“You mean the Ripper’s topcoat,” said Henry. “And meanwhile your friends at the Yard busy themselves trying to pin the murder on me. Wouldn’t their time be better spent calling on every suit maker in London who sells such fabric?”
“Oh, I doubt that would help, unless you want to arrest every well-dressed man in the city,” said Doyle. “What we can deduce, however, is that this killer goes about his murderous business in his finest garments.”
Stoker wasn’t following.
Doyle sighed. “Meaning he doesn’t dress to fit in with his surroundings. He doesn’t care if anyone notices him. He simply doesn’t care.”
It was the blood that baffled Doyle. The amounts found at the scene were never consistent with the severity of the wounds.
“Both Stride’s and Eddowes’s throats were cut in the same gruesome manner,” said Doyle. “Right down to the spine. Stride’s abdomen was intact, but Eddowes was disemboweled, and one of her kidneys was missing. Yet again, Phillips6 makes mention of there being an unusually small amount of dried blood near the area of the wounds. He even inquires as to whether anyone at the scene might have erred in cleaning the blood from the victims. But the investigators assured him that the bodies were exactly as found.”
“What if he’s collecting it?” asked Stoker. Didn’t one of the letters7 say as much? That he’d collected some of the blood in bottles?”
“Indeed, but I doubt very much that those letters were from the real killer.”
“Oh?” said Stoker.
“Our killer left Ms. Stride mostly intact,” said Doyle. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he fancied her more than the others.”
“Because he was interrupted,” said Henry.
“Exactly. Stride was the first of the two women to be killed, yet her injuries were less extensive, and the scene of her death is the only one to include discernible footprints—an unusual oversight by a capable killer. It stands to reason that someone happened along during the murder. Perhaps this person was drawn by some noise related to the deed itself, or perhaps they merely wandered onto the scene by chance. Whatever the reason, the killer retreated rather than risk capture, and struck again when it was safe to do so—this time savaging Ms. Eddows in his usual manner, later in the evening. In any case, he’s demonstrated an ability to control his urges until it’s safe to indulge them. Not the sort of man who creates needless risk by writing letters and taunting policemen.”
“I’ve hunted murderers before,” said Henry. “Even the best of them get caught sooner or later.”
“I beg to differ,” said Doyle. “Famous murderers are only famous because they get caught. The best killers are those whose names we shall never know.”
The Tall Man was delighted.
The city was paralyzed, on the verge of full-blown panic. The police were having fits. And to think, it had all begun by chance. To think, it had been just another day in London. The Tall Man’s soles had worn thin, and he’d paid a visit to his cordwainer8 on High Street, to place an order for a new pair of brogans, just as he’d done a hundred times before. It was hard finding good-quality, comfortable shoes in a size fourteen, as almost no one had feet that large—especially when the average height was five feet seven inches. While in the shop that day, the Tall Man happened to notice a rather distinctive calling card on the cordwainer’s workbench. Distinctive, for it was made of black stock with white lettering. But when the Tall Man took a closer look, he nearly gasped aloud.
H. Sturges
Importer of Fine Textiles
No. 2 Chester Square
Belgravia, London
It couldn’t be him… could it?
It was foolish. Who could say that the “H” stood for “Henry”? It might well have been “Harry” or “Horace” or a hundred other common men’s names. And even if it was “Henry Sturges,” there were probably a thousand men in England with that name. And yet it nagged at the Tall Man. Nagged at him enough to ask the tailor to describe the man who’d left that card. He wanted to know. He had to know.
The Tall Man wasn’t the least bit religious, but he’d come to believe in a kind of Cosmic Wheel. There were undeniable connections between certain individuals. And there was such a thing as fate. Oh, he believed it with every part of his being. You could keep your Christ and your Buddha and whatever superstitious man-made nonsense you liked, but there was no denying the existence of fate.
And so he’d waited that night, just down the street from the address on that card. He’d waited until night fell, and then some more, until the front door of No. 2 had opened and Henry bloody Sturges had walked out.
There he was, after all they’d been through together.
After all those years. Life was funny sometimes, wasn’t it? The Tall Man had been tempted, oh so tempted, to walk right up to him. To surprise him right there, that night, on the street. To see the look on Henry’s face before he choked the wretched life out of him. But where was the fun in that? Why not make him squirm first? Make him dangle like a marionette on the end of a string? They’d parted under such unpleasant circumstances, after all. Wasn’t the Tall Man owed his revenge?
And so the game had begun. Like others of his kind, he’d become skilled at picking victims who wouldn’t be missed. Those whose disappearances or deaths would evoke little more than a shrug, a certificate, and a pile of fresh dirt. But here, the Tall Man had wanted to attract attention. He’d mingled with the whores of East London before, picking them up in pubs, taking them back to their lodging houses, and feeding on them. There were plenty of forgotten women to pick from, some new to town, some just passing through. But, as he was with most of his prey, he’d been careful to leave the appearance that the victim had succumbed to some sickness or unfortunate accident. Or he’d simply disposed of the bodies, digging a shallow grave on Jacob’s Island, tying rocks to their feet and throwing them in the Thames, or tossing them into the furnace of a brass foundry where he had a financial understanding with the owner. Though it wasn’t always the most practical method of disposal, the Tall Man liked this last one the best. Not only because it destroyed every last shred of evidence, but also because he liked thinking of those ashes joining with molten metal, being poured into different molds—instruments, church bells, and the like. The Tall Man often smiled when he heard church bells ringing or a brass horn playing, thinking that perhaps the ashes of one or more of his victims were contributing to the beauty of the sound.
But this time, the point was to stir up a frenzy of suspicion and ensnare his old friend Henry Sturges plumb in the middle of it. Not that Henry was at risk of being thrown in the Tower of London or hanged from the end of a rope. No, far from it. The point was to make him uncomfortable. To make him desperate. Desperate enough to come looking. And when capable, determined old Henry Sturges finally found him (which he would, sooner or later, that capable boy), then the Tall Man would get to see the shock on old Henry’s face, just for an instant, before he tore it off.
The Tall Man had been having a grand time, but it was getting too risky out in the open, with all those patrolmen and volunteers roaming the streets, hoping for their chance to catch the Ripper.
The Ripper.
It was a fine name. He hadn’t counted on receiving a name at all, or on causing such a sensation. But some lunatic had taken it upon himself to write a letter to a newspaper, taunting the police, and calling himself “Jack the Ripper.” It added to the mystique of the thing. Added to the fun. It was fun, playing games with the living. It excited him, seeing how helpless they were in his grasp. Take this one before him… Mary. He’d been at her for hours, courting her, luring her in… falling in love with her.
You had to love them. That was the key. You had to love them or it ruined everything.
Mary… She’d been easy to fall in love with. Far easier than any of the others. The Tall Man had loved her the moment he saw her. She was lovely. Just lovely. A tall girl, about twenty-five years old, wit
h fair skin, faint freckles on her cheeks and nose, and auburn hair, which she wore pulled back in a ponytail. She was slender but buxom, with wide hips and large breasts. A blue-eyed Irish beauty. How such a pretty girl ended up selling herself on the streets of East London, the Tall Man neither knew nor cared. She was here with him now, and he loved her. That was all that mattered.
He told her to undress and lay upon the bed. She did so with no fuss, unbuttoning the top of her dress and pulling it down over her shoulders. Down the length of her body, onto the floor. Her pubic hair was the same auburn, and her breasts, full and covered with gooseflesh, held their shape as she settled on her back.
You’ve never nursed a child, thought the Tall Man, but there’s a child in you now. Right now, as you lay there naked. I can hear its little heart beating with yours. I can see the extra blood in your body widening every one of those beautiful veins. Those veins, so easy to make out beneath your porcelain skin.
The Tall Man couldn’t wait to taste that blood. To hear those two heartbeats speed up to a rousing symphony, then slow to a funeral dirge. But first he had to make everything perfect. Just as a chef has to peel and then dice his ingredients before the real cooking begins. Before he can taste the delectable results. The ingredients were spread out before him. He had to make her comfortable. He had to love her and put his mouth on her. He had to feel her warmth so that he could better appreciate the cold when it came.
She was drunk, poor girl. The whole world must’ve seemed a pinwheel to her, lying there naked and warm on the sheets. She’d been singing a song as they’d walked from the pub to her room at 13 Miller’s Court. A relatively new song, called “A Violet from Mother’s Grave.”
Father and mother they have passed away.
Sister and brother now lay beneath the clay;
But while life does remain, to cheer me I’ll retain
This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.
She had a bright, clear voice. Good pitch. The Tall Man wondered what other future might’ve awaited her had circumstances been different. Perhaps, with her looks and voice, she would have found a home on the stage. Oh, but she is. This is her stage, right here. And though she doesn’t know it, she’ll be famous come morning.
“Are you cold, dear?” the Tall Man asked, rubbing his cold hand along the gooseflesh of her breast. “Or are you frightened?”
“What’s there to be frightened of? This ain’t my first time bein’ naked with a man, love.”
“I meant on account of the recent… incidents in Whitechapel.”
“Ah, you mean the Ripper. The whole city’s gone mad, ’asn’t it,” she said. “It’s all anybody’ll talk about.”
“And you… are you not interested in the Ripper?”
“Interested, sure. But I ’aven’t lost my wits, ’ave I? Another one’a the girls—’er name’s Mary like mine—she says, ‘Aren’t you scared, Mary? Shouldn’t we be careful?’ But I says, ‘Mary, there’s ’undreds of us girls workin’ out ’ere, and only one Ripper. What’s the chances you or I’s gonna be the one ’e picks? Besides, what other choice we ’ave, stop workin’ and starve to death? Well then, we’re dead anyway, ain’t we. My roommate, ’e’s a better reader, reads all the newspapers to me. And I’ve got a good idea of who ’e is, the Ripper.”
“Do you, now… And who is he?”
“’E’s a little man, sure as I’m lyin’ here. Short and funny lookin’, I’d wager.”
“Oh? What makes you say so?”
“It’s always the short ones and funny-lookin’ ones who turn out mad. Them and the ones with the little peckers. Been laughed at by the girls since they was little. Got a grudge against ’em. So this one—this Ripper—’e gets it in his head ’e’ll teach ’em a lesson. Carve a few of ’em up.”
“Yes,” he said. “It makes perfect sense when you put it like that.”
The Tall Man beamed. It was all too perfect. The presence of the cosmic wheel was undeniable.
“Sing that song again,” he said. “The one you sang on the way over. The one about the violet.”
Mary began to sing, softly, as he moved his hands over her body.
Well I remember my dear old mother’s smile,
As she used to greet me when I returned from toil;
Always knitting in the old arm chair.
Father used to sit and read for all us children there.
His fingers reached her neck. He closed his hand on her throat, gently at first… feeling her vocal cords vibrate as she sang.
But now all is silent around the good old home,
They all have left me in sorrow here to roam;
While life does remain, in memoriam I’ll retain
This small violet I plucked from mother’s grave.
He began to squeeze. The singing stopped. She thought he was being playful at first, but as the squeeze grew tighter, the drunken look fell off her face. The light from her eyes. She began to struggle, grabbing hold of his wrist and trying to push his arm away. Trying to roll off the bed to escape his grasp. The Tall Man held her in place, calmly, effortlessly. He watched her porcelain skin turn that beautiful shade of purple as he squeezed harder. She knows. She knows it now. It was so easy, so perfect.
“Hundreds of girls,” he said. “What were the odds you would be the one I picked?”
Dark went his eyes, down came his fangs, and out came those razor-sharp claws. He wanted her to see him. He wanted her to know what he was while she still had some fight left in her. He drew his hand back like a painter about to make a decisive stroke across his canvas—that’s exactly what this is… it’s my art—and opened a gash in her throat. She spilled forth, and he put his mouth on her. Drinking her. When he’d had his fill, he set about the work of dismantling her beauty, piece by piece. Of sculpting her into a shape that pleased him.
From the notes of Dr. Thomas Bond, who performed the postmortem with Dr. George Bagster Phillips:
The whole of the surface of the abdomen and thighs was removed and the abdominal cavity emptied. The breasts were cut off, the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds and the face hacked beyond recognition of the features. The tissues of the neck were severed down to the bone. The uterus, kidneys and one breast had been placed under the head, along with the nose, the other breast placed by the right foot, the liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side and the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table. The bed clothing at the right corner was saturated with blood, and on the floor beneath was a pool of blood covering about two feet square. The wall by the right side of the bed and in a line with the neck was marked by blood which had struck it in several places. The face was gashed in all directions, the nose, cheeks, eyebrows, and ears being partly removed. The lips were blanched and cut by several incisions running obliquely down to the chin. There were also numerous cuts extending irregularly across all the features. The neck was cut through the skin and other tissues right down to the vertebrae, the fifth and sixth being deeply notched. Both breasts were more or less removed by circular incisions, the muscle down to the ribs being attached to the breasts… The skin and tissues of the abdomen from the costal arch to the pubes were removed in three large flaps. The left calf showed a long gash through skin and tissues to the deep muscles and reaching from the knee to five inches above the ankle. Both arms and forearms had extensive jagged wounds. The right thumb showed a small superficial incision about one inch long. The lower part of the lung was broken and torn away. The left lung was intact. It was adherent at the apex and there were a few adhesions over the side. The pericardium was open below and the heart absent.
Henry woke to pounding on his front door again.
He was livid. He knew it was Abberline. There had been another murder, no doubt, and Abberline and his two pets had come to harass him again with their fine facial hair. He dressed and hurried down the stairs, silently vowing to hire a maid before week’s end. But wh
en he swung the door open, his temper already raised, it was Doyle waiting on the other side.
“I know who the Ripper is,” he said.
To both writers and detectives, nothing is ever without meaning. Every moment is fraught with significance. Every trivial dinner conversation or miscellaneous fact is filed away internally. Doyle’s mind was a vast library of carefully organized bits of ephemera waiting to be brought down from the shelf, dusted off, and put to use.
A month earlier, Doyle had purchased a dinner of fish and chips, which came wrapped in the traditional newspaper. As he ate, he glanced at the newsprint in his hands and learned of a new machine for making a different type of shoe. Later known as the Goodyear Welt Sewing Machine, it was invented by Charles Goodyear Jr., son of the famous inventor of the process of vulcanizing rubber. The welt sewing machines made shoes faster, cheaper, and better. They also left a distinct mark on the back of the heel.
A mark that was on the Ripper’s footprints.
The image had buried itself in Doyle’s mind, waiting to be awakened. Now, with a mouthful of fish and chips, it came hurtling out of the darkness of his subconscious, its significance suddenly revealed. The newspaper article mentioned that there were only two cordwainers in London with these new machines. One specialized in women’s shoes, which left only—
Doyle left his uneaten meal and rushed to Cole’s Fine Men’s Shoes.
He spoke to the cordwainer, who remembered seeing my card when I’d gone in and ordered a pair of boots—Oxfords, Balmoral cut. Usually, he affixed the customers’ calling cards to the soles of their unfinished shoes, so he would know whom to contact when they were finished. But somehow, he’d lost mine.
“Very unusual indeed,” said Cole. “I pride myself on being organized.”
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