Ripper (Event Group Thrillers) Read online

  Abberline looked over the tall man with the brimming moustache. He saw that the man didn’t look well at all as he nervously twisted his hat into ungodly disarray. The words were spoken with a barely disguised Scottish accent. As he saw the man looking down with worry etched into his dark eyes, Abberline gestured to the empty chair across from him.

  “Who wouldn’t recognize the great Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson? Sir, please, have a seat.”

  Abberline watched as the man hesitated. Stevenson walked the short distance to the chair, but then looked lost as to what to do with his hat.

  “We lack the formality of one of the nicer establishments Mr. Stevenson. Just place your hat on the table, it looks as if it could use a rest.”

  Stevenson looked flustered as he glanced at the crumpled hat. He grimaced and then placed it on the white table cloth. He half smiled as he pulled the chair out and sat.

  “May I offer you some refreshment? I know it’s a little late, but I just ordered scotch for myself.”

  Stevenson swallowed and then nodded his head meekly. The chief inspector waved at the waiter standing at the bar and signaled for two drinks instead of the one.

  Abberline turned and watched the man sitting before him. He was silent and waited for the famous author to state his piece.

  Stevenson looked at the men around him as if he had stepped into a lion’s den.

  “If you wrote me a post in advance of this date, I can tell you I have received none.” Abberline then fixed the man with a hard stare. “So, if your lost post was to attempt to get information on … well, on one of my cases, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question.”

  “Excuse me?” Stevenson asked, looking bewildered for a moment. “Oh, oh, you think I’m here to ask you about the Ripper case for a possible book? That was not the intent of my letter to you Chief Inspector. And, I not only sent two letters from the States where I was on holiday, I sent three more upon my arrival in London.”

  “Isn’t that why a famous author such as you would visit such an establishment as this at one o’clock in the morning, to get a good yarn to write yet another lurid and morbid novel?”

  “No, Chief Inspector, I am not here for that. In case you hadn’t noticed I have already done my horror novel and have no intention of ever writing something like that again.”

  Abberline raised his brows at the man’s statement. He knew that Stevenson’s foray into the horror genre came with his novella the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published two years before to far-above-average sales. He was surprised at the author’s venomous reply to his reference to that particular story.

  “So, Mr. Stevenson, what you’re saying is that your letter had nothing to do with the Ripper case? If you weren’t seeking information, then what pray tell prompted the notes?”

  Once more Robert Louis Stevenson turned and watched the men of London’s finest as they talked in loud voice and laughed with even more zest. He finally looked satisfied that no one was listening. As he leaned back to face the chief inspector, the waiter returned and placed the two drinks on the table. Stevenson immediately took a sip and then grimaced. He placed the glass back down and then looked at Abberline who ignored his own double scotch as he waited for the writer to answer his question. He himself was aware that he shouldn’t be discussing the Ripper case with anyone from outside his offices.

  “I am not here to ask questions of you Mr. Abberline. I wouldn’t do that,” he said as he once more nervously looked around. “I am being followed, have been ever since docking three days ago in East Hampton. I suspected even in San Francisco I had company following my every move.”

  “Mysterious indeed, worthy of a novel in and of itself, wouldn’t you say?” Abberline waited for a reaction; he didn’t have to wait long.

  “I believe I stated sir that I would never attempt such a literary farce again,” he said with his eyes bulging. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde may have contributed to—”

  Abberline watched as the words froze in the throat of one of the most articulate men in the history of literature. After a brief flare of emotion, Stevenson closed his eyes and then shook his head.

  “I know who your Jack the Ripper is.”

  Abberline froze. His eyes never left those of Stevenson. “I believe you have to explain that rather remarkable statement, Mr. Stevenson.”

  “I met him in California during my research for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He is an American, a professor of chemistry, and … and … something to do with flowers. I’m sorry, but my notes for the book have been misplaced, or stolen, I am not sure which. But I’m sure it had something to do with flowers, which was part of his work he wouldn’t discuss.”

  Abberline looked at the man sitting before him and knew that the odds of his notes being misplaced was the better of the two scenarios. He could smell the paranoia coming from the frightened man before him.

  “Who is this gentleman?”

  With one last look around the crowded eatery, Robert Louis Stevenson related how he had met Professor Lawrence Ambrose and researched material for his upcoming novel, the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, due to the good professor’s work with aggression and metabolism changes that could possibly occur in the human body. Stevenson spoke for close to an hour.

  Abberline listened politely, refraining from making faces or leaning one way or the other in his uncomfortable silence at the fantastic tale being related to him from one of the most influential people in all of the Empire.

  Silence hung over the table and the two double scotches sat untouched in front of the two men.

  “Mr. Stevenson, you are an educated man, probably far more than myself, so I will be careful when I use the words too fantastic to believe, sir.”

  “Which…”

  “Everything, Mr. Stevenson, from the science you claim this man has developed to Her Majesty’s government trying to silence you. Take your pick, sir, it all sounds rather far-fetched.” Abberline checked his anger at this obvious waste of time. He reached out, took hold of his glass, and raised it to his lips; with one last shake of his head he downed the double dose of fire without a grimace.

  “Chief Inspector, I saw this man actually change into something he is not. Not just changes in his demeanor and attitude, but physical changes to his body as well.”

  Abberline placed his glass on the table in front of him and then reached for Stevenson’s untouched glass. He pulled the glass forward but hesitated before he drank.

  “And this, this … Dr. Jekyll, and your Mr. Hyde, how did you come about meeting him in America?” He finally lifted the second glass and downed that also, all the while holding his gaze on the famous author.

  “Inspector, this needs to be resolved now, and not wait for—”

  The angry gaze stopped Stevenson from continuing. He realized that policemen do things at their own pace and are even slower sometimes when confronted with an obvious truth. Robert Louis Stevenson could see it in the chief inspector’s eyes—he believed his story.

  “I met the gentleman in San Francisco three years ago through a friend who works with Corvallis Lens Company of London. He was there to deliver the most unique set of lenses ever created by his company. These lenses were specially ground, beveled, and buffed for the man who ordered them to use in his laboratory work. These lenses are so well constructed that Ambrose is now seeing things that were once only seen in the realm of the imagination. This man is actually discovering the origins of thought, the use of the human brain, and the power that is hidden in us all. The reason my friend thought I would get along with this professor was due to the fact that this man was slowly piecing together the most unique and advanced microscopic viewing system ever. Intrigued, I went to meet this man for my research.”

  “And this Professor Ambrose was accommodating?”

  “As accommodating as anyone I have ever dealt with in the business world. He couldn’t stop talking about his work into the naturally occurring aggression that occurs
in all living animals. He scared me to the point I had to slow down the real science or my readers would have never understood it. He has the ability to change into something other than he is, and that was three years ago Chief Inspector.”

  “And you think your Jekyll and Hyde is my Ripper? Is that what you are saying, sir?”

  “One and the same.”

  Abberline watched the man closely. He was as experienced as anyone in spotting someone not telling him the truth. But he could see from the demeanor of Stevenson that he was telling nothing but the truth—at least as far as he was concerned.

  “As I said, my letters have been intercepted. I have written to you on many occasions, only to have my inquiries go unanswered. Finally, I had to come after hearing the news of this last victim of the Ripper.”

  “And why was that?” Abberline said as he continued to look at Stevenson for the lie that would soon surface.

  “Because I finally have proof, Chief Inspector,” Stevenson said actually smiling for the first time, and for the first time Abberline could see the exhaustion in the man’s eyes and face. Stevenson reached into his pocket and brought out a folded daily. He swallowed and actually shivered as he opened the newspaper. “This is the London Times, but the picture I am about to show you was picked up by hundreds of newspapers around the world, and this one, the San Francisco Chronicle was no exception. This is why I came as fast as I could.” He pushed the paper toward Abberline who looked from Stevenson down to the paper.

  The picture was a rather famous one now. It was taken on the morning of Mary Kelly’s murder. Abberline saw the picture of himself at the crime scene. He looked up at Stevenson without saying a word.

  “Chief Inspector, that man standing next to you in the photograph?”

  Abberline didn’t have to look at the grainy photo again; he knew who Stevenson was talking about. It was Colonel Stanley of Her Majesty’s Black Watch. Stevenson was pointing out the man who had dogged this Ripper case since the beginning.

  “He’s the man that was tailing me three years ago in the United States, and this very same man ransacked my room this very night.”

  “And you believe the Ripper case, your Jekyll and Hyde, and this gentleman are all wound together in a nice little ball? And that this Professor Ambrose is making monsters for whatever reason there may be for doing so.”

  Stevenson looked confounded. He closed his eyes, thinking he had failed to convince the chief inspector.

  “When I met him, Ambrose was working closely with the military aspect of his medicinal application, that’s all I know. The only evidence left from my research is this,” Stevenson said as he pulled a small kerchief from his coat pocket and then looking around suspiciously once again, slowly slid the folded kerchief toward Abberline who made no move to touch the small bundle. Stevenson flipped the kerchief open and Abberline was left looking at a small square of what looked like dried clay.

  “Interesting,” Abberline said, still not even giving Stevenson the courtesy of leaning forward to look at the item.

  Robert Louis Stevenson looked exasperated as he reached out and picked up the object and then slid over closer to the chief inspector.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “I haven’t the faintest.”

  “Chief Inspector, this is what is called a relief.” Stevenson looked frustrated for a brief moment when he didn’t see recognition in Abberline’s face. “It’s a proclamation. Or a warning … or maybe just a take. See this hole here at the top? Well, it used to be a hole, it’s broken now after two thousand three hundred years. This was a warning placed on the line of retreat taken by the Greeks from Northern India. It’s in Ancient Greek.”

  “Again, Mr. Stevenson, very interesting.”

  “See this here,” Stevenson turned the tablet over, carefully exposing the inscription on the back. It was hard to read for Abberline, but Stevenson easily ran his finger across the ancient script. He made sure the chief inspector could see the inscription as he read. “It warns all Greeks to follow the line south and stay out of the jungle and beware the jhinn. It’s like a genie from the Arabian Nights, only of course it’s an ancient Indian legend that originates in the Delhi area and is virtually unknown throughout the world, and this tablet is the only historical reference to that legend. This placard was given to me by Ambrose with a tale that froze my blood.”

  “You have my interest piqued, sir,” Abberline said as his eyes were locked on the strange-looking clay tablet.

  “This tablet tells the tale of magic … magic that was used against an invading enemy. Truly the power of nature. Beasts that attack alone, in packs, they kill without remorse and follow their orders to the death. The Greeks were attacked from the North of India all the way through the heart of that country. They were running scared from something let loose upon them by a magician.”

  Abberline refused to say a word as Stevenson spoke. He thought he would let the man run his course.

  “Do you even know what Greeks I am speaking of Chief Inspector? It was this retreat and the legend of the magic used against them that set Lawrence Ambrose on a trail of invention that has become murderous beyond measure. The professor researched the ancient legends of magic from all over the world, and in the deep valleys and vast area of India, he found it. And the legend was believed by one very important man in world history, and it was this man that sent Ambrose off in the right direction.” Stevenson then turned the tablet over and showed Abberline the bust. When the policeman showed no sign of recognition, Stevenson almost angrily pointed to the word just below the relief of the ancient Greek. “Μέγας Άλέξανδρος, or in its more familiar tongue, Mégas Aléxandros,” the writer said, smiling.

  Chief Inspector Abberline looked from the clay tablet into the eyes of Stevenson.

  “That signature on the warning is Alexander the Great of Macedonia.”

  “Now I have heard of him.”

  Robert Louis Stevenson rolled his eyes. “When he found he couldn’t defeat the many armies of India, Alexander started heading south, looking for an escape route off the subcontinent. He left a rear guard of one thousand of his best men. For six hundred miles these men fought a running battle with a force of men that could not be killed. One would attack many. Tales of men in the attacks taking seven, eight arrows and still fighting. This tale is straight from the mouth and signature of Alexander the Great. You see, Ambrose discovered the facts behind the legend and the truth behind not just the magic of what happened to the Greeks, but the real chemical science behind the slaughter. There are many more tales of these … these Berserkers. It happened several more times, far more recently in India against the Raj, the uprisings, the slaughters of British soldiers by inferior forces of the Sikh and others. There always seems to be magic coming to the aid of the lesser armies inside of India. Why I … I—”

  “I believe your tale, Mr. Stevenson,” Abberline said directly.

  “But, I thought—”

  “The man in the picture is named Colonel Albert Stanley. He is Black Watch, the Queen’s own. If this man Ambrose is who you say he is, he has powerful friends in the highest of places, Mr. Stevenson, far more influential men and women than I’m sure your address book could help but fall short of. This Colonel Stanley is in the Ripper case up to his eyes, and I smelled a rat long before you stepped into this room tonight. He’s protecting someone, and this someone is possibly this Professor Lawrence Ambrose you met in America.” Abberline quickly brought out his notepad and scribbled the names down.

  “It had to be more than just that picture that convinced you Chief Inspector. What was it?” Stevenson asked as he finally relaxed for the first time since entering the restaurant.

  “It’s not the evidence you brought Mr. Stevenson, but the terror in your eyes. For a man who wrote the most popular horror story since Frankenstein, you show an immense amount of fear when you mention this man’s name, this Ambrose. I see and feel the fear coming off of you. That is w
hy I believe you Mr. Stevenson.”

  The chief inspector turned away from Robert Louis Stevenson just as one of his men, Harold Washington, a veteran of the Ripper horrors, walked toward the table at a brisk pace, fast enough that Abberline’s heart sank. He quickly raised his hand at the waiter for more drinks.

  Washington was a young man who looked as though he had also lost his zeal for police work since the murders had begun in Whitechapel. If only the lad knew the real truth as he himself had just learned, he would have gone running into the night on his way to resign. Even with not knowing the truth of Mr. Stevenson’s story, Abberline could see the young man’s anger and his feelings of helplessness in his written reports on other crimes in the area. The boy was like him, he just couldn’t do it any longer. With the Ripper investigation officially ended for at least Abberline and his department, he knew his career would end on that failure. The Ripper had escaped justice and the inspector knew it was because of interference from the palace. And now here was an independent witness, one that not even the queen could silence if he chose to go to the newspapers.

  “Washington old boy, may I introduce Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, I believe you may know of his work?”

  “No, Chief Inspector, I do not know of him, and if you don’t mind I’ll also have what you just ordered from the bar.”

  Abberline tried not to show his surprise at the boy’s request as he knew the young man was not a drinker. Washington drowned his worry and sorrow every night with the help of a young wife, not like the chief inspector, with libation.

  “By all means, Washington, please have a seat and explain why a young man such as you would need a drink at this late hour, and whilst he is on duty.”

  Washington tossed his hat on the table and then sat, practically ignoring Abberline’s disapproval and the way Stevenson looked at him. “I have just come from Whitechapel.”

  Abberline closed his eyes, fearing what the boy was about to say.

  “That is over with. It’s been five months since Mary Kelly departed this world for a better one,” Abberline said as he raised his napkin and covered his lower face so the patrons couldn’t see the mask he had become adept at placing over his emotions when it came to Whitechapel.