Ripper Street

Abberline walked along the familiar cobbled streets, feeling each of his steps echo between the dark walls of the houses. The gas lamps had not yet been lit, and the district was gradually sinking into that peculiar half-darkness that made it even more sinister than usual. The detective knew what he was looking for. Mary Jane Kelly. The last on the list, if Raven's predictions were to be believed. But now he was not certain whether those had been predictions or a plan. By the Ten Bells pub he stopped an elderly man with a pipe. “Pardon me, could you tell me where a girl called Mary Kelly lives? She works here at night, they say…” “Mary?” The man squinted. “The one with the Irish accent? Lives in Miller's Court, number thirteen. Go down Dorset Street to the very end — you'll see the passage into the courtyard.” “Thank you.” Abberline headed along the indicated route. Dorset Street greeted him with a familiar scene: drunken shouts from the doss-houses, dim light from windows, silhouettes of women in doorways. The street, as ever, refused to sleep. Finding the narrow passage into Miller's Court, he cautiously peered into the courtyard. A small enclosed space, surrounded on three sides by wretched hovels. In one of the windows a light flickered — someone was home. The air here was thick as smoke, smelling of mould, coal, and something else — iron, perhaps, or old blood. Broken bottles, wet rags, and bones thrown from kitchens lay scattered in the corners of the yard. Somewhere in the depths rats rustled, responding to every sound with a short squeak. The detective retreated back to Dorset Street and began searching for a suitable observation point. Across the road from the entrance to Miller's Court rose a three-storey house with a tailor's shop on the ground floor. The building's facade was pitted with recesses and projections — an ideal place to hide in the shadows. Abberline leaned against the wall in a deep niche between two windows and prepared to wait. The revolver weighed heavily in his coat pocket. The hours dragged on agonisingly slowly. The street gradually emptied — even the prostitutes preferred not to linger in the open air after nightfall. Occasionally a belated passer-by went past, but no one paid any attention to the motionless figure in the shadows. For a moment, he wondered if he had fallen asleep on his feet. Through the murky glass of consciousness Emma's face emerged — pale as the lunar disc, with the same quiet expression of resignation he had seen the last time before leaving. She was standing by the window of their bedroom, lit by a candle, gazing off into the distance as though she knew he would not return the same man. When she raised her eyes, a faint glimmer of fear flickered in them — or was it pity? Abberline blinked — and the vision vanished, dissolving in the steam rising from the wet pavement. It was already around half past ten when he noticed a man walking along the street. A tall figure in a dark coat appeared at the opposite end of the street and slowly approached, keeping to the shadows of the buildings. Even in the darkness the gait was unmistakable — the same unhurried confidence he had observed throughout recent days. Raven. The consultant stopped thirty paces from the entrance to Miller's Court, pressing himself against the wall of a house just as Abberline himself had done. It was clear that he too was waiting for someone. The detective slowly emerged from his hiding place and, keeping to the shadows on the opposite side of the street, began creeping toward the consultant. Each step came with difficulty — the pavement was strewn with broken bricks and rubbish, and any careless sound might betray his presence. When no more than ten paces remained between them, Raven suddenly turned his head. “Frederick,” he said quietly, barely acknowledging the detective's appearance. “Night-time strolls are becoming popular?” Abberline froze, silently drawing his revolver. “Turn around. Slowly.” The man complied. In the light of a distant gas lamp his face appeared tired and somehow detached. “You have a great deal to explain to me, Edward!” “By all means!” Raven unexpectedly smiled and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and assuming an utterly relaxed air, as though he had merely run into an old acquaintance in the street and decided to pass the time in idle conversation. Such ostentatious calm might have been taken for mockery, but instead it filled the detective with even greater dread. He no longer understood whether he was dealing with a madman or going mad himself. “The note… From Oxford,” Abberline finally managed, trying to make his voice sound more confident than he felt. “I received it by post several days ago.” Trying not to let the consultant out of his sight, he reached into his breast pocket with his free hand and extracted a crumpled letter. His hands trembled slightly — from the cold or from nerves, he could not say. “'…inform… Professor Müller… knows nothing… of any Edward Raven! A curse upon you!'” Abberline looked defiantly at the consultant. “Written by the professor's secretary, with whose family you are supposedly acquainted. What have you to say to that?” “The secretary's name is Waltbridge, I presume?” Raven did not so much as raise an eyebrow. “She was always remarkable for her considerable dramatic flair and fondness for cheap penny dreadfuls. However, the Müller family does have cause to hate me. The professor was once exceedingly imprudent in his wishes and must now reap the fruits of his intemperance.” He fell silent, as though weighing whether to continue. “If you still have doubts, consider how often you yourself have cursed those around you for questions about people with whom you are supposedly quite unacquainted?” “Very well,” he could not deny the reasonableness of Edward's rather opaque but apparently honest answer. “But…” “I expect your next accusation will be something from what Ponsonby told you?” Raven tilted his head, studying the detective's face with the curiosity of a naturalist. “I am aware of the interrogation he subjected you to. What am I now, in his opinion? An American spy, an enemy of the Crown… or has he for variety invented something less heavy-handed?” Abberline opened his mouth, but Raven continued without letting him get a word in: “Beware of men who act in the name of high purposes, Frederick. All the most despicable human crimes have been committed for the sake of higher justice, in defence of faith, and for the common good. As for Her Majesty's secretary, rest assured — all the letters from him that I provided are genuine, but they will now be worth no more than the ink expended on them. Unless, of course, Sir Henry, guided by the exigencies of the moment, chooses to assign them a different value.” “What do you mean?” Abberline felt he was losing the thread. Each of Raven's answers only tangled the situation further. “I mean that Ponsonby did not care for the direction in which the investigation was moving, or whose dirty linen might be displayed for all to see, to his displeasure, were we to continue our inquiries. And so our dearest secretary, being a true master of his word, promptly took it back.” Raven straightened, stepping away from the wall. “If you do not believe me, find the two ruffians he sent to your house just yesterday and ask them. I expect Sir Henry decided to use them to discover why you needed to pay a visit to my flat yesterday afternoon. You will have no difficulty identifying them by the odd number of teeth each now possesses.” Ruffians? Abberline recalled the strange noise in the courtyard that had woken him the previous night. Surely not… “That was you?” He nearly dropped the revolver in astonishment. “Naturally. And incidentally, I received not one grain of gratitude for it!” Saying this, Raven looked childishly offended. “I do hope at least poor Mitchell enjoyed the nuts I left him. You very nearly starved the lad, Frederick!” Abberline felt his entire neat theory proving Raven's guilt crumbling before his eyes. Each of the consultant's explanations struck home with devastating accuracy. “Very well, but…” He feverishly sifted through all his logical deductions, which only a second ago had seemed so coherent. “Your knowledge of the city, the tunnels…” “What can I say,” Raven shrugged almost imperceptibly. “I am indeed very good at what I do. Even if my methods seem unconventional to you.” “And what of the witnesses who saw you with Kelly?” In desperation the detective decided to play his last trump. “I expect those same witnesses will confirm for you that the girl left me on her own two feet, will they not?” “But why did you say nothing, Edward?” Abberline's voice rose to a shout in which one could hear almost pleading tones. He so wanted to understand, so needed answers. “Damn you and your blasted methods! You have known for days where the last murder would take place! Perhaps you knew from the very beginning!” “In a manner of speaking, Frederick.” For the first time in the entire conversation something resembling remorse sounded in Raven's voice. “It did take me some time to get to the bottom of it. But I kept you in the dark not out of malice, only out of a wish not to expose you to even greater danger. Forgive me this weakness of mine.” He fell silent, studying the detective with an unreadable expression that Abberline would have been hard-pressed to identify. There was the mockery that seemed to have seeped into the very skin of this strange man, and a certain hidden sadness, and a weariness more befitting old men than people of his age. And something else — something that, the detective was certain, would haunt his nightmares for many years to come. “I expect you also wish to ask me about the fate of your namesake, Warwick?” “I know that he and Dr. Stanley are one and the same man.” “Commendable observation, Detective.” Raven gave his approval. “Anything else?” “The doctor has vanished.” Abberline lowered the revolver, suddenly feeling like a fool with the weapon in his hands. “I sent Mitchell to watch him and you, as you already know. But you were my primary suspect.” “A most dubious distinction,” Raven remarked drily. “However, I shall solve the riddle of the doctor's disappearance for you. Warwick's parents had a small estate in Maidstone. They died suddenly and unexpectedly there shortly after the events in Rochester. The house has stood empty since. So our Stanley had somewhere to flee in case of unforeseen circumstances.” “Then he is the murderer?” Abberline again felt solid ground beneath his feet. At last he had a chance to get a straight answer! “That depends how you look at it…” Raven pushed off from the wall, brushing dirt and fine plaster dust from his shoulder. “But give me another couple of minutes. I have for you one final, absolute proof of my innocence.” Saying this, he turned sharply and, without concealing himself and showing not the slightest interest in the revolver aimed at his back, strode swiftly toward the inner courtyards. “Come, Detective. I shall show you Mary Kelly and her murderer!” For a time Abberline stared in amazement at the retreating figure, feeling his world turn upside down for the second time that day. Then, cursing under his breath, he hurried after the consultant.

***

The narrow passage of Miller's Court greeted them with silence. Rain ran down the drainpipes, drops falling evenly — as though a metronome were counting down the final minutes. No lights burned in the houses; behind the curtains hid the private lives and secrets of the occupants. Even the wind did not venture to enter the courtyard. “Quietly,” Raven whispered, though no one had spoken a word. They approached the door with the peeling number 13. The lock had been forced — not savagely, but with cold, almost surgical precision. Raven reached out a hand, pushed the door — it yielded silently. From within came a breath of warmth from the hearth, of iron and something sickeningly sweet that instantly made Abberline's stomach clench. He stepped forward… and froze at once. The fire in the grate was dying down, casting trembling reflections on the walls, and in this red-gold half-light everything seemed somehow unreal, like a scene from a cheap nightmare. Blood covered the floor. It reached the walls. It soaked into the furniture. In the dim light of the single candle burning on the table, the red stains seemed like black portals to hell. On the bed, amid the overturned sheets, lay what only hours ago had been a young woman, and now could scarcely be identified as human. Abberline had seen many corpses in his career, but never anything like this… The body had been cut with a savagery that exceeded every conceivable boundary of human madness. The face was mutilated beyond recognition, the abdomen opened, and the entrails arranged about with horrifying methodicalness. In the midst of this crimson hell the detective's gaze caught something white. Looking closer, Abberline realised it was bones. The madman had cut the flesh from them, turning the poor girl's body into a bloody display. Unable to bear it, the detective clapped his hand over his mouth in panic and with a groan began backing toward the exit. A second later Abberline vomited onto the floor. Raven, showing neither compassion nor fear, took several steps deeper in. The skirts of his cloak trailed along the ground, staining themselves with blood; all his attention was fixed on the person in the far corner of the room. In the corner a man knelt. He paid no attention to what was happening around him, slowly rocking from side to side and monotonously tracing some kind of symbols on the floor around him. Occasionally he raised his head and whispered — as though offering up a prayer… Abberline could not even imagine to what demons such a creature might pray. In the light of the fire the killer's face was so distorted that the detective felt an almost physical revulsion: he had seen an image of this man before, but reality bore no comparison. “Morrow?” he whispered, not realising he was even speaking aloud. “Good God… how is this possible?” The figure raised its head and, without ceasing its motion, muttered: “Bloodhounds?” The creature's voice only faintly resembled a human one and sounded like the scrape of a tombstone. “Get out! You should not be here! Not now, oh no, not now! We don't want him to come while they're here, do we? Ohhh nooo, my friend…” In the flickering light of the fire Morrow's profile disappeared into shadow for a second, only to reveal in its place a face contorted with sobs — Stanley's. Or perhaps young Frederick Warwick's? “Dear Lord, did you see that?” burst from Abberline. “Raven? Did you see that?” The consultant stepped closer, his voice level, almost colourless: “As I said,” he began, “it took me time to work it out. Our Silas has a secret, does he not?” “What? What are you on about, damn you?” Abberline was tearing out phrases as he went, from sheer horror. “The fact that Morrow's body was indeed found beneath the ruins of that house in Rochester. The trouble is merely that he did not quite die…” “Get out!” Silas threw up a hand as if to push them away, but his movements were trembling and incoherent. Abberline drew his pistol again; his hand shook, but the barrel was aimed steadily at the figure in the corner. He breathed heavily; his face went white. “Do not be hasty, Detective,” Raven said, his voice cold as a blade. “This game has not yet been played to the end.” “Played to the end?” Abberline suppressed a roar within. “This… creature has already killed five people! Tore them to pieces! And you want — what? — to let him go free?” Raven was about to reply, but was interrupted by Morrow's laughter. The man suddenly burst into uncontrollable cackling, as though he had heard the funniest joke of his life: “Five? Yes, yes, just five little birds. Thank our friend for that, bloodhound! This wretch sits inside and nags, and whines… Begs me to spare this scum! If not for him, there would have been not five victims but fifty! But soon we shall be rid of him, oh yes! Break free and finish what we started! One little wish, just one…” Suddenly Silas began to topple sideways. He was seized by violent tremors, and a spasm passed across his face again — one that, Abberline was ready to swear, a human body simply could not survive. “There are two of them…” stunned by his own realisation, he whispered. “Two in one body!” “F-forgive me!…” What a second ago had been Silas dissolved into sobs. Convulsing, the man began to claw at the floor where only a minute before he had been inscribing the incomprehensible symbols, tearing off his nails and flooding the floor with his own blood. “I tried! Tried! Tried! I…” Suddenly the creature that had become Warwick screamed so loudly that Abberline's ears were deafened, disorienting him for a fraction of a second. Hurling himself aside with inhuman agility, the killer suddenly pulled from beneath the bed a book in a battered leather binding. “No!” Warwick's voice bellowed as though breaking through from the depths. “Enough! No more!” Holding the grimoire as though it were a poisonous snake, the man flung it with a desperate throw into the dying fire. In the hearth flames instantly leapt up with a predatory hiss, seizing the unexpected offering and gleefully devouring the pages. They did not burn so much as writhe; the symbols on them flared with green light before vanishing forever. Smoke poured from the book, making the throat itch and eyes water, and a smell of something rancid hung in the air. As soon as the last page turned to ash, the fire abruptly died, as though blown out by a gust of wind. In the ensuing silence only heavy breathing and the dripping of water from the ceiling could be heard. With the final flare the Ripper seemed to lose all his strength, collapsing lifelessly onto the blood-soaked floor. His arms continued to jerk, like a marionette from which all the strings connecting it to an unseen puppeteer had been cut at once. Watching this scene and powerless to take any action, Abberline felt almost physically the last vestiges of reason leaving his mind. The detective squeezed his eyes shut; tears streamed down his face. With a clatter the revolver fell from his hands, his legs buckled, and he felt himself falling to his knees. “Frederick!” Raven's sharp call made the man open his eyes. To his own surprise, Abberline suddenly realised he was no longer in the house on Miller's Court. Or rather, he seemed to be both there and not there at once, observing himself from outside. Hovering above the room a few feet above his own head, the detective felt a complete detachment, as though everything happening now was not happening to him and not in reality: he could see the wretched furnishings of Kelly's tiny room, her ravaged body on the bed, himself kneeling in her blood, her murderer still trying to rise from the floor, and finally, at the centre of it all — Raven, whose black figure towered over the scene and for some reason seemed more real than the rest of the surroundings. “It seems I have lost my mind after all,” Abberline murmured quietly, listening to himself and trying to understand whether he had the strength to get to his feet. “No more than all of us, my friend,” Raven approached closer, but instead of offering the detective a hand to help him up, he unexpectedly knelt beside him on one knee. “I do not know if this will count in my favour, Frederick, but I am sincerely sorry for having drawn you into this affair. For that, accept my sincere apologies.” Abberline looked into the consultant's eyes for a time, in which, besides sincere remorse, he now saw something that could not possibly belong to an ordinary man. A suspicion had been forming in his mind, one he dared to voice only now: “You were prepared for this from the very beginning, were you not? You knew we would not be able to save the last victim?” “I suspected as much,” Raven confirmed. “The rest I only guessed at. As for the unfortunate Kelly… Magic has rules, Frederick. Some of them even I cannot break. A ritual once begun cannot be interrupted without condemning all those it has touched, even by chance, to suffering. I faced a choice: to sacrifice one life or the lives of tens of thousands of souls inhabiting London. I made that choice.” “And what will the finale be?” “We shall say our farewells,” the consultant smiled sadly, placing his hand on the back of Abberline's head. The man's body suddenly went limp and he, losing consciousness, began to slump to the side, gently supported by Raven. “Sleep, Detective. What happens next is not for your eyes.” Raven carefully lowered the unconscious Abberline to the floor, away from the pools of blood, and only then turned his attention to the stirring in the corner of the room. Morrow — now it was he again — watched the proceedings in terror. The killer's eyes were wide open; animal fear could be read in them. He was slowly backing toward the wall, leaving bloody handprints in his wake. “What… what are you?” he rasped, pressing his back against the cold brick. “You know,” Raven straightened and turned unhurriedly toward him. In the light of the dying embers his figure seemed to expand, growing taller and more imposing than before. Shadows played across his face, concealing the familiar features. In their place something else emerged — something ancient and merciless. “The author of that wretched little book was a rare creature, and in my time I expended considerable effort erasing every trace of his existence, both himself and his works. Now no one even remembers his name. Though I did let one copy slip through, did I not?” “You… You…” Morrow's voice shook with fear. “I indeed,” Raven confirmed calmly. “But… it should not be like this!” “What, not theatrical enough for you? Not enough smoke and the stench of brimstone?” Edward's voice dripped with venom and some inhuman fury. “I think you more than made up for both of us, Silas. Be that as it may, you called me — and I came. Tell me, do you remember the second rule of summoning magic?” “N-not to break the p-protective circle…” In Morrow's mad eyes a flash of panicked terror appeared for a second. His gaze darted to the floor, where only minutes before the symbols he had drawn had lain, and now there were only stains of his own blood, and then to the hands of the being standing before him, around which a halo of red flame was beginning to blaze. “Stay back! I command…” “Command?!” Raven's voice thundered, no longer sounding remotely human. The flames around his hands now blazed unbearably bright, flooding and blinding the entire room with crimson light. “Very well, I shall grant your wish after all — though you are unlikely to care for the result!“