Ripper Street

The morning of the twenty-sixth of October proved thoroughly vile even by the standards of London autumn. Edward Raven lay half-reclined on the divan in the flat allocated to him, drowning in documents, open folders containing police patrol reports, and sheets covered with witness statements. The gas lamp, which had burned all night, sputtered and crackled, struggling and clearly losing against the raw damp seeping through the grimy, time-clouded windows. Having finished reading yet another official form, he let his head fall back onto the pillow and lay motionless for a while, constructing in his mind the chain of events, then once again began reviewing the post-mortem reports arranged before him in chronological order, forming a grim ledger of death. The documents told him a great deal, but little of it was of any use. All the victims had been prostitutes, but this could easily be learned without police reports, simply by reading the front page of any London newspaper. All the murdered women had had their throats cut, sometimes with such force that the incision reached nearly to the spine. “Left kidney removed,” he murmured. “And the uterus, twice already… But here, only a cut to the throat…” He picked up the examination report for Elizabeth Stride, the third victim. “Were you interrupted? Not allowed to finish what you'd started?” After a brief silence, Raven continued sorting through the files, reading aloud excerpts from the official descriptions of the Ripper's atrocities, interspersing them with his own commentary: “And so, you decided to make up for it on the next one? Face mutilated, intestines completely removed and thrown over the right shoulder… What kind of wretched stew did you think you were cooking? And the uterus removed again. Trying to stick to a system? Oh, now this is interesting!” Fishing out one of the pages, Raven examined it against the light from various angles, bringing it close to his face several times. Then, in a single abrupt motion, he sprang from the bed, sending a few particularly unlucky forms tumbling to the floor, and seized the notebook lying on the table. By then it held a dozen pages of diagrams, a hand-drawn map of Whitechapel, several portrait sketches of Abberline and Anderson — the latter sporting a pair of antlers, added by Raven on some idle whim — and countless questions, most of which he had been unable to answer within the police archives. There remained a slim chance that more detailed descriptions of the Ripper's victims and methods might be found in the classified portion of the documents he had not yet been shown, but the odds of that were no better than the odds of the murderer turning himself in at a police station. There were many reasons for this, and the London police's creative approach to evidence collection was only one of them. Nor did the secretiveness of Whitechapel's residents help matters. Raven had, of course, largely forgotten what life on the East End was like, but even in his youth the district had not been known for honest folk, and had now become the most wretched slum in London, sheltering the homeless, prostitutes, and all manner of crooked dealers for whom notoriety with the police could only add years to a sentence at hard labour — or raise them to the unreachable height of the scaffold. Be that as it may, the endless arrest reports and witness interviews had, in Edward's opinion, more epistolary value than practical use. Upon those official pages, entire battles unfolded, described as though they were tales of King Arthur. Jack had been seen here and there as a cunning shadow lurking in the dark alleys of London's streets. He had been pursued with the courage and agility of Robin Hoods, only to catch nothing but the black smoke into which the demon Ripper invariably transformed. Sons recognised the killer’s guile in their fathers, and stepmothers saw in their stepdaughters the fiend’s future victims. With each new newspaper report, the witnesses' accounts grew more elaborate, and Jack became practically omnipresent. And this entire delirium was so resistant to classification and grouping that Raven had, a couple of times during the night, barely restrained himself from the heretical thought of tossing all the folders Abberline had given him into the fireplace and going to sleep, reasoning that the absence of any information would be preferable to the available alternatives. Hope was offered only by the physicians' conclusions, who by virtue of their profession attempted to adhere to at least some semblance of truth, and by a couple of reports from Chief Inspector Swanson himself, who had evidently spent considerable time separating the grains of truth in the Jack the Ripper case from the newspaper hype and idle fabrications. Which only strengthened Raven's desire to make his acquaintance. There was a knock at the door. The consultant quickly finished making his last notes, snapped the journal shut, and hastily gathered the medical reports into a pile, tossing everything onto the bed and covering it with a corner of the counterpane. “Come in!” A young constable's head poked into the room, helmet first: “Mr. Raven, sir? Chief Inspector Swanson is expecting you at the Yard. He asked me to tell you he's ready for the meeting, as you arranged.” “Thank you. Tell him I shall be there at the appointed time.”

***

Swanson's office did indeed resemble a military headquarters in the midst of a campaign. One wall was entirely covered with maps of Whitechapel, scored with red ink. Threads stretched from pins marking the murder sites, creating a web of the killer's possible routes. “Impressive,” Raven whistled as he entered the office and surveyed its organised chaos. “Good day, Inspector.” Swanson, seated at his desk and re-reading the night's reports, waved his hand toward the visitor's chairs by the wall without looking at the consultant who had entered, beckoning him to sit. The constable who had accompanied Raven all the way from Baker Street to the Yard deemed it prudent to withdraw immediately, closing the door behind him. “Give me a couple of minutes.” “Certainly,” Raven replied patiently, ignoring the invitation and instead examining with interest the enormous map of Whitechapel, nearly as tall as a man, evidently printed to the inspector's special order. Red flags marked the sites of all the murders, connected to one another by red threads. From those same flags, white threads traced paths to the nearest doss-houses, taverns, and brothels where the probable killer might have hidden or waited out the night. Green flags marked all the places where numerous witnesses had supposedly seen Jack or someone resembling a human being. The latter was merely Raven's supposition, supported, however, by an entire sleepless night spent reading the reports. “I see you've been looking for geographical patterns?” he drawled with a note of approval in his voice, which finally made the Chief Inspector set aside his reading and raise his eyes with a sigh to the presumptuous visitor. “Unsuccessfully, I take it?” “Alas,” Swanson admitted glumly, reluctantly rising from behind his desk and approaching the map. “Unfortunately, that was to be expected,” Raven continued. “The district itself isn't very large, which means the killer could easily have come from somewhere outside, done all his business, and departed the same way. What can you tell me about the murderer?” “As I understand it, describing the Ripper's personality is your job,” the inspector remarked with a touch of sarcasm. “What do you need for that? Chicken entrails, buffalo liver?..” “Thank you, I’ve already dined,” the consultant replied almost politely. “I shall, of course, share my views with you — I can even lay out a spread of Tarot cards, if you’re prone to such amusements. But I was under the impression you were a professional, and that in nearly three weeks of round-the-clock investigation you had managed to understand whom we are dealing with.” “Well…” Swanson irritably smoothed his moustache, nearly tearing out a substantial tuft of hair, which happened only in moments of extreme irritation. “I don't believe all that rubbish about a gentleman killer spread by the newspapers. There are no gentlemen in Whitechapel and never have been — only an abundance of drunkards, rapists, and thieves.” Raven cut the inspector off mid-sentence with a wave of his hand: “Leave that. Those are the crowd's thoughts, not yours. If the Jews were guilty of everything they're accused of whenever the mob takes it into their heads to accuse them, there would be no need for your department to exist at all. I want to hear your thoughts, Donald. If I want to consult the opinion of the townsfolk, I'll go and read it on a fence!” “How do you—? That information wasn't in the reports Abberline gave you!” Swanson's face turned red with barely contained fury at that moment. This buffoon of Her Majesty's had not only permitted himself to mock Scotland Yard, but had somehow managed to learn about the anti-Semitic slogans scrawled at the site of the last murder. If that information reached the press, they would be dealing with riots across the city the very next day! “The ink hadn't fully dried, and some of the text from the removed pages transferred onto the adjacent forms. I was very attentive, Inspector, and did my homework well!” Raven smirked, amused by the Chief Inspector's reaction. “But we've digressed. I want to hear your thoughts on the killer's identity.” “My thoughts…” Still reeling from the first blow, Swanson finally lost his composure, allowing himself to raise his voice: “Jack is the devil himself, if you want to know! A bloody animal without heart or soul, and the only mercy for him would be the gallows!” “Still not what I'm after. You're giving free rein to your emotions, but that tells us nothing about Jack's own thoughts and actions. I've read your notes, Donald. You and Abberline are perhaps the only ones in the entire Yard who aren't complete idiots! Put yourself in the killer's place! What drives him? What does he think about? How does he choose the time and place of attack?” “Put myself in the place of a bloodthirsty beast?” The very idea seemed to have caught the inspector off guard. Swanson opened and closed his mouth, staring at Raven in panic, unable to utter a word. “Precisely!” Raven barked, flying at the Chief Inspector and seizing his lapels with unexpected force. “I don't care what you believe! You may observe human laws or preach God's laws from the pulpit, but don't forget that there are people in this world upon whom neither has any hold! And if you want to catch Jack, you'll have to comprehend the system of his madness. And for that, if necessary, experience it yourself!” “Madness!” The inspector’s exclamation sounded more like a sob. The man did not even try to break free from Raven’s grip, only staring into his eyes, frozen with horror. “And this is only the beginning!” The consultant's face drew even closer, and his eyes seemed to threaten to suck the soul out of Swanson. “You're a hunter, Donald! You know perfectly well that every beast has rules of the hunt. You know how to track prey, lie in ambush for hours, and kill with a single movement of the hand. But our Jack isn't like that, is he? He doesn't hunt; his choice of victims is as dirty and haphazard as the murders themselves! Imagine what it's like to cut someone's throat and then butcher them like a pig carcass!” At these words Swanson's face contorted in a spasm, whereupon the Chief Inspector tore himself free from the hands restraining him with a tremendous effort and rushed headlong to his desk, after which the sounds of retching reached Raven's ears. “Hmm,” the consultant grunted, looking condescendingly at Swanson doubled over a wastepaper bin. “Well, a strong stomach is a fair theory — the killer does need one. But I'm inclined toward a different view.” “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, is everything all right?” One of the constables, whose face Raven had not yet seen, peered into the office. “I heard a commotion…” “Everything's fine, Stanfield, fine…” Swanson replied weakly, leaning his head against the leg of the desk in exhaustion and waving feebly toward the door. “Off with you now.” “A minor disagreement over investigative methods,” Raven confirmed, switching back to his amiable tone as if there had been no outburst a moment ago, and picking up the ruined bin, thrust it into the hands of the bewildered constable. “Here, see to the cleaning of this unfortunate unpleasantness.” Having waited for the young man's head to disappear behind the door, the consultant turned and extended his hand to Swanson, who was still lying on the floor: “Up you get, Inspector. May I offer you some water?” “In my own office?” Donald grumbled, but grasped the outstretched hand nonetheless, then spent some time brushing himself off and actually poured himself a couple of glasses of water from a carafe kept for just such occasions. Finally the inspector collapsed into his desk chair and, nearly shattering the glass that was shaking in his hands, fixed the patiently waiting consultant with unconcealed hatred. “What the devil was that, Raven? I felt such cold! And then… Damn it, I don't even know how to explain it!” “Edward will do,” the other smirked, pretending to be extremely occupied with brushing an invisible speck of dust from the lapel of his coat. “Were you more inclined to believe in the supernatural, Inspector, I would say it was magic. But out of respect for your intellect, let us call it, say… an echo? A shadow of our killer's emotions. He really is a monster, is he not?” “Good God…” Swanson seemed to have lost the power of speech once more. Seeing this, Raven hastened to approach him and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat: “Please forgive me for such a demonstration. My aim was not to break your spirit, merely to demonstrate the peculiarities of my method.” “I'll be damned if I understood any of it,” the Chief Inspector muttered weakly. “But I'm ready for anything now, if only the investigation would get off the ground. So, you claim you've managed to penetrate the mind of Jack the Ripper?” “It's not that simple. I merely attempted to discern a system in his actions and drew certain conclusions from them. The first is obvious: he doesn't care about the identity of those he kills. He doesn't stalk them specifically but attacks whoever comes to hand.” “And what makes you think that? After all, all the Ripper's victims have obvious similarities.” “Oh yes, they're all prostitutes and live in Whitechapel. That hardly makes the poor wretches special in any way. My wager is that Jack cares more about the place and time of the future murder than about the history of his victims. After all, he's quite banal in that regard, considering you won't meet anyone but prostitutes in the city at night.” “Except their clients,” Swanson raised an eyebrow. “Who are larger, stronger, and drunker than all the victims put together,” Raven parried. “Very well,” Swanson said, feeling the treacherous trembling in his knees subside, and rose from behind his desk, intrigued by the theories of the consultant foisted upon them. The meeting with him had long since deviated from his plan, but the Chief Inspector was experienced enough to recognise a professional even in the guise of a fairground conjurer. “Let us suppose the victims' identities really don't matter and their profession merely makes them easy prey. Then what, in your view, is special about the crime scenes?” “If you please,” Raven picked up a pointer conveniently lying near the maps, with which the inspector evidently delivered similar lectures to the detectives, and pointed to the first red flag on the map. “All the women were killed on the street, were they not?” “Correct,” Swanson confirmed submissively, gazing at the accursed map for what must have been the hundredth time — it had already appeared in his distinctly uneasy dreams more than once. “The bodies were mostly found by passers-by in dead ends near busy areas. The exception was the second victim, Annie Chapman. She was discovered near the market on Hanbury Street — a very busy location.” “Precisely. He's risking something by killing in streets where he could be spotted by gawkers at any moment, which means either he wants his victims to be found, or the murder sites have far greater significance than you initially supposed. Now, as to the murders themselves: all the women first had their throats cut — messy but very quick. If his plan included tormenting them, it would be logical to choose quieter places. And why butcher the bodies in such haste?” Raven, caught up in his reasoning, began pacing back and forth across the room, periodically waving the pointer and clutching at his hair. “If he considered himself a saint, an avenger, a heavenly angel eradicating human vices, or God knows what else, he would try to keep them alive as long as possible. Such types like their victims to atone for their sins under torture.” “An angel?” For the umpteenth time that day, Swanson could scarcely believe what he was hearing, but the consultant barely noticed his indignation, merely confirming briefly: “Of course. Most such murders have a religious motive. But Jack isn't like that… He doesn't seem to care whether his victims are found or whether they suffer. This leads me to think about the ritual nature of what's happening. Rituals dictate strict conditions regarding time and place of performance — that explains the public nature of the murders. Many rituals require a great deal of blood — hence the need to cut the victims' throats.” “And the removed organs?” Swanson ventured to ask, wincing at a fresh wave of nausea. “Possibly trophies, but I can't say for certain. In any case, there have been too few murders so far to derive a system from these actions.” “So then,” the inspector seemed to have lost the capacity to be surprised by Raven's cynicism, “we wait until he kills again?” “That's one option,” the other confirmed impassively. “However, until he gets around to the next victim, we'll have time to examine all the evidence once more.” “Wait a moment,” Swanson suddenly seized upon a new thought. “You said the conditions of this ritual of yours strictly dictate to Jack the time and place of the attack. Does that mean you already know when the Ripper will strike next?” “Not yet, I'm afraid,” Edward spread his hands. “But I will know once I understand which ritual we're dealing with. That's why I asked Abberline for all witness statements mentioning any sort of devilry. Incidentally, he mentioned that you have the complete versions?” “Quite right,” Swanson darted to the desk and pulled out one of the drawers, stuffed, naturally, with papers to the very top, and extracted from it a thick folder tied with string. “I ordered them removed from the archive to prevent…” “Tomorrow's front page of the Daily Telegraph being filled with all this drivel and riots breaking out across the city,” Raven finished the thought for him. “A sensible precaution on your part, especially since I myself don't hold out much hope of finding a diamond among all this rubbish — but it's still worth checking. I'm missing some single detail, a key that would unlock the killer's design.” “But do you have any theory at all?” A barely perceptible, carefully concealed hope sounded in Swanson's voice, which Raven did not dare to crush: “Too many for any one of them to be worth considering. But very soon I intend to learn a great deal more by speaking with the doctor who performed the post-mortems.” “Phillips. George Bagster Phillips, the divisional police surgeon. We can go right now if you wish.” “Excellent. And one more thing, Mr. Swanson,” Raven pulled his spectacles from his jacket pocket and turned toward the exit. “He has photographs as well, I believe?” “Only from the last episode at Mitre Square. We've only recently begun using photography.” “Progress,” Raven nodded. “Though it's a pity we don't have any from the first victim. The first murder is often the most informative — the killer hasn't yet perfected his method, makes mistakes, leaves evidence…“