serial killers in the past, William. It was mere coincidence that Jack the Ripper's murder spree coincided with the rise of the popular tabloid press in London, so his crimes received massive publicity. Others before him may have been just as bloodthirsty, but history has failed to record the full details of their crimes."
"I see, I think."
"Kate is also hinting at the possibility that these 'voices' could be the reason why certain members of the Cavendish family committed their crimes. They were the only ones attuned to whatever the voices really are."
"Precisely! I do believe you're becoming a believer, David, my dear boy," Kate said, grinning at me. "You see, these 'voices' may not be voices at all, at least not as we recognise the word 'voice'. Perhaps the song you heard, or the dream itself is the way this thing, whatever it is, speaks to you, or to whoever it infects. The dream, or the means of communication, could even be different for each individual subject. Now, look at the end words on the page:
I am resting, but my time shall come again. I shall rise in a glorious bloodfest,
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...
I think 'my time shall come again' means that the thing that is possessing The Ripper will, in fact, return, but not necessarily in the next days or weeks, but at some time in the future. It's a logical assumption that people would think he's referring to the immediate future, but I have my doubts, especially when the last line states
'sleep, for there will be a next time.'
He's warning us, telling us that there will be another like him returning at some point in time, to do it all over again, and again."
"You're asking us to believe an awful lot of supposition there, Kate," said Forbes, who I could see wasn't overly impressed with Kate's interpretation of the page.
"Yes, I am, William, and I could be wrong. I've said that all along, but David asked me here to give my opinions, and that is precisely what I'm doing. If you can better them, then please, go ahead."
"I can't, of course and I'm not trying to belittle your idea. It's just a lot to accept, that there is some malevolent force travelling through time, 'infecting' people and turning them into serial killers."
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "We've been trying to find the elusive 'rogue gene' that turns people into serial killers for years. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe it's this thing, whatever it is, that's ultimately responsible for some of the worst excesses at least."
"So, what do we do? How can we stop it?" Is it going to infect me next?"
Forbes looked worried, really worried.
"We stick to my plan," said Kate. "First thing in the morning, we contact Miles Prendergast and get him to do his stuff, and in the meantime, David, can you get your computer ready to record William's rendition of that song?"
"Sure," I nodded, and left the two of them as I went into my office and fired up the computer.
Less than ten minutes later, after I'd been joined by the others, William Forbes had recorded his own rendition of the Victorian melody that plagued him and that I instantly recognised, though I remained puzzled as to why I should have heard those few bars of the song, apparently coming from outside, earlier that evening. Though he'd only been able to hum it, there was no doubting the similarity between his version and what I'd heard, so, satisfied that it was as accurate as we could make it, Kate quickly took over the computer and sent a copy of the recording, with a request to try and identify it, to her musically minded expert, without, of course, giving away the true details of why she wanted it identified.
"There!" she said with a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "It's sent. If anyone can tell us what that song is, it's Christine Westerman. If she's at home, she should acknowledge receipt of my message and the music file and, with any luck, we'll
have an answer by the morning, unless, of course, she recognises it right away, in which case we may only have to wait a short time."
The name Christine Westerman was new to me and I wondered how, and from where, Kate knew her.
"I've never heard you mention Christine before. Is she a contemporary of yours, Kate?"
"No, not really, David. She's half my age, for a start, around fortyish I think. She lives in Whitby, and I met her when someone told me she could help with anything to do with audio and musical matters, and I got in touch with her and we became friends. She's assisted me a few times in helping to ascertain the validity, or otherwise, of a number of so-called 'supernatural noises' and, of course, they've all been fakes so far. She has earned a real reputation as an authority on music through the ages, and she's a particular fan of the Victorian and Edwardian eras, and there aren't too many pieces that she'd be unable to track down and name, believe me."
"Let's hope so," said Forbes. "Especially as you believe this tune to be so important in helping to find out what this is all about."
"As I said before, William, I may be wrong; but, yes, I do feel it's vital we find out what that music is. After all, if it weren't vital, then why on earth should David have heard it too, earlier tonight? I have a feeling that once we identify that music, and if Miles Prendergast can give us an accurate record of your family tree in double-quick time, we might just find ourselves making progress in solving this mystery, and how it affects you."
"And don't forget, Kate, we may learn more from the rest of William's story. There may be more clues to come in what we haven't heard so far."
"But of course," Kate agreed. "Perhaps we should continue, if you don't feel too fatigued, William?"
"No, of course I don't mind, and I'm not too tired at present. That short sleep earlier this evening has refreshed me a little, and I do so want to tell you and David everything in an attempt to get to the bottom of all this."