Ripper Street

The nimble coachman opened the door before them, revealing a view of a respectable building on Great Queen Street, which, as Abberline surmised, was the headquarters of the Masonic lodge under the leadership of the historian, scholar, and retired military man Robert Gould. To his shame, the detective could recall no particular achievements of Gould's, apart, perhaps, from his participation in the Crimean War and his predilection for philanthropy and various mysteries, about which he had written a monumental six-volume History of Freemasonry, which Abberline would scarcely have risked even lifting, let alone reading. At the doors of the mansion they were met by an elderly gentleman in a black tailcoat and carrying a silver ceremonial staff of the sort reserved for the most formal occasions. “Inspector Abberline and Mr…” the butler faltered mid-word and only by a supreme effort kept from moving when the distinctive aroma of the drunk tank and all the gutters in which Edward had spent the night reached him. “Raven, sir? Gentlemen, the Worshipful Master awaits you in the library. Please follow me.” Having said this, the man turned and proceeded somewhat more hastily than necessary into the depths, leading the inspector and his companion through an enfilade of rooms that vied with one another in the opulence of their furnishings, the abundance of gold on the candelabra, and the sheer scale of the formal portraits of honoured brethren of the lodge. Among these, Abberline managed to recognise not only Sir John Fowler, but also the Lord Mayor Polydore de Keyser, the banker Nathaniel Rothschild, and even, to his considerable surprise, Prince Albert Victor, the Queen’s grandson, depicted in full Masonic regalia. In solemn, silent procession they proceeded to a massive oak door twice the height of a man, with the symbols of square and compass carved upon it, beside which the butler stopped and, stepping aside, struck the floor twice with his staff, thereby announcing the arrival of guests. “Enter!” came immediately from behind the door a somewhat aged but still quite resonant voice, belonging, one had to assume, to the Grand Master himself. Entering, Abberline and Raven found themselves in the lodge's main library, which looked, as befitted, incredibly pompous: high walls rose to Gothic vaulted ceilings that might just as well have suited a middling cathedral. Throughout the room stood monumental bookcases, their height nearly reaching the ceilings and fitted with movable ladders for the convenience of the librarians who tended them. Along the walls and on the gallery balcony of the second floor stood smaller shelves — for less valuable books and periodicals. In the centre of all this magnificence, as if on the podium of a surgical theatre, stood a carved stone table upon which, if one wished, there would have been room enough for a round of cricket. The completely grey-haired, thin man seated behind it, in whose bearing Abberline could detect a military erectness not yet surrendered to the years, half-rose from his chair — which most resembled a throne — and with a broad gesture beckoned the newcomers toward him. “Robert Gould, at your service. Grand Master, and Armarius to the Lodge,” he introduced himself when Abberline and Raven finally reached the centre of the library, coming to stand at the opposite end of the table. “As I understand… Good God, what is that smell?” The Grand Master's luxuriant moustache and side-whiskers quivered, undergoing complex metamorphoses across his face, after which his keen gaze fixed upon Edward, who was nonchalantly examining the ceiling. “Police necessity, Sir Robert,” the latter replied stiffly at once, seizing the initiative in the conversation. “Before meeting with you I was obliged to spend the entire night on a stakeout by order of Scotland Yard and Detective Abberline here present.” “Ahem…” the latter tried to conceal his own bewilderment behind a fit of coughing. Finding no way to remedy the situation, Frederick eventually gave up and mumbled: “Yes, indeed… Police necessity.” “Oh!” Gould's indignation immediately evaporated, replaced by understanding. “I beg your pardon for my tactlessness, detectives. In the circumstances, we must all make sacrifices for the good of our country and common folk. Shall we begin, then?” “Yes,” Raven, without waiting for an invitation, was the first to sit on one of the visitors' chairs, which were hard wooden benches without armrests and with a high back bearing a carved relief that rendered the entire construction practically unsuitable for its intended purpose. “As you know, Sir Robert, for reasons of security and following the instructions of Sir Ponsonby, I have until now not provided Scotland Yard with all the information at my disposal, but days of working in collaboration with Detective Abberline have convinced me that this can continue no longer. I would therefore ask you to recount the events that have taken place at the lodge recently, in full detail and without omitting any particulars.” Having listened to the consultant's impassioned speech, the lodge Master frowned and chewed his lips for a while, apparently gathering his thoughts. Abberline, observing this pantomime, was about to start asking leading questions, but checked himself upon meeting Raven's warning glance. “Well then,” Gould finally began after several minutes, “it all started seven months ago. In April, to be precise — on the fifteenth I was informed that one of our books, intended for copying, had disappeared from the scriptorium. This was reported by the responsible scribe himself, Brother Thomas Winterton.” “Responsible scribe?” Abberline raised an eyebrow. “What sort of position is that?” “Our library's collection contains many different manuscripts, some of which are occasionally copied for the personal collections of prominent lodge members. For most, ordinary printed copies suffice, which are naturally not cheap but far simpler to produce; however, some prefer to hire special people who make duplicates by hand, following all the rules and reproducing every detail, down to the blots and the smallest flaws in the original texts.” “And why would anyone want that?” “The uninitiated rarely see the point,” Gould said. “But among certain… specialists there is a belief that only a faithful hand-copy preserves a grimoire’s virtue, however diminished.” Seeing that Gould was already prepared to launch into convoluted explanations of the magical properties of ancient manuscripts and trying to conceal his own irritation, the detective hastened to direct the Master's enquiring mind in the desired direction: “I believe I, as one of the uninitiated, have grasped the general idea. What happened next?” “Hmm, yes… Well, one of the grimoires provided for copying was an extremely rare volume entitled De Invocatione Daemonum Maiorum et Minorum,” the Master paused briefly, but meeting only incomprehension on the detective's face, hastened to translate: “'On the Summoning of Demons Greater and Lesser.' A most unique specimen of unknown authorship, possibly the only one of its kind.” “Valuable?” Abberline enquired. “Immensely!” Gould exclaimed. “Even setting aside the possible magical potential of such artefacts and their historical significance, the book's cover and endpapers are decorated with gold and amber worth no less than two hundred pounds.” “Two hundred pounds!” Abberline whistled. “A year's wages at a good factory… Who commissioned the copy?” “One of the lodge members, Dr. Charles Warwick. The order came by letter some time before the theft. This struck me as somewhat odd, since Sir Warwick is known as a rationalist and sceptic, and has never been drawn to magical mysteries. However, the letter was accompanied by the full sum for the work, so we immediately set about making the copy, and a few weeks later the book vanished. We questioned everyone who had been in the building that day and established that the book had been stolen by one of the brethren, a certain Silas Morrow.” “Forgive me, Sir Robert,” Abberline interrupted impatiently, “but I don't quite understand why you're telling me about the circumstances of this case. The theft of lodge property is undoubtedly regrettable, but it has precious little to do with the Whitechapel murderer.” “I haven't yet come to the main point, Detective. This same Morrow, as I was told after his escapade, displayed, shall we say… an unhealthy interest in certain rituals described in the book he stole. In particular, in the creation of what are called 'Porta Cupidinum.'“ “Gates of Desires,” Raven hastened to help, meeting Abberline's helpless gaze. “And I promise you, Detective, we're almost at the crux of the matter.” “Yes, yes. Well, most of the details described in the book have never been deciphered by us, but from what has been translated it follows that a properly constructed magic circle summons an entity capable of fulfilling one most cherished desire of the summoner. And also, to perform the summoning, multiple sacrifices are required — five, to be exact. At first I attached no great importance to this, but then monstrous murders began occurring across the city, and I hastened to share my suspicions with Sir Ponsonby.” “I can imagine his response,” the detective couldn't help but snort. Gould nodded: “And you would be right. He didn't believe it, of course. And I, for that matter, lacked the evidence to convince him. So, I decided to contact Sir Raven, writing him a letter in which I set out all my concerns, appending certain illustrations from the stolen volume. Edward kindly agreed to help and, I venture to say, his very first analysis exceeded all my expectations!” “Indeed?” “Oh yes — possessing only a partial description of the ritual, he managed to predict the location of the next murder!” “And you didn't see fit to mention this?” Abberline turned in astonishment to his companion, seething and feeling ready to return him to the cell from which he had recently extracted him. “It was merely a theory requiring confirmation. Here, I'll show you.” Raven nimbly produced his notebook and, opening it to the right page, laid it on the table before Abberline. The spread showed a map of the area, in which the detective immediately recognised central London. Over the map, circles with symbols inscribed in them, the meaning of which Abberline could not grasp, had been drawn in red ink; at the points where the circles converged, crosses had been placed, clearly corresponding to the murder sites. “I managed to partially decipher the description from the book and calculate the thaumaturgical pattern.” “So,” the detective asked in a voice that had suddenly gone hoarse, obviously torn between the desire to explain everything he had heard rationally and the urge to wring the damned 'consultant's' neck on the spot, “you knew all this time about the coming murders and made no attempt to prevent them? I swear to God, Raven, this is despicable! And devil take me if it doesn't make you an accomplice!” “Steady, Frederick.” Gould intervened. “For a long time our correspondence was purely academic in nature and held not the slightest interest for representatives of the law.” “Besides,” seeing that the lodge Master's words were rather adding fuel to the fire, Edward hastened to continue, “my calculations are far from ideal. I managed to work out the probable site of the attack on Elizabeth Stride only at the end of September — just three days before her murder. And the fact that on that very same day the Ripper would find himself another victim caught me completely off guard, I confess. I had to make serious adjustments to my calculations.” Abberline merely waved his hand in resignation and sank heavily onto his chair, closing his eyes: “And now what?” “I believe,” Raven paused for a moment, carefully choosing each word, “that with the information we now possess, I can determine the site of the final sacrifice. For this, of course, I shall need your help, Sir Robert.” “Of course,” the other nodded, taking from his writing desk a thin album tied with string. Untying the knots, Gould carefully opened the cover, drawing from the folder several semi-transparent sheets of tracing paper on which impressions of drawings and rows of lines in an incomprehensible language had been made. “These are transfer pages used to carry images and text when making duplicates — all we were able to find and collect.” “Excellent.” The consultant nodded and, having glanced briefly at the contents of the papers, put them back in the album. “I think this will suffice. However, this is only half the battle, gentlemen. Even if I manage to calculate the location, we still won't know the time, which means we shall have to act very quickly and carefully!” “And what, doesn't your damned folio say when exactly Jack will go on his next hunt?” Abberline snapped bitterly, still unwilling to accept everything he had heard. Raven merely smiled sadly in reply: “I'm not omnipotent, Detective. It's quite possible that were I in possession of the full version of the original text and sufficient time, I could name the exact date down to the minute, but you didn't think it would be that easy, did you? What we already know will have to suffice. Incidentally,” Edward turned his gaze to Gould, who had been silently watching the exchange, “Sir Robert, I seem to recall that in your last letter you said you would be able to prepare a detailed verbal portrait of this Morrow of yours?” “Even better,” the other nodded, once again rummaging in the drawers of his enormous desk. “I have his photograph! As it turned out, Silas managed to get into one of the formal photographs along with other brethren.” Having finally found what he was looking for, Gould placed on the table a large group photograph in which, by the look of it, a good half of the lodge had been captured. “There he is!” The Master turned the photograph, pointing to one of the men in the third row. Raven and even Abberline, forgetting his grievances, immediately stepped closer, trying to make out the face of the probable killer. From the photograph, standing half-turned in a row with other lodge members, a thin, tall man of indeterminate age looked out at them, with a haggard, weathered face and deep-set dark eyes. Whether it was merely a play of shadow or a defect in the image, it seemed to the detective that Morrow's face was somehow blurred, while the rest of the photograph was sharp and had no such flaws. Having finished his examination, Edward stepped aside and enquired: “What do you actually know about him?” “Not a great deal. An Irishman from a poor family, an orphan. He was admitted to the lodge through the patronage of one of the high-ranking benefactors about a year ago. He made no friends, kept apart from the others, but paid his membership dues regularly, and on the whole, there were no complaints about him.” Abberline, who had been intently studying Morrow's image all this time, so close that his nose nearly touched the photograph, looked up slightly: “And yet, Sir Gould, why was it not possible to pass all this information to the police immediately?” “For this reason, I believe,” Raven replied with a smirk, not giving the lodge Master a chance to answer, and pointed to the lower part of the photograph. Only now did Abberline notice that the photo had been carefully cropped so that the faces of the people standing in the front row were not visible. “I don't think I'll be wrong in my supposition if I say that in the centre of this photograph, were it whole and intact, we might see not only you, Sir Robert, but also His Highness Prince Albert?” “I think you understand that it would not be in my power to tell you that, Sir Edward,” the Master replied tensely, boring into the consultant with a steely gaze. “I will merely note that, as you may have seen, many very famous members of British society are proud of their membership in our lodge. And the scandal that might follow upon my going to the police would be inadmissible! Nevertheless,” the old man's voice was extremely dry, and he himself seemed to have lost all goodwill toward those present, “I considered myself obliged to inform Her Majesty's secretary of Sir Edward's suspicions, and he in turn made the decision to summon him to London to assist in the investigation.” “There's your answer to the question of why old Ponsonby preferred me to you, Detective.” Raven suddenly laughed, nudging the surprised Abberline with his elbow. “What would it be like if it turned out that His Highness the Duke of Clarence, Her Majesty's grandson and, should anything happen, the future King of Britain, had been photographed alongside Jack the Ripper? Most journalists would give their left arm for the chance to write a piece about such a scandal. My involvement gives the secretary and Her Majesty a wonderful field for manoeuvre: if my services prove useless — well, who would have doubted it? In its stupidity Scotland Yard took the advice of some charlatan — what a surprise! And if any information does leak out and reach the reporters — why, you may be sure it will immediately turn out to be the machinations of a cunning American fraud, who doubtless forged the photograph himself and came to Britain with the sole purpose of slandering the royal family!” “And you speak of this so calmly?” Abberline was horrified, for a moment imagining the scale of the danger to which Raven was exposing himself by coming to London at the royal secretary's insistence. The object of his concern merely shrugged and, picking up the edited photograph from the table, gave a slight bow to the lodge Master: “I knew what I was getting into when I accepted this invitation.” Without letting anyone else say a word, the consultant tucked the photo and album into the inside pocket of his jacket and, paying no attention to anyone, strode toward the exit. “All the best to you, Sir Robert. There's no need to see us out — we'll find our own way.” “Good luck, gentlemen,” Gould replied, still gazing tensely at the retreating backs of the men heading for the exit, and added almost inaudibly when the door had already closed behind his guests: “To all of us.”

***

Finding themselves outside the library and politely declining the butler's officious assistance, the detective and the occult consultant slowly made their way toward the exit, the former still trying to process everything they had learned that morning; the latter simply walking alongside, curiously examining the ubiquitous gilding and providing the silence they so needed just now. Finally, Abberline broke it: “I confess I still can't believe that the cause of the Ripper's atrocities could be… this. Good Lord, blood rituals, summoning demons? It sounds like some sort of hallucination!” Raven grunted, squinting at the portrait of the Crown Prince past which they were walking at that very moment: “You don't have to believe in the possibility of having our cherished wishes granted, Detective. It will suffice that the Ripper believes it. And acts in accordance with his belief.” Following Edward's gaze, Abberline involuntarily shuddered, looking into the close-set, slightly bulging eyes of Prince Albert. “You're aware of the rumours about him?” “That His Highness is not averse to the company of the most fallen persons and from time to time personally visits the dens of Whitechapel?” Raven smirked crookedly. “The more hot-headed even claim that the Crown Prince was pleased to catch the French pox on one of his strolls and is becoming ever more mad as the disease progresses. All rumours, of course. To say such things would be tantamount to treason. However, would you like another baseless assertion?” “I'm afraid I hardly have a choice,” the detective grumbled. “What have you got?” “They say that among the establishments the Prince frequents there are some where ladies are not at all in favour, can you imagine? And now, keeping this undoubtedly idle fabrication in mind, consider who might have been the high-ranking benefactor through whose patronage Silas Morrow was admitted to the lodge, and at whose expense an orphan with no parents paid the by no means small membership dues?” “Damn it…” Abberline shook his head and turned away from the portrait, trying no longer to meet the eyes of the person depicted in it. It had been far simpler when the Ripper was merely a city madman and the royal family wasn't looming behind him. “That really does smack of treason, Raven.” “Which is precisely why I didn't tell you this, and you didn't hear it, Frederick. Besides, there's a good chance none of this has anything to do with our investigation. But Morrow himself must be found at all costs!” “What do you require of me?” “Continue watching Dr. Stanley's clinic. He doesn't match the killer's portrait at all, but he may still be involved somehow. I take it you found nothing of interest in his flat?” “How do you…?” “It was obvious. Had I not known what Sir Robert told me in advance in his letters, I too would have first visited our good Samaritan. And had you found anything there, you would not have failed to rub my nose in your discovery. A grimoire with magical scribbles is a thing that would be hard to miss — ergo, our doctor is clean as a choirboy and guilty only of arousing our paranoia.” “Well, quite so. But now we should throw all our efforts into finding this book thief of yours!” “Which is precisely what we shall do. We have a portrait and a name for our rather too free mason, and old Swanson has files deep enough to bury half the kingdom. Even if the name is a fake, there's a chance it will turn up in some other case.” Reaching the end of the corridor, Raven was the first to push the handle and step outside. Abberline followed: “But first you'll have to wash and change, Edward. By the way, since when did your nocturnal adventures become a police necessity?” “You saw it yourself. The sceptre his steward carries, the setting in his study, even his damned moustache,” the consultant smirked slyly. “It doesn't take a genius to recognise in Gould a fellow charlatan. These people would sell their own mother for theatrical effect!” “And you?” “I prefer not to bother with such trifles. A deception must be grand enough, or no one will believe it.”