Requiem for the Ripper

by kindels

  "Then I'll go make us some hot coffee, and we can go sit round the fire and let William carry on with his tale, eh?"

  "Excellent idea, David," Kate agreed, and then pointed to the 'mail received' icon on the screen of my computer. "Look, David. Maybe that's a reply from Christine."

  It was indeed a reply from Kate's musical friend, though she'd not identified the song immediately, either because Forbes's hummed version was too indistinct, or perhaps it was a really obscure piece that would require extensive research on her part. Either way, her e-mail promised Kate that she'd be in touch again in the morning. She diplomatically made no inquiry as to why Kate needed to know the title of the song. To her, I supposed, it was just another challenge, like you or I might enjoy a crossword puzzle. There being nothing to keep us tied to the computer, I switched it off and left the two of them to settle down by the fire while I went to the kitchen. I returned a few minutes later with a pot of hot coffee and a tray of assorted biscuits, and the three of us were soon settled, once again, in front of my log fire, the shadows of its flames continuing to dance around the room, reflecting on the walls in a one-dimensional ballet reminiscent of the figures in a whirling Victorian zoetrope moving picture machine.

  With the coffee pot drained and the biscuits left mostly untouched, and with the ticking of the grandfather clock the only accompaniment to his voice, William Forbes at last prepared to return to the story of his meetings with serial killer Jack Reid. As he did so, the clock began to strike the midnight hour, and the sound of the wind that whistled its way around the croft, carried deceptive hints of things that may be, or may not be, waiting just around the corner for us as we readied ourselves for what was yet to come. As the final chime died away, William Forbes cleared his throat and began to speak.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Jack Reid's Confession

  Forbes took up his tale once more as Kate and I sat, listening attentively.

  "So, the visits to see Jack Reid continued. I became quite friendly with his psychiatrist, Ruth Truman, and though she would never discuss details of his illness and his treatment with me, for professional reasons, she grew to be quite forthcoming about his general demeanour and attitude, always at pains to let me know whether he was in a receptive mood or not each time I arrived to speak with him. If he was in one of his occasional sullen and uncooperative moods, I found it hard to justify my time with him, as he'd say so little and would really do no more than go over what he'd told me on previous visits. Thankfully, that only occurred a couple of times, and the rest of the time he was quite lucid and animated during our time together.

  I continued to find it difficult to really get to grips with his reasons for wanting me or, at least, someone, to record all the things he wished to tell me, and why he felt the need to record his thoughts for posterity. At last, on my penultimate visit to Reid, he gave me a hint of those reasons. He'd just received the diagnosis of his terminal illness and, though it had hit him hard, he quite clearly wished to make sure I knew everything he wished to communicate to me.

  During my previous visits, he'd given me an illuminating description of all that had happened to him from the day he'd inherited the journal through to his first and then his second trials. He told me of his relief after being released, following the appeal after the Brighton killings, but that, even then, he knew that destiny, or fate, whichever one I cared to choose, held something more for him. The dreams were what haunted him most of all, particularly the one I've described, the one that I've experienced for myself. With each reoccurrence of that one dream, he felt as though he were being drawn further into the dark web of fear that surrounded the life of The Ripper. Reid was, in his own words, 'being drawn inexorably towards a conclusion over which he held no control'. By the time he began committing the murders in Whitechapel, he believed he no longer maintained any control over his own actions.

  As he described these things to me, I began to realise that his words were an indication that, contrary to the belief of the courts and the psychiatrists, Jack Reid was, in fact, more lucid and intelligent than anyone had given him credit for. You see, he wasn't making excuses, or rolling out the old, 'it wasn't me guv' ploy. He knew he'd done it, committed those terrible murders, and he knew that he was being held in Ravenswood as part of society's retribution for his crimes; but, he also knew that something inside him had been compelling him to commit those acts at the time of the murders, something he couldn't describe and that no one would probably have believed. The fact was that he knew he wasn't in control of himself, that was it, you see. He knew."

  I thought I was beginning to see what Forbes was getting at. So did Kate, who rapidly interjected.

  "A madman, or a psychopathically damaged person would not have known, at the time, that he was not in control, is that what you're getting at?"

  "Precisely. Reid kept repeating to me that he was under the control of Jack the Ripper, and that nothing in Heaven or on Earth could have prevented those murders. I finally realised that I'd been called upon by Reid to receive his final 'confession', if that's what you'd like to call it. The world saw him as nothing more than either a monster or a crazy man. I saw a totally different Jack Reid compared to the monster the tabloid press had created. By the time I left Ravenswood that day, I realised that Jack Reid wasn't a madman, he was a frightened one!"

  "This is all very well," I said, "but surely every psychopath or sociopath in the recorded history of crime has come up with similar reasons for their cries."

  "Not quite," said Forbes. "Here you had a man who'd been tried, committed and then acquitted, and then tried again for a different set of murders that he did commit, and who had nothing to lose or to gain by telling me these things. He knew he'd never be released, even before he received the death sentence that the doctors had delivered by way of his illness. When he told me that he believed the page of the journal in his possession had somehow received an infusion of the evil, or the essence of the soul of Jack the Ripper, he wasn't speaking to me as a deranged man might. He spoke in a cold, matter-of-fact, take-it-or-leave-it way that left the decision to believe or disbelieve him entirely at my discretion."

  "And this confession you mentioned?" I asked.

  "That was just it, David. His confession was simply the things I've told you. He couldn't help himself because, at the time of the killings, he simply wasn't himself. Not in a psychiatrically diagnosable illness way, as most people would assume, but in actual fact! He was so afraid and so desperate for his words to be recorded on paper so that future generations might realise just what had happened to him."

  "Did you discuss any of this with his psychiatrist?"

  "No David, I couldn't. You know as well as I do that our conversations were subject to attorney/client privilege. I had to keep everything confidential, unless and until given permission by my client to reveal what he'd told me. You'd think, of course, that she would have repudiated his beliefs and put it all down to his illness."

  "Yes, William, I do. Jack Reid was seriously mentally ill, and yet you appear to have believed his inane ramblings just because he happened to put them across to you in a calm and civilised manner."

  "Well," said Forbes, with a note of hesitation in his voice. "There was one more thing that kind of swayed me to believe him rather more than I might have disbelieved him."

  "And that was ... ?"

  Forbes reached into his cavernous briefcase once more and withdrew a large brown envelope, from which he extracted a single sheet of A4 paper and passed it across in my direction.

  "Please, read this." He said as I grasped the sheet of paper he proffered. "Reid gave this to me the very last time I saw him, before his death."

  Anxious to read the document, written by the murderer himself, so close to his death, I immediately began to read aloud, for the benefit of Kate.

  Dear Mr Forbes,

  I write these words, as I wish to record my final thoughts on the matters we have discussed, so that you migh
t have a permanent record of certain aspects of our time together. That I have been responsible for the deaths of others is a matter of record. Whether I was the actual 'cause' of those deaths is another matter entirely. As I've taken great care to explain to you, my problems began solely with the receipt of the journal of my ancestor, known to history as Jack the Ripper, on the death of my uncle, Robert Cavendish. From that awful day, until today, my life has been one long torment. I won't go into the details of the case of the 'Brighton Ripper' for which I was incarcerated in this awful place, only to be later exonerated and released. The events that took place are well documented, and I'm sure by now you are well aware that I told the truth at all times during and after the original investigation. As for the murders in Whitechapel, again the facts are well known and, yes, I was the killer, which I have never denied, though you are also now aware of how the crimes came to pass.

  You are also privy to the knowledge that my days are numbered. The tumour in my head is growing larger by the day and will kill me sooner, rather than later I fear. I say this in the hope that you and those who may read this in the future will be aware that I have no reason to lie, or mislead you. I am protecting no one, and stand to gain no monetary advantage from this statement. I'm sure the press would have paid good money for my words, but what good would it have done me?

  So, for the final time, I say to you that my family is possessed of the soul of that infamous murderer, Jack the Ripper. What is all the more galling is that at no time did any of my antecedents mention the real name of the man who killed the women of Whitechapel over a hundred years ago, so I cannot even go to my death with the knowledge of the identity of the man who has plagued and bedevilled my life.

  It is my firm belief that somehow, The Ripper, whoever he was, managed to infuse every ounce of the evil that dwelt within his soul into the pages of that terrible journal as he wrote it and that the mere possession of the journal has been sufficient to bring great misfortune upon my family through the last hundred years.

  I wish for you to attempt to confirm my belief, though of course the results of any such investigation will not be known to me before my death. That, in itself, should assure you of the sincerity of my belief. I confess to you now that I indulged in a great deal of research prior to selecting your employer to act for me in this matter and, within the list of names of the solicitors they made available to me, something drew me to your name. I cannot say why, but I felt as though it were preordained that you would be the man to record this final statement from me.

  So, I hope you will agree to fulfil what has now become my dying wish. I beg and implore you to investigate the possibility that the journal does, indeed, carry within it the means to inflict such horrors on the living souls of the present. You'll need help to do so. I have used my time, here in Ravenswood well, and have made great use of the access I have been granted to the computers. I'm convinced that only a man of letters, one with a psychological background and a proven record of dealing with cases of a criminal nature, will be suited to the case. Such a man does exist. Although you may think a paranormal or supernatural connection is required in order to carry out this investigation, you must first ally yourself with an established and credible psychological profiler and investigator. The name of the man you must enlist, if he is willing, is Doctor David Hemswell, formerly a resident of Scarborough, and now the owner and sole resident of a small island off the coast of Cape Wrath, Scotland. I'm sure, if you approach him directly as a result of a request from me, he will refuse to offer his help, and who could blame him? Certainly not I. You should, therefore, look into his background and discover a means of approaching him without using my name, initially.

  I implore you, Mr. Forbes, go to Hemswell. He's the only man for the job, I assure you. There will be plenty of ways to approach him without using my name. The police are always calling on him. There will be various senior officers who will be able to put you in touch with him, I'm sure. After all, you are a respected man, a solicitor, and it won't seem unusual for you to be seeking his help in a case.

  If, between the two of you, you can determine the truth of what I've been telling you all these weeks, I will be vindicated. The world will know that I was never the monster they believe me to be, but the mere dupe, a pawn of a power so great that it has lasted a century and more.

  I will die soon, Mr. Forbes, and, therefore, whatever you discover cannot affect me one way or the other in this world, but, and I know it's a lot to ask, you may just be responsible for saving not only my name, but my soul!

  Please believe me when I say again, I am not the crazy and deranged beast, in human form, they all believe me to be. I am as much a victim as those who died at my hands; but, only you, and perhaps Doctor Hemswell, can prove it.

  With my deepest respect,

  Jack Reid

  Forbes at last fell silent. Kate stared, not at him, but at me. I sat, stunned, though only for a few seconds, and then my voice broke through the silence in the room. Rather, not so much my usual restrained and professional voice, as a tirade, as I realised that Jack Reid had planned this meeting between me and Forbes all along..

  "Jack Reid mentioned me by name? He told you to seek me out? Why? How did he know about me? I thought you said you'd got my name and contact details from Chief Inspector Gould!"

  "I said I'd got your telephone number from Mr. Gould, David, that's all. I didn't actually say that he'd given me your name, if you remember?" I couldn't tell you the truth, not right away. As Reid said to me, there was a good chance you'd have rejected me, out of hand, if I'd done so."

  "But, why me?" I asked again, with slightly less anger in my voice.

  "As he said, he'd done his research. He felt you were the best qualified man for the job."

  "But I had to bring in help, didn't I? Kate's here and she knows far more about this than I do."

  "Perhaps he expected you to do just such a thing. He was intelligent you know, not a moron. I've long suspected he had it all worked out, even before I visited him for the first time."

  Kate broke into the conversation.

  "Don't be too hard on William, please David. He was, and is, following his client's instructions. His responsibility lies with the client first, as you know."

  Kate was correct, of course, though I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd been used, played like a chess piece, both by Reid and William Forbes. I knew it was too late to back out, we'd come too far, and I tried to suppress my anger and focus on what Forbes had just read to us.

  "Okay, William, I forgive you," I lied. "At least we now know why he wanted you on his case. He's seeking some kind of peace after death. He truly believed in his story, that much is for sure. I suppose the least we can do is carry on and try to discover if there can possibly be any truth in those beliefs."

  "I think you're right," Kate concurred.

  "Thank-you, both of you," Forbes spoke with a hint of apology in his voice. "I would have told you sooner, honestly, but now is the appropriate time to do so. I had to make sure you were committed to the case before revealing the letter to you. I'm sorry for the deception, really I am."

  The more Forbes apologised, the more I felt used, but there remained little to be gained by allowing my anger to take control of the situation. Kate had been correct, of course. The solicitor was acting on the instructions of his client and, dead or alive, his responsibility remained to that client and to do his best to see those instructions through. I wondered, however, if Forbes had any other nasty little surprises up his sleeve; but, for now, refrained from asking.

  "Is there anything else to add to the story, William?" asked Kate as I subsided into my chair, my anger for the moment placed on hold.

  "Only that two weeks after he gave me the letter, Ruth Truman phoned my office. Reid was dying and had little more than day or two left, at most. He'd requested a last visit from me, and the doctor assured me that, if I wished to comply with his request, it had better be soon.

&n
bsp; I arrived at Ravenswood the following morning and, sure enough, Reid looked near to death as I looked at him, lying, hooked up to various monitors and drips, a doctor and nurse hovering not far from the bed.

  `" 'He doesn't have much longer,' Ruth Truman whispered to me as I drew near to his bed.

  Reid certainly appeared weak and forlorn as I finally stood, right up close to his prone figure.

  " 'You came,' he said, in a weak, quiet voice, almost a whisper.

  "Yes, Jack, I'm here,' I replied.

  "I have one last thing to give you,' he gasped, the mere act of speaking appearing to cause him discomfort. 'Doctor Ruth, if you please.'

  "Ruth Truman walked to the small bedside cabinet and opened the single drawer in the fixture, withdrawing an envelope large enough to hold an A4 sized document. She handed it to me. I looked at her inquiringly.

  " 'It's okay, it's allowed. It's just a sheet of paper that he wants you to have. He says it's part of The Ripper's journal. I've seen it many times in our sessions, and it can't do any harm for him to want you to have it. You are his solicitor, after all, and all his effects would probably go to your firm anyway, for future disposal.'

  "I took the paper and looked at Reid. He smiled, and sighed as though a great weight had suddenly lifted from him.

  " 'Take it, Mr. Forbes. You'll know what to do with it when you read it later. Don't forget, see Hemswell. You must see Hemswell.'

  "Jack Reid suddenly slumped back against his pillows. The doctor and nurse, who'd been standing to one side, now moved forward. Ruth Truman placed her hand on my arm, and drew me back a couple of paces as the medics stepped in to do their work. There appeared little they could do and, within a few seconds, the machine that had obviously been monitoring Reid's heartbeat began to beep, a long, continuous, and shrill sound that boded no good at all for the man in the bed. The doctor placed a stethoscope to the patient's chest as the nurse held up his wrist and checked for a pulse. Within seconds the nurse replaced Reid's hand on the bed cover and the doctor withdrew from the bedside, turning and speaking to Ruth Truman as he did so.