I was Jack The Ripper (Part One) Read online

Miller stared at Hapgood then reached into his breast pocket and placed two brass rings on the table between them. Hapgood picked them up, turning them over in his hands. They were small and stained green with age. He noted that they were in incredibly low quality and in poor condition. Not something he would expect a man of Miller's stature to carry with him.

  Hapgood set them back on the table. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Please Mr. Hapgood if you would please check the files for the Hanbury Street murder, then everything will become clear."

  With a resigned sigh, and because he knew this was the only way he might get Miller to leave, Hapgood went to his desk, leafing through the papers and folders until he found the one which he was looking for.

  "Do you mind if I smoke?" Miller asked.

  "Please, go ahead," Hapgood said, for the moment distracted by his search. Miller took an ornate wooden pipe from his pocket and began to stuff it with tobacco as Hapgood continued to leaf through the documents.

  "Mr. Miller, I see nothing in these files that relate to these rings," Hapgood said, watching Miller for his reaction. Miller spoke around the pipe which hung from his lip as he ignited it.

  "Perhaps the good inspector's personal notes will reveal more than the public reports. May I suggest you review those instead?"

  Hapgood opened a second folder which contained some of the personal journals on the case sent to him by Abberline. Hapgood had not yet read any of the contents, his current progress in his book was based on the facts of the case, and the inspector's insight was still an area which he had not explored. He selected one of the files and began to leaf through the various notes and papers, some of which were copies of documents Hapgood had already seen, but with handwritten notes and thoughts of the inspector included

  "Apologies Mr. Miller, but again, I see nothing that would..."

  Hapgood stopped speaking and drew breath. His gaze drifted from file to Miller, then to the innocuous brass rings which sat on the table, and finally back to Miller who was staring into the flames of the fire as he smoked his pipe.

  If Hapgood had not chosen that moment to return his gaze to the file, he would have seen the small smile cross Miller's lips as he exhaled a plume of grey smoke.

  "They took a while to remove, Mr. Hapgood," Miller said, his voice taking on that icy, sinister tone again. "I almost gave up but they eventually slid free. The fat whore didn't deserve such trinkets."

  Hapgood looked again at the words, penned in black ink on the copy of the autopsy report of Annie Chapman, the victim of the Hanbury Street murder. It read:

  The victim is missing two brass rings, which appear to have been removed by the murderer himself, perhaps as a keepsake, or memento of his violation of this poor woman. This information will NOT be released to the public at my express instructions.

  Hapgood felt his legs buckle as his heart lurched towards his throat. He looked at the unremarkable man who was seated by his fire, in his very own home. And everything fell into place. He tried to speak but could muster no words, his brain struggling to make sense of the situation.

  "I trust now I have your full attention?" Miller said, taking another long draft on his pipe.

  Hapgood wanted to run, yet a combination of his instinct as a writer, his thirst for knowledge and the complete and total fear which now controlled his entire being kept him from doing so. "How did you, how could you know...what..."

  Miller looked at Hapgood and smiled around his pipe. "Go ahead and say it, Mr. Hapgood. You'll feel better for getting it out in the open."

  "You are him, aren't you? You're the ripper."

  Miller smiled and smoked his pipe. "Mr. Hapgood, you look quite unwell. Please sit down." Miller said, gesturing to the chair opposite.

  On shaky legs, and in something of a daze, Hapgood did as instructed.

  "Mr. Hapgood, you look like a man who could use a stiff drink. May I?" Miller asked as he held his own empty glass towards Hapgood. Without awaiting a response from his dazed host, he stood and poured them both a large brandy, before returning and setting the glasses down. Miller sat, and for a time, there was silence except for the hiss and crackle of the fire.

  "Is your intention to kill me?" Hapgood said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  Miller laughed, a hearty booming sound which echoed through the study and empty halls of the house and had no place after such a revelation.

  "Of course not, Mr. Hapgood! A talent such as yours, good sir deserves its place in the world. I merely require your skills to tell my story. Rest assured you are in no danger from me, no danger at all."

  ‘But you are him. The ripper.’

  ‘Not anymore. But once? Yes. I do believe I was.’

  Hapgood nodded, and with a shaky hand picked up and drained his brandy glass.” What do you want from me?" he asked as the burning liquid radiated through his body.

  "I want you to write, Mr. Hapgood. To do what you do best. I will tell you all that there is to tell, and you will document this to the very best of your ability."

  Hapgood looked across at Miller and almost screamed outright. He somehow stifled it, instead releasing just a sour, brandy flavoured belch. Miller's blue eyes shone with their intense brilliance, however, the flames of the roaring fire now danced within those eyes, reminding Hapgood that he was in the company of the devil himself. Roused from his daze by the bitterness of the brandy, He managed to compose himself enough to speak to the monster which sat before him.

  "I know of the terrible deeds you were responsible for, and yet I'm curious as to why you think I can help you? Why would you come forth now?"

  "We have already discussed my reasons. I will not explain again."

  "I'm sorry, I need to compose my thoughts."

  "Indeed. Take your time, Mr. Hapgood. There is no rush."

  Hapgood managed to still the cyclone of thoughts in his brain and looked at his visitor. "Why me? Why choose me over anyone else?"

  "Because you are the best. I have done my research. I know all there is to know about you."

  "Forgive me if I disagree, sir, for I lead a private life and am not one to boast to my peers. Privacy is very important to me."

  Miller nodded. "Much as it is to me. Nevertheless, I still know of you."

  "I very much doubt that. Perhaps someone else will hear your story and-"

  "You are Charles Michael Hapgood, aged thirty and born in Liverpool, before moving to London three years ago. You are married to Jane Hapgood, aged twenty-three, and have a daughter aged four. She would of course ordinarily be here, but instead, she is visiting your mother in Liverpool, who is sick with pneumonia. She is due back here next Tuesday."

  Hapgood was stunned. Miller seemed so ordinary, that it was hard to associate him with the vile and horrible things that he knew this man had done. He knew the sensible option would be to have no part of it, to go to the police, but the writer in him wanted to know. He could not rid his mind of the details he knew from his research. The five vicious murders, the mutilations, which, if he were to be believed, had been committed by the beast sitting across for him.

  Miller spoke, Snapping Hapgood back to the present.

  "I can see that you are interested in hearing my story, and why would you not be? Think about it, Hapgood. You will become known as the man who will tell the story of the Whitechapel murders from the man who was responsible. Although I appreciate that this is something of a shock to you, Mr. Hapgood, time is of the essence. If we are to do this, then we do it now, tonight before I lose my nerve. Please, gather some paper and something to write with."

  "You wish to start now?" asked Hapgood in shock. "I'm not ready I need to prepare I..."

  "It must be told now, in this very night Mr. Hapgood. By the light of this fire. This is the only conversation you and I will ever have. Now please, get something with which to write, as there is much to tell. "

  Hapgood scrambled around the room to his desk, tossing his stationary aside until he foun
d a stack of new paper, ignoring the screaming instincts to run and get to safety. He could not afford to waste such an opportunity, even if it put his own safety at risk. He moved everything off his desk into a pile on the floor set the paper in front of him and refilled his inkwell before selecting a brand new pen with which to write. He was suddenly warm and filled with a heady mix of fear and adrenaline surging through him. He looked at Miller sitting by the fire, then screamed at himself that this wasn't Miller. That was likely not even his real name. He was sitting across the room from Jack the Ripper.

  "May I suggest another brandy before we begin Mr. Hapgood? I suspect that you may need another taste to ensure your mind is clear." Miller said, curling the corner of his mouth upwards in a humourless smile.

  Although Hapgood could feel the alcohol beginning to work on him and under normal circumstances would never drink whilst writing, he felt that another glass could do no harm. Still shaking he poured them both a fresh drink then returned to his desk.

  "I am ready," said Hapgood, unsure if that was true. He didn't think it was possible to ever be ready for something like this, something so unique.

  Miller took a deep breath and stared into the fire. Hapgood waited, pen poised for a full minute or more before his guest began to speak.

  "There is much that has happened to me, Mr. Hapgood, during my lifetime. History will remember me as a monster, a lunatic. I prefer to think of myself instead as an artist. My life's work has consumed me for many years before it began, and to this day still sits at the forefront of my mind, even if I am far too old and sick to act upon it. It as if God has taken away the tools of my work even if the intent has never faded. The physical form is a strange thing, Mr Hapgood. Frail and weak. Filled with limitations. I wonder if my life would have transpired in a different fashion had certain events not become apparent."

  "Something triggered you to begin your...work?" Hapgood said as he wrote as quickly as he could.

  "Yes. The man who I became was not the man that was born. I have known love, Mr. Hapgood, and I have known loss. I have known cruelty, and I have seen the monster that lives in every man and woman walking the earth. I have also known fury. Vengeance. Retribution. Of course, even in the telling, I'm not sure if you can understand, however, tell it I shall. There is much I have forgotten over the years. Memory fades with age. However, I remember with absolute clarity the day that my journey to my work in Whitechapel began. In fact, the details are as clear as if it happened this very morning. It is complete in every detail. I was just a boy then of course, but if we are to explore the origin of the man I would eventually become, this is the place where we should begin. I'm sure you know my now that Miller isn't my actual name. For the purpose of this story, I shall choose one that is equally false. A minor detail of course, but one best dealt with early. For the purpose of this story, you can call me Edward. Edward Miller, a boy, a child who in one single event found his life forever changed."

  Hapgood glanced up at Miller then looked back at his paper. "Begin when you are ready, Mr. Miller."

  Miller closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, rolling back the years, "It was a cool day in September when my journey would begin. The wind was in my hair and my heart raced with the healthy feeling of exertion. It was a sense of freedom which can only be appreciated as a child without worries or concerns. This is how it happened, Mr Hapgood. This is where my story begins."

  IN THE BEGINNING

  He ran, arms and legs pumping with the furious and tireless energy that only children can muster. He rounded the corner at full speed, weaving between the myriad of torsos and legs of the giants around him who were busy about their business at Spitalfields Market

  “Edward… wait for me!” came the breathless voice behind him. Edward paid no attention, instead ducking under a trader laden with bottles, and almost crashing into a stall housing fruit and vegetables

  “Ere, you watch yourself, lad,” bellowed the red-faced trader, but Edward paid no mind to the man, nor the burning in his legs or the pounding of his heart in his chest.

  “Wait for me, please,” whined the breathless voice from behind for the second time.

  Edward brushed a sweaty lock of black hair behind his ear and skidded to a halt by the great imposing wall of the London docks. His nose was filled with the fresh, salty scent of the sea, as he looked at the vast ships in the dock. He sat on the ground with a thump as his pursuer jogged to a halt beside him.

  “Bleedin’ ell Eddie, you nearly took that old fella off his feet back there.” Said his friend, George.

  Edward said nothing as his friend sat beside him. The pair looked out in silence for a while at the slate grey waters and rolling clouds as cargo of all shapes and sizes were loaded and unloaded by their respective crews.

  “Mr. Jones will have us if he finds out we didn’t go to school today,” George said as he wiped his arm across his sweaty brow.

  Edward looked at his friend with his cool blue eyes and smiled “You sound like you’re scared of old Jonesy. Come on George, nobody will miss us!”

  George sat on the dock wall, swinging his feet against the stone as he looked into the water and considered what to do. “What now then Eddie? It looks like rain.” George said, squinting into the sky.

  Edward followed his gaze to the thick thunderheads that rolled towards them. Some were a deep purple, scattered like bruises over the ocean. Edward thought for a moment and then turned to George.

  “There’s a freak show in town. I hear they have a two-headed boy, and man no bigger than your hand!” Edward said as George looked at his palm and wrinkled his nose.

  “Impossible. Nobody is that small.”

  “We’ll just have to see, won't we? Come on. My mother and father will be out about their business, I will go get us some money from home so we can see for ourselves.”

  “Aww come on, let’s just go back to school before we get into trouble.” whined George as Edward stood and stretched.

  “Are you really scared of everything George? All you do is complain.” Edward said with a shake of his head.

  “It’s alright for you, my father is a right cruel one, last time I pulled somethin' like this he gave me a right caning.”

  “You should learn to talk your way out of it Georgie! Lucky for me mine are always busy.”

  “What is it that your dad actually does all day and night?”

  “He works as a foreman at one of the warehouses near Bucks Row. He’s an important man.” Edward said as he weaved through the side streets of the Whitechapel district. The walls were close and wound over and under each other in a confusing maze of arches and alleyways, but he knew them well. He liked it there, getting lost and exploring. Everywhere people bustled, Edward finding comfort in the sheer volume of excited chatter which surrounded him.

  “Edward, I don’t like it here. My dad says nobody who lives here is up to anything good.”

  “Edward turned, stopping dead and looking George in the eye. “I live near here, George.” he said simply, his face expressionless.

  “Oh... I... I didn’t mean you, I meant…other people,” said George, lowering his gaze and watching his feet as they kicked at the cobbles.

  “Come on George, let’s go get that money!” Edward said, grinning and clapping his friend on the shoulder.

  They made their way past Christ Church, the large and gothic building chiming to signal midday as they crossed into Fournier Street, the houses jammed together in tight rows. They moved passed the brewery on the corner of Heneage Street, then onto Chicksan Street, where more red brick homes were crammed into as small space as possible. Some of these one-room homes had up to twenty inhabitants, and as Edward looked at the filthy children who sat outside open doorways, their eyes devoid of hope for any kind of respectable life, he wished he had just stayed in school. Edward and George reached the corner of Duke Street and stopped.

  “This is where I live. Come on, let’s go in through the back.” Edward said.
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  The back street was narrow and cobbled with barely enough space between the back to back houses. The two boys started down the street when Edward pulled George out of sight and ducked behind a wall.

  “What is it Edward?” whispered George.

  “My father. He should be at his work, not at home.” Edward said as he peered around the corner.

  His father stood by the wood gate which led into the rear yard of the house. Several other men milled around in the alleyway, some chatting in small groups, others standing around idle and smoking, making small talk with each other.

  “What’s going on?” George asked, trying to peek around his friend.

  “Shh,” Edward replied, pushing his friend out of sight and returning his gaze to the alley. As he watched, the gate opened, and a man who Edward had never seen before came out of the yard. He clapped Edwards’s father on the shoulder and the two shared a few words before the man laughed, and headed up the street away from the crowd and out of sight. As soon as he was gone, another of the waiting men spoke to Edwards’s father, who then opened the gate and allowed the man to enter. Edward ducked back around the corner and leaned against the wall.

  “What is it Edward, what’s happening?” George asked.

  “Not sure. Looks like men from my Fathers work.”

  “What are they doing at your house?”

  Edward didn’t answer. Instead, he headed back towards Duke Street and the front of the houses, which were gloomy and in disrepair. A few doors stood open, curious and tired looking ghosts of people stood, some smoking, other chatting in groups of two or three in the absence of anything else to do. None of them paid any attention to the two boys. Many children in the area didn’t go to school at all, so their presence in the middle of the day was accepted as ordinary.

  The door to Edwards home was faded and swollen with age. The windows were filthy, and instead of curtains, there was a simple linen sheet pinned to the inside of the frame. Edward walked to the door, and touched the handle, before turning back towards George.