by Tim Marquitz
Lou Ceefer, my uncle, the Devil. It always made me laugh at how blatant he could be and yet no one ever seemed to get the joke. That was probably a good thing. “I’ve spent a lot of time down south investigating cases where the trail had gone cold.” I shrugged. “Often, fresh eyes are all that’s needed in order to find the answer to a mystery.”
“I hope so, Thomas.” His eyes darted to the bottle once more. “I truly hope so.”
Despite his volunteering to track down the killer and restore the peace to Whitechapel, it was clear the brutality of the Ripper had gotten under George’s skin. “My employer told me you received a message from the killer.” I motioned to the brandy with my chin. “Perhaps another glass will make the tale more palatable.”
He lifted the liquor and offered it once more. I declined again, drawing a chuckle from him. George ignored the glass altogether and took a draught straight from the bottle, letting the brandy spill down his throat. After a moment, he set it on the desk, but kept his fingers clasped about the bottle’s neck for a moment. He sighed deeply, the scent of the brandy drifting to my nose before he finally released his hold.
A forced smile at his lips, George reached into the drawer opposite the one that held the liquor and pulled out a photograph. He slid it across the desk to me. “I apologize that it is not the original document, but the police felt it best they keep that.”
“Of course.” Having already been told of the letter and what it said, I cast only a causal glance at the photo to examine the writing itself. The From Hell stood out in the top right, the phrase that started all this. I slid it back to him after a moment. “I was told there was possibly further communication from the killer, marked upon the wall at Goulston Street?”
George nodded. “The bobbies found a bloodied scrap of that poor woman Eddowes’ apron beneath the graffito but determined it nothing more than a coincidence, the piece of cloth caught by the wind perhaps.” He mopped his brow with his palm, glimmers of moisture sparkling there.
“Still, I’d like to see it, please.”
“I can take you there, but the police washed the wall clean just hours after the graffito was discovered. There won’t be—”
I raised a hand to cut him off. “Indulge me, if you would, and bring the picture along.”
Baalth had been convinced there was more to the crimes than simple murder, the excessive cruelty visited upon the women a sign that the Ripper hid his motives behind brutality, and I had to agree. Anyone so incensed as to cut the uterus out of a woman and carve up her face as the killer had done wouldn’t lurk in the dark and taunt the police from a distance. These murders appeared to be crimes of fury, acted out in abject rage. To have killed four women in such a brutal fashion over the span of months and not be caught gave the lie to that perception. There was more to the Ripper than he let on. Maybe the graffito would cast a light on something the bobbies had missed.
George tucked the photo into his pocket and stood, taking one last pull at the brandy, and nodded as he struggled to cap the bottle after setting it down. His trembles had begun shakes. He drew a deep breath and ushered me toward the study door with a weak wave after he’d managed the task. “Then let us have a look.”
I nodded, letting him go first before following along. George’s back was slumped, his shoulders hunched now that the liquor had worn at his resolve. Gone was the stiff and cultured man I’d met at the door. In his place stood a gaunt, tired man at the end of his wits. I knew then what his angle was and felt a pang of guilt at presuming the worst of the man.
Though he stood apart from the horror in Whitechapel, there was no doubt it tore at his heart as though it were an infection. I believed then he volunteered to lead the vigilance group not because he sought fame or political advantage, but because he truly wanted to bring an end to a killer who’d spilled more than his fair share of blood in the place George called home.
My mother smiled her approval of him. That was good enough for me.
Five
Despite it still being early, Goulston Street was quiet, nearly deserted. The alley where Eddowes’ apron had been found had been scoured by the police and the Londoners living nearby had left it as such. There was none of the trash or debris that littered the rest of the streets nearby. There were also no tributes or monuments set about to honor the murdered woman. It was as if people were simply too afraid to even enter the alleyway, perhaps in fear of becoming the Ripper’s next victim. I let my senses loose but there was no resonant magic affixed to the area. It was a ghost town of mystical energy.
“It was here,” George told me, pointing a dancing finger at the wall just a short distance inside the alley. He too hovered near the street, taking no more than a step or two inside.
I looked to where he motioned and saw the vague outline of the words that had been written on the wall. Though the police had washed them away, they hadn’t done a thorough job of it. My eyesight degrees better than most humans, I was still able to make out much of what had been there, the paint having soaked into the porous bricks, leaving behind a kind of outline where the words had been.
“The graffito was said to blame a Jew for what was committed here but there was no record taken of the exact words.”
As George talked, I picked out the word Jew from the faded mess, the general statement, from what I could tell, confirming the rumor he’d heard. “Can I see the photo of the letter again?”
George dug in his pocket and passed the photo to me. His hand was cold where our fingers grazed. It was more than just the morning’s chill. I gave him a casual smile though I knew there was nothing I could do to ease his mood except for kill the Ripper. And while that was exactly what I intended, the graffito didn’t appear to bring me any closer to my goal.
Several quick glances between the wall and the photo made it clear the graffiti and the letter had been penned by different people. While differences were expected between the two given the mediums, there was no mistaking the writing of the letter for the style scribbled on the wall. The graffiti appeared to written carefully, each letter formed consistently with the others, but the curves were smooth, flowing from what I could tell. The “From Hell” letter had also been written with a calm hand but the edges were sharp, the penmanship heavy handed and almost guttural in its approach. The killer had carved his words onto the page the same as he had carved his message into the women he’d killed.
I shook my head and passed the photo back to George. “It seems the police were right about—” before the last of my sentence slipped free of my mouth, a sharp pressure speared my back, ominous tingles spreading down my spine. I snapped my head about and spied a man glaring at me from the other end of the alley. He stood several feet inside the crime scene with no apparent fear. His features were hidden within the looming shadows. Before we’d even locked gazes, I was after him.
Two dots of white exploded on his face, and he bolted. He was a blur of elbows and ass, a vague shape as he scrambled around the corner. His footsteps sang out against the cobblestones. I followed after, kicking up wet gravel as I rounded the corner in pursuit. George shouted something at my back but I couldn’t make it out. I didn’t even bother to slow down.
The man was about a block ahead of me, the shadows no longer concealing him. Though his coat fluttered behind him as he ran, distorting his shape, it was clear the man was built thickly. His legs were stumpy tree trunks that slammed into the street with insistence. Hair cut short, shorn close to the scalp, there was nothing to hide the roundness of his head or the waves of neck fat that looked to form a grimace on the back of his skull. His breath billowed into the morning air like a freight train climbing a hill. Nothing between us but space, no pedestrians on our side of the walk, I closed fast.
He wheezed as I came up behind him, not even realizing I was there until my arm was in his face. The man growled and reached for my hand but it was too late. My forearm slipped beneath his wobbly chins, and I dug my feet into the asphalt.
<
br /> There was a sudden, blubbery impact and a muffled squawk and the runner was in the air, feet flailing out in front of him. His eyes were wide as his lower body swung upward like a pendulum. Then he hit. His back slammed into the street and blasted the remaining breath from his lungs. I heard the melon thump of his head striking the cobblestones, and then his feet followed, meaty slaps ringing out one after another. He rolled to his side, cradling his head.
“Going somewhere?” I asked.
The man groaned and tried to peer up at me through his forearms. His eyes wobbled in their sockets as he tried to focus. I patted him down quickly, just to be sure, but he wasn’t carrying anything more than a small blackjack stuffed into an inner pocket. Not worth my effort, I left it there and rolled tubby onto his back.
“Who are you?”
“Wait!” George shouted at me from the corner. He caught up to us and shuffled to a stop. Deep, heavy breaths spilled from his mouth. Tangy wafts of his brandy breakfast filled my nose. “Wait,” he repeated, hands on his thighs as his chest heaved.
“For?” I asked, keeping an eye on the downed man. Red faced and cheeks puffed out like a rabid squirrel, he didn’t look dangerous but you can never be sure.
“He’s one of us; part of the Vigilance Committee.” George dropped down beside the man and helped him to a seated position, both grunting with the effort. “This is Hans Keller.
I sighed. “Then why did he run?” My gaze drifted to Hans, turning the question to him.
He looked back and forth between George and me until his eyes settled and he caught some of his breath. A sneer pulled his upper lip back. Yellowed teeth stared out at me like a weathered picket fence. “He shouldn’t be here, Lusk,” he said with a distinctly German accent, ignoring my question completely. Though still winded, there was a haughty sharpness to his tone that wormed uncomfortably into my ears.
“That’s a matter of opinion.” George helped the man to his feet. I stood back and watched as they battled gravity, just barely managing to win out.
Hans pulled free of George and brushed at his coat once they were up. His eyes locked on mine. “We don’t need you.”
I looked to George. “What’s this all about?” Hans’ attitude had me wanting to knock him down again.
George stepped away as if trying to distance himself from the man while stuffing his hands into his pockets. “We’re of two minds, certain members of the committee and I.”
“Damn right,” Hans huffed. “We don’t need any outsiders stepping in and making a mess of things.”
“Four confirmed victims over several months’ time? That sounds pretty damn messy to me.”
George waved me off. “We all want to bring an end to the Ripper’s bloodbath, but Hans here, and more so his sponsor, Charles Braun, would prefer it be the Vigilance Committee that claimed all the glory.”
“It isn’t about glory, Lusk. It’s about opportunity.” Hans straightened his collar and glared at George. “Should the committee stop this killer then our charter would continue and—”
“And the money will flow,” George finished. “Yes, yes, I know all about Charles’ grand plans for the committee, Hans, but our priority must be stopping the Ripper. Nothing else matters.”
“But it does. You’re just too blind to see it. Were Charles to—”
I gave a wet, throat clearing harrumph, drawing their eyes to me. “Gentlemen, not to intrude, but I really don’t give a rat’s furry ass about the politics of who does what. I’m here to do a job. You two can hash the rest out after I’m done.”
“You will not interfere in our business.” Hans puffed out his massive chest and stepped toward me. Only about an inch shorter than me, he was easily twice my width. His eyes narrowed as he approached, giving his features a severity that loomed larger than the whole of him. It wasn’t the first time Hans had intimidated someone. He was good at it.
Too bad he was muscling up to a demon. Had I been human, he might have had a chance but I woke up every morning to stare Lucifer in the eyes. My uncle’s poop face was more fearsome than Hans could ever hope to muster. He wasn’t intimidating shit.
I reached into my jacket and pulled the Webley out just enough so Hans could see the grip. He swallowed hard and froze in place. “Again, I don’t care about your pissing match.” I let the pistol slip back into my pocket. “I’ve got a job to do, so stay out of my way, Hans.” I shook my head and started off down the street. “I’ll leave you gormless pricks to sort it out. Talk to you soon, George.”
I left them to argue and made my way through the East End gloom, turning toward the heart of Whitechapel. The first thing I needed was a coat. After that, it was time to hit the taverns. The bobbies didn’t have anything on Jack and it certainly didn’t seem like the committee had very much, so that left it up to me. And if anyone had their finger on the pulse of the slums, it would be the folks living in it. What better place to start than where the poor and unwashed masses congregate?
Besides, what better way is there to start an investigation than a stiff drink?
Six
Despite the hour, I had no problem finding an open bar. In fact, I found a number of them scattered throughout Whitechapel. In many cases, I could have thrown a stone from one and hit the door of another, they were that close. It was a sign of how bad things were in the East End.
Shops all around the area had been shut down, windows boarded over and doors nailed tight to keep people from breaking into the buildings, but not the taverns in Whitechapel. No, they were thriving. While most of the people living nearby couldn’t afford to buy lamps or furnishing or quality meals for their kids, those shops desolate and abandoned, there was always money for booze. That was the economy of the poor. Spirits were a commodity everyone could afford, or could, at least, afford to piss off on other responsibilities to satisfy the need for liquor. It was a sad statement as to the moral depths of English society, but for me, it was a blessing in disguise.
I had a pocket full of my uncle’s coins and it didn’t take much of it to start lips flapping on whatever topic I wanted to talk about. After I’d replaced my coat and hat, I slipped into the first bar I came across and started buying drinks. While I found out a good many places to get some quality quim, there wasn’t anything useful with regards to Jacky boy. Folks were scared shitless, and since most of the ones I spoke to were illiterate or poorly read, what I got from them was little more than a rehash of what they’d heard called out by their pals and the morning criers spouting off the news.
By the time I’d left the first tavern, I’d twenty descriptions of the Ripper without a single similarity between any of them except that everyone believed him to be male and born from my uncle’s cherry red ass. I got a good chuckle out of the last bit but didn’t bother to correct folks. It’s hard enough to get information without drawing suspicion. The last thing I needed to do admit that the Devil was real and I was his nephew. It never took much for the humans to pull out their matchsticks and burn a fella these days. My admission would be more than enough to rile up a mob of pitchfork wielding peasants to hunt me down. That would seriously ruin my day.
So rather than worry about facts, I moved on. Bar after bar I ran into the same thing. There was no shortage of people to talk to or stories to hear, but by about the fifth placed I’d stopped, all the descriptions of Jack had come full circle. He was fat, short, tall, thin, Herculean, frail, dark-eyed, light-eyed, foreign, domestic, well-groomed, slobbish, hairless, full-bearded, both Jewish and Satanic, raised by wolves and saints. Some said Jack was rich, born noble with a sadistic boredom and years of experience with surgical schooling. Others told me he was one of them, an East Ender with no hope or money or fear of the law. What could be worse than living in Whitechapel? one of the blokes had asked. I had about a hundred different answers on the tip of my tongue but chose instead to commiserate with him and bought another round. That shut him up right quick. A second round kept him busy enough that I could slip away wi
thout.
Just like the police and the committee, no one knew shit. Jack was a ghost. He drifted out of the shadows and cut a gal up, and then disappeared, no one getting a fair look at the bastard. I sighed. Jack was starting to piss me off.
Hours scouring the bars for clues had left me tired and cranky and not one tiny bit drunk. It was frustrating. My metabolism and the constant chatter burned the liquor off just as quick as I could drink it. Not that I’d expected to get soused, or anything, but a comfortable high would have been a nice counterpoint to the droning inanity of drooled misinformation. I was just grateful my job had nothing to do with tending bar. Putting a bullet in a killer’s brain was the lesser of two evils when compared to dealing with drunks. Too much more time spent around them would result in me shooting myself.
As evening crept around, I ended up at yet another of the East End’s finest establishments: the Buttered Twat. It seemed a cheery name, so I went inside and settled. This time, I kept my mouth shut and found a quiet table in the back, as far from everyone as possible. I found a seat where my back faced the wall and dropped into it with a grunt.
A woman with several empty spaces in her too-wide smile came over and took my order before scurrying off to fill it. While I waited on her to return, I glanced about the room and took stock.
The day’s crew of drunken malcontents with nowhere else to go had thinned and the working class had begun to take their place. There were a number of soot-faced men in dark, stained overalls that looked every bit as dirty as the streets outside. Heavy work boots clomped about, chairs squealing on the roughened, wooden floor. The quiet murmur of the earlier taverns rose to a roar as testosterone-laden men, hard of hearing from the mines and factories they’d spent their lives in, yelled to be understood by their mates.