Ripper Street

“Blast this wretched weather!” Chief Inspector Donald Swanson of Scotland Yard stood by the window, casting a weary glance over the impenetrable darkness beyond his office, and shuddered, imagining for a moment that once upon a time he too might have been standing outside in the pouring rain, warming his numb hands over a kerosene lamp. However — and here he had to cast an exhausted look at the piles of reports and dispatches precariously stacked in uneven towers upon his desk — even a constable forced to freeze his backside off on the bitter streets every night would hardly call the inspector a lucky man right now. “Blast London, blast Jack, and blast you, Matthew Andrews…” Continuing to mutter his imprecations, the man returned to his massive desk, covered with green baize worn threadbare in places, and lowered himself heavily into his chair directly beneath a miniature portrait of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, grimy with lamp soot, staring dully at the uneven lines of a report: “…a tanner of the second grade, who states that on the 27th day of October in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty-eight, whilst at the address of 14 Plough Street, Bermondsey, he witnessed an unidentified man and an unidentified woman of likewise unidentified age and appearance attempting to perform a blasphemous ritual of black magic involving the summoning of demons, whereupon they fled by running directly up the walls in an unidentified, devil take it, direction, and the aforementioned demons proceeded to pursue Mr. Andrews, prompting his panicked flight and subsequent fall into a puddle, from which he was retrieved by a patrol of constables from the morning shift of M Division, who then delivered him in a state of considerable inebriation and complete unconsciousness to the police station on Southwark Street…” “Imbecile,” the inspector shook his head, irritably tossing the completed interview sheets onto the “reviewed” pile and, finding the potential witness's name in the register, drew a thick minus sign beside it, grunting and sweating even from such a small exertion. The Chief Inspector was approaching those years in which a stout tweed waistcoat, customarily worn by men of his station, ceases to serve as protection against the damp London wind and becomes instead the last barrier preventing a respectable citizen's belly from disgorging its entire contents from the previous day's dinner. With another sigh, having finished writing a line in his report and restraining himself from including such formulations as “drunken idiot” and “blasted moron,” Swanson rolled a blotter across the page and, setting down his pen, began to rub his eyes furiously, hoping that when he opened them again, he would not see the endless stream of rubbish he had been forced to read daily for the past month. Since the Chief Inspector had been transferred to the central Scotland Yard building on Victoria Embankment and generously allocated an entire private office — which, as he now understood, would inevitably become his tomb in the very near future — Swanson had read miles upon miles of various dispatches, denunciations, interrogation transcripts, newspaper clippings, and reports from conscientious citizens eager to participate in solving the monstrous murders shaking the very foundations of London. All of it required recording, classification, and organisation, yet brought them not one inch closer to identifying the fiend whom popular rumour had zealously christened Jack the Ripper. The author of the nickname was doubtless some slick reporter from The Star or Central News, whom Swanson, had it been within his power, would have personally strangled in some darker alley. No one burdened the inspector with more work or delayed the day of the Ripper's capture quite like the dear London press, publishing ever more details of Jack's atrocities day after day, most of which originated no further than the fevered heads of the reporters themselves. The moment Sims released another column in The Referee, each time advancing new theories about the identity of the Whitechapel murderer, or Francis Craig published an engraving of a victim in the Illustrated Police News, every police station in London would fill with witnesses, eyewitnesses, and idle gossips, from whom there was no more use than from a hole in Westminster Bridge. Hysteria and madness increasingly engulfed the residents of London, and there existed nothing in the world capable of restoring their calm. It sometimes seemed to Swanson that even if by some unknown miracle they managed to catch the Ripper and throw him to the crowd together with irrefutable proof of his guilt — even then no one would pay the slightest attention, and everyone would simply continue advancing ever wilder and more senseless theories and accusing neighbours and random passers-by of conspiracies. The gloomy course of his thoughts was interrupted by a soft knock at the door, catching Swanson off guard. He could not imagine that at such a late hour anyone else could be in the entire building besides himself and the duty shift, most of whom were surely either asleep or playing cards in the duty room. “Come in, who's there?” Swanson croaked, fighting a sudden wave of thirst brought on by a string of suppositions — each more unpleasant than the last — as to why anyone might need him at three in the morning under the present circumstances. The door, after some fumbling outside, finally swung open, revealing in the doorway a young — if not to say youthful — policeman with flame-red hair poking out from beneath his regulation police helmet. “Mitchell, good Lord, is that you?” Swanson squinted shortsightedly, trying to make out the face of the newcomer in the greenish light of the gas lamp that served as the sole source of illumination in his office. “You're not on duty tonight, are you? I personally sent you home several hours ago!” “Wanted to make sure all your correspondence was delivered, Inspector,” the constable smiled sheepishly, finally entering the office fully and closing the door behind him. He thought it best to omit the fact that the main purpose of his visit was actually to ascertain that Swanson was still alive. Everyone at Scotland Yard already knew that the Chief Inspector practically lived in the building and from time to time forgot to eat, drink, and even visit the privy. And so today Donald Swanson was still in his office despite the fact that it was already past three in the morning, which meant the inspector's chances of reaching his home in Clapham and getting some sleep that day had already vanished entirely. The inspector looked, to put it plainly, unwell: his face, never distinguished by sharp features to begin with, seemed to have sagged under the burdens of recent days and the endless duties heaped upon him. The impression was heightened by the long horseshoe-shaped moustache Swanson wore, which added gravity to his appearance but certainly not beauty. Abruptly breaking off his unsolicited analysis, Mitchell hastened to get down to business and, stumbling slightly over his own foot, saluted: “All quiet in the city. Street patrols report several brawls at the Blind Beggar on Fleet Street and at St. Katherine's Docks, and some drunk stevedore got kicked by a horse in the stables at Custom House — tried to steal oats from the manger. He's already receiving aid. Oh, and this as well!..” Seeing the Chief Inspector's expression turn to stone once more, Mitchell began rummaging in the pockets of his cape and, finding what he sought, produced a dispatch on bluish paper and handed it to his superior with all due haste. “A messenger delivered it barely forty minutes ago.” Swanson reached out mechanically and gave an involuntary start upon seeing the royal seal impressed on the side of the envelope and the watermarks on the paper — such things, given the contents of the previous similar letter, boded nothing good whatsoever for all of Scotland Yard. “It appears Her Majesty has once again deigned to favour us with her attention…” With a bitter smirk, the Chief Inspector reached for his letter opener and, breaking the wax seal in a single motion, immersed himself in reading.