Ripper Street

15 November 1888

I have begun writing this diary in secret from all, in an attempt to preserve in as much detail as possible everything that happened on that ill-fated night. I have been all but hailed a hero for being the first to arrive at the scene of Mary Kelly's murder. What I saw there shall surely haunt me to the end of my days, but the strange thing is not that. How did I come to be at the poor woman's lodgings at all? And why were my clothes caked in mud, as though I had been crawling through every filth piles in Whitechapel? I came to my senses right there, in the courtyard of Miller's Court, and by some instinct I cannot explain made my way to Kelly's room — but what exactly compelled me at that moment? This I do not know. I have lost seven hours of my life…

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17 November 1888

The whole city continues to hunt for Jack the Ripper and to advance ever new theories as to his identity, but I cannot bring myself to take part. The fault lies with that wretched scrap of paper I found in my own pocket shortly after discovering the body of the final victim. Why final? Because so it says in that accursed letter. I would not have believed a word of it had I not recognised my own handwriting. But the hand is mine, and the paper is mine. What did I know, and why did I write all this? I cannot even imagine.

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22 November 1888

The letter, whose text I shall carry with me to the grave if only I can bring myself to burn the cursed thing, contained detailed instructions, as though the I who wrote them knew in advance what would happen in the future. I have not the strength to disobey these directives, and so today, by my own hand, all mention of Frederick Warwick and the events in Rochester has vanished from the case files. What was I even doing in that town? Why did I go there, and why was I interested in that man's fate? No matter. I am too weary to think about it, and besides, what is done cannot be undone. This story shall sink into oblivion, as shall the fate of Dr. Stanley. The instructions advised that I remove from the archives all evidence of his existence and his collaboration with the police, and that I make no further attempt to search for him anywhere in Britain. It sounds damned suspicious, I grant you, and had I heard such a thing before, I would have thrown myself into the Tower, but in return, that other I gave his word that there would be no more murders…

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2 December 1888

I can only hope not to go mad in trying to make sense of all that has befallen me, and perhaps to understand why the persistent and, as it once seemed, peculiarly meaningful word “consultant” will not leave my tongue. Did he exist at all, or was he merely a figment of my imagination? And if he did exist, what role did he play on that fateful ninth of November? Swanson has been complaining of nightmares and says he takes laudanum for sleeplessness. I confess I too sleep abominably, and upon waking can for a long while not tell whether what surrounds me is dream or reality. The latest vision was of an old house, and within it a blind old woman with dreadful scars all across her face. Whether it was a nightmare, however, I cannot say for certain, since the crone at first — blind though she was — struck me with her stick, but then sat me down at her table, gave me some kind of herbal brew to drink, and bade me stop wandering about at night heaven knows where. I awoke the next morning feeling surprisingly vigorous, and for the first time, it seems, without a headache.

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10 January 1889

Three days ago, at the cost of tremendous effort, I managed to meet with Robert Gould. For some reason this meeting struck me as extraordinarily important. But on the day it finally took place, I could not recall where or under what circumstances we had been introduced. The old man, for his part, did not recognise me at all and was most surprised by my insistence, which now seems to me quite out of place.

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21 February 1889

Emma is well! I can scarcely believe it, and she laughs, feels my forehead fearing a fever, and does not seem even to realise that she was ever ill. I rejoice inwardly and dare not share my thoughts with her, fearing she will justly prescribe me an opium preparation for brain spasms. Let it be. For the knowledge that I shall spend many more years at her side, I am prepared to keep this little secret!

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9 April 1889

Today I saw a raven on the window ledge. A remarkable bird — it stared at me as though we were acquainted, mockingly and somewhat reproachfully. I tried to open the window and let it into the room, but was roundly cawed at with the foulest of avian oaths. I dashed to the kitchen to at least offer the curious creature a bit of cutlet and some liver scraps, but when I returned, there was no one beyond the window. For some reason I felt sad, as though I had lost a friend whom I shall now scarcely see again.

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4 May 1889

The day before yesterday I had a most absurdly strange meeting with Henry Ponsonby. Her Majesty's personal secretary came to the Yard in person and demanded an audience with me, and then, left alone with me in my office, spent half an hour hemming and hawing and spouting various platitudes, enquiring incongruously now about my health, now about details of the investigation, and now about utter nonsense. By the end I had guessed that all this while the old man had been trying to extract from me something which, as it seemed to him, he himself remembered but had then forgotten, and which by some miracle he had connected with me. And I confess I played the coward, giving him not the slightest hint. Thus, he departed, blushing, flustered, and at a loss as to how to conclude our awkward exchange.

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12 May 1889

I believe this shall be my final entry in this diary. This evening, I beheld a sunset of extraordinary beauty over the Thames, the like of which I cannot recall for a great many years. It seemed that London had for the first time ceased to look so filthy, so full of poverty and vice, as I had grown accustomed to seeing it. Yesterday Emma spoke of a journey to France. “We ought to go to the sea, to Dieppe or Le Havre, away from London,” she said. I do not know which appeals to me more — the journey itself, or the thought that the past shall, if only briefly, remain on the other side of the Channel. Frederick Abberline London, 12 May 1889