Gaslight Fantasy: A Ripping Yarn by Jaqhama

[Jaqhama]

I thought that as I'd made comment on a couple of the writers or their stories on this forum the least I could do was offer something of my own.
This is the first edit. I've only proofread it and spell checked it once so far.

So here is the first part of a story that I penned tonight...I hope you enjoy...

Gaslight fantasy: A Ripping Yarn
by
Jaqhama

Part One

London: Sunday, September 30, 1888

I looked down at the mutilated corpse of the woman who lay on the cobblestoned street and barely repressed a shudder.
“Not a pretty sight is it Allan.” my friend said. It wasn’t a question.
I shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. Native rituals, animal maulings. Seeing it here, on a street in the heart of London does present an extra horror I’m bound to admit.”
Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline nodded to one of his constables. “Alright Smithy, you can cover her up now.”
“Yes Sir.” The young man bent down and draped a blanket over the bloody remains of the victim.
“What do you think then?” Fred asked me.
I had already spent some time looking around the murder scene. There was a lot less blood than I might have supposed. The body of the dead woman had been sliced open. It appeared to me as though some internal organs might have been removed. For what purpose I had no idea. Her throat had been cut, wide and deeply. I guessed that might well have been the first blow struck. It looked to me as though her killer had come up silently behind her, pulled her head back with his left hand and used a razor-sharp blade to slash open her throat.
This was the third murder in the Whitechapel district in just a few months. The newspapers had named the killer Jack the Ripper. I’d been hearing the savage stories ever since I first stepped off the boat.
As was my wont when visiting London I was staying at my uncle’s house. He and Frederick Abberline had long been good friends. I had met Fred on previous visits and we’d become good chums ourselves. Fred was in charge of the Ripper investigation, and over dinner at my uncle’s earlier that evening he had told me in great detail of all the Ripper killings, and the total lack of a solid suspect, or indeed even a comprehensible reason for the murders.
“A psychopath,” he had opinioned. “A complete and utter maniac.”
Frederick well knew that I have lived most of my life in Africa. Indeed, I say in all modesty that I’m quite famous as a white hunter and explorer of the Dark Continent. When he described the gruesome state of the murdered women’s bodies to me, I was reminded of some of the ritual killings that some tribes and sects of African natives practice. I told him about the cult of the Leopard Men. The Juju practitioners. Even some of the stories I’d heard about a tribe of fierce black warriors said to be ruled over by a deathless Queen. We then discussed what a body looks like after a lion or a leopard has mauled it. All of this as we ate our fine repast provided by my uncle’s housekeeper. Both my uncle and the poor woman looked positively ill, as Fred and I talked about ghastly wounds and rendered bodies as we tucked into our pork chops.
After dinner we retired to the lounge, where my uncle produced some fine cigars and a bottle of blended malt whiskey. My uncle had been on several safari’s with me, and we weren’t short of tales. Likewise Frederick had spent his entire working career as a police officer and he too had some interesting stories to share with us.
The hours flew by as we exchanged tales of action and adventure mixed liberally with gore and horror. I was just expounding on how I tracked wild beasts (and even the occasional man) in the bushveldt when there came a frantic hammering on the front door of my uncle’s house. The gentleman himself went to answer it.
We heard his voice from the corridor. “Fred. I’m afraid it’s for you old chap.”
The inspector rose hastily from his chair and hurried to the front door. Curious I followed.
A London Bobby stood there, slightly damp from the thick fog that seems to pervade the capitol on most nights. His cape dripped silently onto my uncle’s carpet.
“What is it Harry?” asked Abberline.
“There’s been another one Sir,” the younger man replied. “Another Ripper murder Sir.”
Frederick put his hands to his mouth. “Ye Gods, not again.” He gathered himself. “Alright Harry, wait outside for a moment. I’ll just bid my goodbyes and get my hat and coat on.”
The constable nodded grimly. “Aye Sir. Sorry to disturb you Sir, but you did leave a message as to where you could be found if anyone needed you Sir.”
The inspector nodded. “It’s alright Harry. I’m never off duty where murder is concerned.” He turned and offered his apologies to my uncle and myself.
As he was shrugging into the topcoat my uncle held for him he asked me a question. “I say Allan. I wonder if you might consider accompanying me to the scene of this latest atrocity. We’ve tried everything else, perhaps your eagle eyed tracking skills might uncover some hithero unknown clue regarding the killer?”
I hesitated a moment.
“I’d consider it a personal favour my boy.” He often called me thus. I was in fact only in my early twenties, whereas Frederick and my uncle were well into their forties.
How could I refuse a friend. “Very well,” I agreed. “Although I should point out that any tracking skills I’ve employed in the veldt will be all but useless on the streets of this modern metropolis.”
“Nevertheless a fresh eye on the scene, a fresh point of view if you will, might be just what we need.”
Frederick placed a black homburg atop his head. For myself I reached out and plucked an ankle length greatcoat off the coat-rack. It was heavy wool and of dark blue hue. Two rows of brass buttons ran halfway down the front and two more secured the epaulettes.
“I say,” exclaimed Fred. “That coat has a military cut about it?”
“Military surplus store just down the road,” I explained. “Your British damp seeps into my very bones. This coat was the warmest one I could find.”
A chuckle. “Yes I suppose Old Blighty is a bit chilly after the heat of Africa.”
I removed a wide brimmed, khaki coloured canvas hat from the rack and pulled it onto my own head. “My safari hat,” I said. “Keeps the rain off most splendidly.”
Frederick himself was wearing a nicely cut, three piece suit of grey wool beneath his topcoat. With the long dark coat and black homburg he looked every inch the English gentleman. He picked up a thick, hardwood walking cane. I noticed it had a heavy brass pommel. I had seen many men striding around with these canes. At first I had believed it to be some sort of fashion accessory, but later discovered that the canes were often employed to good effect in the discouraging of footpads and nere’do wells. Judging by some of the marks down the length of the heavy cane Fredrick had found it most useful on not a few occasions.
We said goodbye to my uncle. I insisting that he not wait up for me. I had my own key and I felt this caper could well take some time. With my uncle’s wishes of good luck and care behind us, Inspector Abberline and I followed the young constable named Harry into the fog enshrouded streets of the nation’s capital.

[Jaqhama]

Gas lanterns glowed brightly in the darkness. We strode along the cobblestoned road itself, Frederick and his constable ignoring the pavement. There were quite a number of people out and about in this area I noticed. Some even said hello or tipped their hats. Many people seemed to know the Inspector. Occasionally we stepped aside for a horse drawn carriage. We were all walking briskly. It didn’t take long to leave the area wherein my uncle had his house and thence into less salubrious surroundings. My companions turned off the main street abruptly and down an alleyway. Now the pavement had stopped and only the cobblestones remained. The alley came out into an open area, with a public house on one corner, from which the strident sounds of a piano came to us, though muted by the thick fog. We left this area and now seemed to be walking only down dimly lit, narrow streets and alleys.          
“Whitechapel,” Frederick informed me. “A warren of lanes and alleys. Inhabited by all manner of nefarious men and women, and even children if it comes to that.”
“Full o’ pickpockets, footpads, prostitutes, opium users, all kinds of scum ‘ere Sir,” the young constable said. “Cosh you over the ‘ead or cut your throat for a penny people around ‘ere would.”
“You paint such a delightful picture of the great city of London Harry,” I chuckled.
“He’s right though,” agreed Frederick. “A veritable hive of villainy flourishes here in Whitechapel.”
“Not safe to walk around ‘ere on your own Sir,” Harry continued. “I’ve had a few problems with the locals hereabouts meself, and me being an officer of the law ‘an all.”
It was with this grim observation that the three of us continued on our way. We passed the walls of soot covered houses, all joined together in long rows, built it seemed, into the very alley walls themselves.
Sometimes a light was on in a window. Most had heavy but threadbare curtains drawn across, to keep out either the chill night air or the eyes of passing strangers. It seemed a long way from here to the fine street and house that my uncle inhabited.
In reality we had been walking for no more than twenty or thirty minutes when we emerged from an alleyway and found ourselves approaching a crowd of men and women. I heard raised voices, curses and exclamations. As we drew closer and Harry began to order people out of the way they turned and, spying a constable, and even some recognising my companion Inspector Abberline, became loud and even abusive and threatening.
“Jack got the better of you again has he Abberline? Why don’t ya chuck it in and give the job to a cully what knows his arse from his elbow hey? Bloody useless you and your rozzers are. Couldn’t catch a bleeding cold you lot. Oomph.” This last elicited by Harry’s truncheon striking the loudmouthed fellow in the pit of his stomach. Harry raised his club higher. “Shut yer gob Lusk.” He looked around the others assembled. “Anyone else want to shout the odds then?”
“Easy Harry,” Frederick pushed the younger man’s arm gently back down. The crowd had fallen silent. They now made a clear path for us and in another moment we were in the midst of some more of Frederick’s constables. They stood around something on the ground. Talking quietly amongst themselves. Seeing the Inspector they straightened up and said their hello’s to him.
And thus it was that I came to find myself staring down at the hacked and slashed body of a London prostitute.

*          *          *

I had made a careful search of the area immediate to the corpse. Some blood splatter, perhaps a piece of sliced flesh. Strangely some odds and ends that the murder victim has most likely carried about her person were arranged in an odd pattern beside the corpse.
I commented on this to Frederick.
“Yes,” he told me grimly. “Jack always does that. Some kind of ritual or ceremony perhaps? We really don’t know, truth to tell.”
Fred had already appraised me of his list of suspects, including one theory that a member of the Mason sect had committed the crimes.
The inspector had made sure his constables gave me plenty of room in which to scour for clues. They gave me odd looks, not quite sure who I was, or in which official capacity I might be working. When I handed my greatcoat to Fred and got down on my hands and knees, peering intently at the dark cobblestones with the aid of a lantern they looked positively bemused.
“Found a human hound dog have you Inspector?” a voice asked.
I stood back upright, accepting back my coat which I hastily pulled on. The climate in this country was truly woeful after the sunny clime of Africa.
“Bugger off Nedly,” I heard Frederick say hotly.
I turned and looked upon a rather unkempt individual.       
Dressed in a worn suit of dark wool, a battered bowler upon his head. The man looked in desperate need of a decent haircut and a good shave.
The man grinned at me. “Who might you be then cully?”
“Ignore him,” Fred told me. “Nedly, reporter for the London Daily. If he can’t find a story to print he just makes one up to fit.”
“Now, now Inspector,” Nedly said cheerfully. “No need to get shirty Guvnor. Just doing me job, just like yourself I am.”
One of the inspector’s constables approached us and asked Fred a question. “Excuse me Allan.” He walked a short distance away to speak with his officer. Far enough away that the reporter, Nedly, couldn’t overhear their conversation I surmised.
“What did you say your name was cully?” Nedly asked me.
“I didn’t,” I replied. I started to move away. A hand took me by the arm. “You don’t look like a rozzer to me laddy buck. What’s your game here then?”
I turned back to face the obnoxious fellow, staring pointedly down at his hand, clasped upon my forearm. “Kindly remove your hand, there’s a good chap.”
His grasp tightened and he grinned at me. “You just tell me who you are and what you’ve got to do with Inspector Abberline cully. I’ve got friends in high places, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me…who knows what I might say about you in the press….Allan was it? Allan who? You’ve got a funny accent, you a foreigner or something?”
I glanced casually around myself. Most of the constables had gathered down near Frederick. No one appeared to be taking an undue interest in myself and my scruffy companion. I motioned with my free hand for Nedly to lean closer to me, as though I was about to whisper some secret information to him. Eagerly the man did as I bid.
In a flash my free hand fastened itself upon his throat. My thumb and first two fingers digging into his windpipe. He choked out a cry, but it was cut off by the pressure I applied to his throat. I put my face very close to his (trying to ignore the smell of what must surely have been a dead sea creature he had recently consumed?) and said softly. “Let go of my arm and never place your hands on my person again. If you do so I’ll not simply squeeze your throat…I’ll rip it out!”
I increased the pressure on his windpipe for a heartbeat or two. His eyes bulged in panic, he was gasping, attempting to get some air into his lungs. I released my fingers and shoved him backwards with an open hand. He staggered and almost slipped over on the damp cobbles. Frederick had come up beside me. He looked from me to Nedly. “Problem?” he inquired.
“Not at all,” I replied smoothly. “I think the cold air has given this chap a chill. He’s definitely got a sore throat.”
The inspector pointed a finger at Nedly. “Get out of my sight you little maggot, or I’ll have one of my lads give you a helping hand...and we both know how they’d like to do that don’t we you chancer?”
Massaging his bruised throat the other glared daggers at me, but, seeing some of Fred’s constables walking up behind us, he took the opportunity to spit on the ground between us before he spun on his heel and took himself off.
“Charming fellow,” I murmured.
“Worse than a bloody black sewer rat he is,” Frederick assured me. “I keep hoping he and the Ripper might meet up in some dimly lit alleyway. Make my day that would. Dastardly cad’s been writing all sorts of rubbish about me and my men. Claims we know who the Ripper is, but that we’re covering up his identity for political reasons.”
“Which you wouldn’t do of course?”
“My oath I wouldn’t lad. I want the Ripper caught. Caught and hanged. Or dead if I catch the bugger. I don’t care who he turns out to be.”
“We’re all finished here if you are Inspector?” one of his men asked. “Got a cart here to transport the body back to headquarters. More work for the coroner in the morning I suppose.”
My friend smiled tiredly, pulling a silver pocket watch from inside his coat. “It is morning Jones. Two a.m. to be precise. Yes, you and the lads have done a good job here. I’ll walk my friend back to his accommodation and then go home and get some sleep myself. Going to be another long day I feel. Do we know who the poor woman is yet?”
“Long Liz I knows her as Sir,” the man told us. “Local prossie. Wanders this patch a lot she does. I mean did.”
Frederick nodded. “See if you can find out her full name if you would.” His constable essayed a salute and moved off.
“Right then my boy, best we get you home hey?”
I protested that I could find my own way home unaided but Fred wouldn’t hear of it. “A walk in the fresh air after this will make me feel better,” he assured me. “Shall we?” he motioned.
“Actually I’d like to do a circle of the streets immediately surrounding this spot,” I admitted. “It occurred to me that perhaps the killer might still be in the vicinity. A lot of animals hang around the area where they’ve recently killed their prey. I was wondering if such might not be the case with your Ripper.”

[Jaqhama]

He gave me an odd look. “You don’t think the killer would make all haste to remove himself as far from the scene of the murder as possible?”
I shrugged. “I know little about human killers, I can only use the experience I’ve gained with animals.”
“Hmmm….I see,” said Frederick thoughtfully. “Very well, we’ll take a walk of the surrounding streets then.”
So bidding farewell to his constables Fred and I walked away into the thick fog.

*          *          *

We walked back through a now diminished crowd of onlookers. A few mumbled or muttered but none as loud as the unfortunate fellow who’d been introduced to Harry’s truncheon. We made our circuit of the surrounding streets and dingy alleyways and saw no one. I stopped and took hold of a wooden fence here, a stone wall there, pulled myself up and had a quick gander on the other side.
All to no avail. But then I had entertained little hope of being able to track the murderer. The cobblestones around the body of the latest victim had been wet from the fog. No trace of bloody tracks leading away from the scene of the crime had I discovered. I seriously doubted that my African trained tracking skills were going to be of any use to Frederick at all. We had just emerged from yet another of the dark, endless alleyways when a scream rent the air!
A woman’s scream.
Fred and I stared at each other. “Can you tell where it came from Allan?” he asked me. “I can’t get any sense of direction in this damned fog.”
“Follow me,” I instructed and began to jog in the direction that I was sure the scream had originated from. I feared to run flat out, as I knew I was capable of a much faster pace than Frederick was likely to manage. And I had no wish to leave him alone in the alleyways with a maniac on the loose.
With Frederick slightly behind me I dashed down one alley and then turned into another. This led us out into a small square, which was dimly lit by a single gaslight. In the centre of the square a dark form was crouched over another. We ran closer. The darker form had been looming over a body lying on the cold, cobblestoned ground. At our hasty approach the figure stood up.
I stopped a short distance away, wary.
Frederick came panting up beside me. “By God we’ve got him,” he breathed.
The body lying on the cobblestones was that of a woman, dressed in a dark shawl, her head covered by it. I could not tell if she was alive or dead.
Standing above her was a man. He just opposite the single gaslight, so that even in the fog I could see him clearly. A tall man, though slim. Made slimmer by the blackness of his garb. Pointed boots under the cuffs of his trousers. A long black coat that appeared to be of waxed cotton. A wide brimmed hat pulled low over his face. I could feel the intense gaze of his dark eyes. He reminded me of a leopard about to spring upon its prey. His body had that same tenseness. In his left hand he held a knife. A huge knife. The blade shone wickedly in the light. I slipped my right hand into the pocket of my greatcoat, felt the comforting weight of the revolver that I carried there. I started to pull my hand back out…
In a movement too fast for my eyes to follow the dark garbed man before me produced a pistol of his own. It was quite the most remarkable bit of ledgermain I’d ever witnessed. One moment his right arm had been at his side, the next it held a pistol levelled in my direction. I realised that he had actually slid his hand inside his open coat and pulled the pistol from a low slung holster, that I could now see, visible below a fancy waistcoat or vest of red silk.
“You move another muscle,” he told me, “and you’re dead!”
I noted that his own revolver was already cocked.

End of Part One

[Jaqhama]

I hope some of you found the story interesting and enjoyable so far.

I shall continue with it over the next few nights at work.
The story is about to take a giant step away from the normal Ripper tales that have been previously written...


Cheers: Jaq.

[Shalako-Lin]

Mmmm. Most interesting. I await.

cheers, Linda

[James Harrison]

Grand so far.  I really like it. 

[Jaqhama]

Gaslight Fantasy: A Ripping Yarn
by
Jaqhama

Part Two

“You’re American,” I exclaimed.
“Brilliant deduction. You should be a detective.”
“That’s his job,” I nodded at Frederick.
The other looked my companion. “Is that right?”
“Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline of the London Metropolitan Police Force. You’re under arrest.”
“Really?” The other seemed amused. “Under arrest for what?”
Frederick took a step forwards and raised his heavy cane menacingly. “For the murder and mutilation of three woman you bastard.”
The other waved his pistol slightly in Fred’s direction. “Easy on the names there amigo. I can see how this might look but you’ve got the wrong end of the horse.”
“You’re not Jack the Ripper?” I asked pointedly.
The man grunted. “Figured that’s what you hombres thought. Was I the Ripper all you folks are talking about, you think I’d be standing here jawing with you? You think I wouldn’t have plugged the pair of you by now?”
I had been considering this very thing in actual fact. “Frederick,” I said. “Frederick, I don’t think this is the scallywag we want.”
Fred looked between the other man and myself. “How can you be sure Allan? I can barely understand what he’s saying to start with.”
I noticed a slight movement from the body at the other’s feet. “She’s alive.”
“Sure,” agreed the man. “Just passed out is all.”
The tableau held for a moment. The fellow had the drop on Frederick and myself, no doubt of it. I felt sure that were he the murderer we sought his pistol would have done for us by now.
“Tell you what,” He suggested. “You leave that hog-leg in your pocket, keep the inspector there from ‘arresting’ me and I’ll put up my own iron. How’s that?”
The woman at his feet moaned and a hand flexed.
“Very well,” I agreed. I dropped the half drawn revolver back inside my pocket and showed a clean pair of hands.
Fred had his cane half raised still. He reluctantly lowered it and glared at the other.
“Fair enough,” that one conceded.
In a blur of motion he spun his pistol around on his finger and made it disappear back into its holster. The huge knife was more slowly re-sheathed in a scabbard on his left side. He then crouched down over the body of the woman and gently pulled the shawl away from her face. He slid an arm underneath her upper torso and turned her around, half supporting her as he sat her up. She moaned again and her eyelids flickered.
Frederick and myself took this opportunity to walk over to the pair of them. I being careful to keep my hands in plain sight all the time.
The man crouched before us stroked the woman’s brow. “Wake up ma’am. You’re safe. Come on now, wake up.”
Her eyes opened, in fact they sprung open and her face took on a look of absolute terror. She opened her mouth and I felt sure she was going to emit a most piercing scream.
The man tapped her on the end of her nose with a finger. She jerked back in his arms, startled. “No need for more screaming missy. You’re safe now. Feller what was chasing you is long gone. Lookee here, two other gentlemen are here with us. One of them is a lawman, a police inspector.”
The woman twisted her head and stared about herself. She caught my eye and I inclined my head and smiled at her. She blinked, took one more look around and then spoke. “The other,” she said. “The awful one. He’s gone?”
“Yes ma’am. He ran off when I came on the scene.”
She went limp in his arms. “I remember,” she said. “He was chasing me, I was running. I saw you coming towards us, out of the fog and I ran up to you.” She frowned. “That’s all I can remember.”
“You passed out when you saw him pull out his pigsticker, looked like a butchers knife to me.”
The poor woman put a hand to her mouth. “Gawd ‘an bennett I remember now. He pulled out the knife. The knife. Oh my Gawd it was the Ripper weren’t it? It was Jack Death himself weren’t it?”
“Don’t rightly know ma’am. I figure it might have been. Not having made the feller’s acquaintance I couldn’t rightly say.”
“Excuse me madam,” interrupted Frederick. “I’m a policeman, a detective, Frederick Abberline. I know this has all been a terrible ordeal for you, but please, if you could, please tell me exactly what happened.”
“Let’s get you on your feet missy,” said the man holding her. He stood up from his crouch. Lifting her along with him effortlessly. His lean frame was more powerful than it looked. She held onto his arm as she regained her feet, steadying herself.
Frederick was impatient. “Please madam, I desperately need to hear your version of the events. I have yet to be convinced that this…gentleman…isn’t in fact the man you were running from to begin with.” Fred I noticed, had taken up position slightly to one side of the pair. His right hand was clenched tightly around the top of his heavy cane. I had no doubt that he was quite willing to strike down the unknown man before us in an instant if he saw the need. For his part the stranger seemed completely unconcerned.
I now had the opportunity to look closely both at the woman in question and the man whose arm she still clutched. She was neatly dressed in a long dark skirt and short black coat. She wore polished ankle high boots and had wrapped herself in a thick woollen shawl. She was slim and had pleasingly pretty features. I judged her to be about twenty five years of age or so. The man who stood next to her was taller by a whole head. He was indeed wearing a long coat of black, waxed cotton, such as is popular with horsemen. He had tilted back his wide brimmed hat and I was startled to see that his unbound hair, dark and wavy, fell to his shoulders. His face was as lean as his body appeared. Lantern jawed and with high cheekbones. His eyes, like his clothes and hair were dark. He was clean shaven and both his face and hands were well tanned. A man who spent much time outdoors. Beneath the open coat I covertly eyed a wide belt of tan leather, with much engraving thereon. It had a big brass buckle and slanted downwards below his right hip, to where the holster for his pistol was attached. I knew now what sort of man I was looking at and felt at once both cautious but strangely excited. Such were the cast of his features that I was unable to make an estimate of his age. He might have been thirty or fifty; he had that kind of face.
I dragged my thoughts away from the man before me as, at Frederick’s urgings, the woman began to tell of her ordeal.
“I’d finished a dress for a lady what needed it for a ‘do’ tomorrow. I took it back to her at about nine o’clock. She invited me in for a cuppa and a bit of a chinwag. Must have been past eleven when I left. She pays alright, that one does. So I had a few bob spare ‘an thought I’d stop in the local on me way home.”
“You’re a seamstress?” Frederick asked, seemingly not convinced of the young woman’s story so far.
She gave him a disdainful glare. “Not every woman in Whitechapel is a bleeding whore Mr Police Inspector.”
Fred actually had the dignity to blush. “Ah, yes, quite so m’dear. I do apologise. Please continue.”
She sniffed. “Where was I? Oh yea…So’s I stopped in me local for a glass of port. Got chatty with a couple of friends and before you know it, it’s gone midnight. I’ve loads of sewing to do this week, so’s I said me goodbyes and took me-self off home. I know I shouldn’t have taken a shortcut through the alleys, not with Mad Jack lurking about, but it’s the quickest way see? I was walking along, quickly like, ‘an I heard something behind me-self. There’s a bloke in a top hat and a cape coming up behind me, real hasty he was. He had a scarf or something covering most of his face. Well straight away I didn’t like the look of him. I turned a corner and bolted as quick as I could. I looked behind me-self and there he was, running after me, not saying a word. I kept running and screamed. I mean really screamed. It was the Ripper himself, I’m bloody sure of it. I came out of the alley and into the square here. I was confused, I didn’t know which way to go. And the fog was so thick now, I could barely see a dozen steps in front of me-self. I looked up…and there was another bloke on the opposite of the square…he saw me and shouted something like, “Are you alright madam?”  Behind me I could hear the Ripper getting closer. I ran across the square and grabbed hold of the other bloke…”
Here the young woman stopped her tale and looked at the man whose arm she still held. “It was you wasn’t it Sir? You was the gentleman what saved me?”
The lean figure grinned down into her upturned face. “I heard you scream from some distance away. I came a’ running and found you here. I shouted out if you were alright. You came running over to me like the devil himself was on your tail. Grabbed hold of me and started yelling that the Ripper was after you. Right about then a feller came out of the fog on the other side from us. Big hombre, bigger than me. Like you said he had a fancy hat and a long cloak or something, all wrapped around himself, even his face. He stopped when he saw you were with me. I pushed you aside and started to walk towards him. He reached under his cloak and came out with a knife. Big knife.” At this point the other grinned and reached under his own long coat. His left hand emerged with his own huge knife. The young woman let go of her rescuer’s arm and stepped back a pace. “Not as big as this though. Bowie knife. Lots of fellers carry these where I’m from. Handy things to have on you. Don’t be a’ feared ma’am, I reckon seeing this is what gave your Ripper pause for thought.” The man smiled and slid his weapon back into its sheath again. He continued.
“So when I saw the big feller pull his knife out I shucked my own steel. That stopped him in his tracks. (It was about then that you fainted right away ma’am, by the way.) I asked the feller if he cared to try his luck with me, ‘stead of a woman? For a moment there I thought he was all set to take me up on my offer, but then he kind of tilted his head, like he heard something, and next thing I know he spun around and ran back into the fog. That’s about when I heard the same sound he had. It was you two fellers, running hell for leather down the alley. I bent down to make sure the lady here was alright, that she hadn’t hit her head when she passed out, and that’s how you found us.”
“Good heavens,” was all I could think of to say.
“I see,” Frederick added. “I believe I may have been mistaken in my assumptions regarding you Sir.”
The other looked quizzically at the inspector. “And you say I talk funny?”
“He’s telling the truth Mr Abberline. I do remember the other bloke pulling out a knife, then this gentleman put me behind himself and pulled out one of his own…what is it with you blokes and your big knives?”
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed and quite heartily at that. It was infectious, the man standing next to the young woman joined in, and then the lady herself began to chuckle and after another moment Frederick also.    
We all four were laughing and clutching our sides with mirth when two of Frederick’s constables found us. As one can imagine they looked at each other, and then us, with some amazement.
Fred managed to gain control of himself and said with a last chuckle. “Good morning lads. Don’t worry we’re all fine, honestly.”
“Glad to ‘ear it Sir,” said one of the pair. “Cathy Eddowes ain’t though. A Bobby found her body over in Mitre Square. Fair hacked to bits she is…the bloody Ripper’s done for two women tonight!”

*          *          *

The news of this second murder was grim indeed. After a brief conversation with his two constables Frederick came over and spoke to the three of us.
“I must make haste over to Mitre Square Allan. I trust that you and this gentleman will see the young lady safely home?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Sure,” said the American. “My pleasure.”
“You don’t wish me to accompany you to the second murder Fred?” I asked. “I’m happy to have a sniff around for you.”
“I would prefer to know that you had escorted this young lady safely to her home Allan. I trust you all realise that had it not been for the fortuitous intervention of our American friend here, this young woman would have been the Ripper’s second victim tonight, or this morning to be precise. Being deprived of his prey here, he obviously continued in search of it elsewhere.”
The lady in question clasped her hands together. “Ye Gods I didn’t think of that. Oh the poor woman…and it could just have easily have been me.”
Frederick nodded. “Indeed.” He then removed a small, leather bound notebook from an inside pocket of his coat. Producing a pencil he asked. “My dear I wonder if I might trouble you for your name and address, just for my records you understand?”
The young lady shrugged. “Susan Saunders Inspector. I live at number 6 Hastings Street. Boarding house it is.”
Fred scribbled in his notebook. “Thank you m’dear.”
He turned to the American gentleman and extended his had. “I didn’t introduce myself properly before Sir. Frederick Abberline.”
The other reached out and took Fred’s hand. “Noble Sackett.”
“Noble is it? You certainly lived up to your name tonight.”
Sackett grinned wryly. “Most folks just call me Bull. I kind of prefer that.”
“Then Bull it shall be. Might I also trouble you for your address Bull?”
“I’m staying at a place called the Ritz. Fancy hotel over that-a-ways.”
Frederick blinked. “The Ritz you say? Ah yes, nice hotel that. Bit expensive for my tastes I’m afraid.”
“When I’m flush I stay at nice places inspector. When I’m down on my luck dirt poor I stay anywhere that’ll have me.”
“A man after my own heart,” I agreed. I extended my own hand and introduced myself. Bull Sackett took my hand and clasped it firmly in his own. “Pleased to meet you Allan. You don’t sound like a Britisher yourself?”
“I’ve lived in Africa most of my life. I only come back to England to visit from time to time.”
“Africa hey? The Dark Continent. I bet you can tell some stories?”
“No more than yourself I should think. Am I correct in assuming that you would be what the penny dreadfuls call a Gunfighter?”
Upon hearing this Frederick looked slyly at our new friend.
“I wouldn’t call myself a gunfighter. I’m a peaceable feller. Happens that where I come from men settle their differences with a firearm is all. I’ve had to settle a few that way myself.”
“Yes, speaking of firearms Bull,” said Fred. “Might I point out that we here in the Sceptred Isle don’t approve of chaps running around willy nilly, carrying great big knives and large calibre revolvers on their persons. In fact I must ask why you were walking around with them on your person tonight?”
Bull looked Frederick right in the eye. “Inspector where I come from a man doesn’t step outside without his weapons strapped to him. Why, was I to walk around without my pistol and my knife I’d feel positively naked. And I might add that it was a good thing for this young lady that I was packing iron tonight.”
“I cannot argue with your last observation Bull,” Fred sighed. “If anyone asks tell them I said you have my permission to continue to wear them. But keep them under that coat, out of sight if you wouldn’t mind.”
Turning to face me Fred continued. “And you my boy? Since when have you been walking the streets with a revolver of your own may I ask?”
I grinned at my friend. “Frederick, I’ve never walked around anywhere without a pistol since I was old enough to know how to use one.”
“Good God…Do you mean to tell me that every time we’ve been out to dine with your uncle or our other friends that you’ve been armed? For all these years?”
I nodded. “Normally a small revolver, tucked away in a pocket. Not the big stuff I walk around with back home.”
The young woman, Susan interjected. “I say let the lads carry their guns around with ‘em Mr Abberline. Mayhap someone else what carries a gun might manage to shoot the Ripper dead one night soon.”
Frederick knew when he was outnumbered. “I must away. The sun is almost up and it’s going to be an awfully long day for me I’m sure. Perhaps Allan, you and your uncle might care to join me for supper at my club tonight? Say about eight p.m.?”
“I’ll tell uncle.” I promised.
Frederick turned to Bull Sackett. “You’re most welcome to join us if you wish Sir. Perhaps Miss Saunders might care to accompany you?”
Susan looked surprised. “Me? In a gentleman’s club Mr Abberline?”
“The dining room seats men and women Miss Saunders. And you will be my guest.”
She put a hand to her throat. “Why thank you Sir.”
Frederick nodded, heavily. “Goodbye then. Take that alley there, it will lead you directly back to a main thoroughfare.”
We all said our goodbyes and as Fred walked briskly away, with his two constables in tow, I turned to my new companions.
“Shall we be off then?” I suggested.

*          *          *

End of Part Two

To be continued tommorow

[Jaqhama]

A couple of brief notes.
I've never professed to perfect in my grammer and only just discovered that one only uses Sir with a capital S if the person one is writing about has actually been Knighted. Every other use of the term sir, even if the person is a police inspector or whatever, should be used with a small s.
I learn something new about writing every day.

I've also suspected that the more astute reader might wonder if a 'commoner' such as Susan might indeed be invited to dine in an upper class establishment...keep reading...there is an interesting scene that raises the spectre of one's social standing and outlook in Victorian times.

[Jaqhama]

Gaslight Fantasy: A Ripping Yarn
by
Jaqhama

Part Three

Dinner at Fredrick’s club was one of the most memorable I’d ever had the fortune to attend.
Having seen Susan safely to her boarding house Bull Sackett and I had then parted ways ourselves. Agreeing to meet up again that evening. I had invited Bull back to my uncle’s for a bite of breakfast but he had politely declined, explaining that he had some business to conduct.
I returned home and met my uncle just as he was rising from a good nights sleep. Of course he insisted I tell him the entire tale of my night’s adventures and would not be satisfied with a mere broad brush stroke but wanted explicit details of the events. By the time I retired to my own bed, desperate now for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, it was almost eight a.m. in the morning.
I asked my uncle to awake me late in the afternoon, so that I would have plenty of time to relax and prepare myself for our appointment with Frederick at his club.
“An American pistoleer and a seamstress from Whitechapel hey?” asked my uncle. “By Jove this is going to be a most interesting evening I can see.”

*          *          *

We took a Hanson cab to Frederick’s club and arrived some fifteen minutes early. Both my uncle and I were dressed in three piece suits. His was of black and mine light grey. Uncle wore the almost mandatory bowler. I thought this bit of British headwear looked positively silly myself and stuck to my dark khaki slouch hat.
We were greeted at the door and directed to the cloak room attendant. We deposited our top coats and hats there and then took ourselves off to the dining room.
Frederick’s club was considered ‘modern’ simply for the fact that it allowed womenfolk to dine with men inside the premises. Many men’s club around London still refused entry to female’s altogether. I often found it hard to come to terms with these peculiar British customs and ideas. I found most of the men’s clubs to be stuffy and boring places. Filled with desultory talk of the latest scandal or outrage. Old men grumbling and waxing lyrical about past glories. Begrudging the changing face of the Empire.
It was for this reason that I could only tolerate the place for a month every year or so. Were it not for people like my uncle and Frederick I doubted I should ever have bothered to return from my beloved Africa at all.
The dining room overseer met us as we walked in and escorted us to Frederick’s table. I saw that Bull Sackett and Susan Saunders were already seated. Bull had arranged to pick Susan up in a Hanson of his own.
They all rose and I introduced Susan and Bull to my uncle.
A smile and a light handshake, together with half a curtsey from Susan, and a firm grip and a grin from Bull. “Pleased to meet you Henry,” he said.
“Sackett,” mused my uncle. “Would you be related to the Sackett’s of Tennessee by any chance Bull?”
Another grin. “Could be Henry. Sackett’s all over the States and Territories.”
“You know the Sackett’s?” I asked my uncle, surprised.
“I have read some interesting and exciting stories in which some members of the Sackett Clan featured heavily,” he confirmed.
Bull chuckled. “Don’t you be believing everything you read in those penny dreadful novels of yours Henry. Dime novels we call ‘em back home. Long on tale and short on truth most of ‘em.”
Frederick insisted that everyone be seated and my uncle and I took our place at the table. The dining room was quite busy I noticed. There was hardly an empty table in the room. Most had couples or like ourselves a table at which sat a small group of both men and women.
I was gazing in admiration at Susan. She wore a dark blue dress of silk and lace, with a lace shawl over her bare shoulders. Her hair was pinned up and she had added just a small touch of makeup. She looked positively radiant.
“That’s a most wonderful dress you’re wearing Susan,” I told her.
She blushed a little. “Made it me-self, I did. Took me ages to find the material I needed. Silk not being so cheap you understand.”
“Quite so,” I agreed. “It looks magnificent.”
She smiled shyly and looked down at the table.
“I took the trouble of ordering a brandy for you and Henry already. Bull and I have ours, I got a sherry for Susan. Insisted she call me Frederick by the way. None of this inspector rubbish amongst friends.”
At which point my uncle likewise instructed Susan to refer to him as Henry. “Sir, makes me feel so old m’dear. And in the presence of one so beautiful as yourself I don’t wish to feel old.”
She giggled. “You are a charmer Henry.”
“He tries,” I confirmed.
I saw that Bull was dressed in a black suit of what I guessed was a western cut. Without his wide brimmed hat I could more clearly discern his face. I now took him to be of my original estimate, about thirty years of age. His shoulder length hair was freshly combed and brushed back from his forehead. He was wearing a peculiar tie around his neck. It appeared to be a piece of thick, braided leather threaded through an ornate silver clasp. I noticed that he wasn’t wearing the engraved gunbelt beneath his open frock coat. He caught me looking in that direction and smiled. He patted the left side of his chest and I understood the gesture to mean he was carrying his pistol in an underarm holster tonight. He raised his eyebrows at me and I smiled and tapped my left hip. I had my small city revolver in its own holster there. All this had gone unnoticed by our companions.
“Well now that you’ve arrived let’s order for heavens sake,” said Frederick. “I had to eat the sandwiches they serve at headquarters today.” He shuddered. “If we fed them to criminals in prison I’m sure the incarceration rate would drop off at once.”

*          *          *

The evening progressed with fine food and a plentiful supply of brandy, sherry and laughter. Bull Sackett and myself regaled the rest of the table with tales of our adventures in what, to Susan and Frederick, were seen as exotic countries.
Without anyone saying it aloud we tactfully did not discuss Susan and Bull’s meeting with Mad Jack earlier in the day. In fact we avoided any mention of the notorious killer. From what I could overhear from people talking at the tables around us, everyone else seemed to be discussing little else.
We’d all just stopped chuckling at a story that Susan had been telling. A lull in the conversation was reached, not just at our table but at those around us. It was one of those rare moments when one voice carried the entire length and breadth of a large room.
“My God, just listen to that accent,” said a woman’s voice, from a table only two removed from our own. “Who let that little guttersnipe in? And where did she filch that blue dress from I’d like to know?”
All heads in the immediate vicinity turned first to regard the speaker and then to stare at the young woman seated at out table.
For her part Susan had gone as pale as a ghost. Unsure what to do she looked furiously down at her hands, clenched together on the table in front of her. I was half on my feet when I discovered that Bull had beaten me to it. Frederick looked fit to burst and my uncle Henry not far behind.
Bull Sackett’s voice boomed out across the room like a foghorn.
“Hey woman…yeah you…the snooty filly in the red and white dress. Yeah I’m talking to you. What’s the matter? You got nothing to say all of a sudden? You were yapping away like a mongrel dog a second ago…cat got your tongue now?”
The man seated opposite the woman that Bull was referring to pushed his chair back from their table. “I say sir, steady on my good chap.”
“I ain’t your good chap mister.” Bull pointed his finger at the woman he was addressing. The entire dining room had gone so deathly quiet I’m certain I would have heard the veritable pin drop.
“I’m guessing you figure that because you was born into a family that had some money behind it, and got yourself a good, paid for education, that you think you’re somehow superior to my friend here? You figure because you speak with a snooty accent and know how to sip from a tea-cup correctly that you’re a real lady? Well let me tell you missy…all that stuff ain’t worth a damn if you can’t conduct yourself with class and style in public. How dare you speak ill of my friend? What do they hand out for manners where you come from?”
The woman whom Bull was addressing had gone equally as pale as Susan. But mixed with the paleness I saw the red flush of anger beginning to surmount her cheeks. The man seated at her table had his mouth open in shock. Bull continued with his insightful observations. “Where I come from it ain’t how much money or how much education you have that makes a lady. It ain’t the dress you wear or the way you style your hair, or how much fancy jewellery you can afford. That’s all just window dressing. I’ve met ten dollar whores who were more ladylike than you. All you’ve got is a high opinion of yourself and a loud mouth. If you were a man I’d call you out. Be grateful for your sex woman, it just saved you from the worse beating you can imagine!”
Like everyone else in the room I sat rooted to my chair.  I was stunned and impressed all at the same time.  By God, when Bull Sackett set out to speak his mind there was no stopping him.
I heard a chuckle beside me. A chuckle? I turned my head. Uncle Henry had his hand over his mouth and was struggling to contain the laughter rising up.
Suddenly the woman in question stood up. She was livid, face flushed, cheeks red. “How dare you! How dare you speak to me like that you damned ignorant Yankee bastard.”
“That’s better,” approved Bull. “Now you’re talking. Now the real you is coming out. That ladylike veneer you’re hiding under is starting to tear wide open.”
“You filthy….”
I cannot repeat here the vile language that then issued forth from the woman Bull was haranguing. It was like her floodgates had been opened and every bit of malice and crudeness flowed forth in a torrent.
Her table companion had his mouth open in shock. Men and women around the room gasped in surprise and horror.
For what must have been thirty seconds or more every base insult and vile expression one can imagine poured from the incensed woman. At last, running out of breath, almost panting the woman went silent. There was not a sound in the room. All eyes were upon her. She looked around. People refused to meet her eyes. Suddenly aware of what she had done she blinked as though awakening from a dream.
“Thank you for confirming my thoughts about you missy,” Bull said wryly.
Without warning the woman snatched a glass from her table and hurled it at Bull. He jerked his head aside and the glass flew harmlessly past him and dropped to the floor, where it smashed.
The silence was deafening.
The woman stared around the room again. “Damn you,” she cried. “Damn you all to hell.” With that she raised her head and with a swish of her dress (and not another look at Bull) stalked out of the dining room. Ignoring the looks of the open mouthed people at the other tables. Her male companion was left sitting alone, plainly at a loss for something to say.
Bull Sackett looked around the room himself. “Would anyone one else care to comment on the accents of either myself or any of my friends?”
Apparently not. With a curt nod Bull returned to his seat at our table. Susan was looking at him like she’d never set eyes on him before. He reached out and patted her hands, where they were still clenched together atop the table. “More sherry?” he asked politely.

*          *          *

The five of us were sitting comfortably in the lounge room of my uncle’s house.
“By the lord Harry, Bull. The look on that woman’s face when you were finished with her. Priceless. You’ll be the talk of the town by morning.” My uncle was still chuckling.
Fred nodded in agreement. “Probably be in the papers. I hope you never have to give me a dressing down like that in public. The mouth on that woman. She’d do a Soho street strumpet proud.”
Susan had not shared our jovial observations. “Why did you invite me to eat with you all tonight Frederick? I mean it was very kind of you like, but you must have known I shouldn’t be eating me dinner in a place like that?”
The inspector turned to her in concern. “I invited you to dine with us m’dear because I admired your spirit. You awoke from a faint induced by being pursued by the man we must conclude was Jack the Ripper and hardly made a fuss about it. No tears, no hysterics. You put on a fine face. And like yourself I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I might sound like a toff now but I assure you I came from the same background as you. I’ll take to dinner anyone I damn well please. And let’s be honest here…at least you’re British. Surely the tone of the place was lowered enough simply by having a…what was it?...a damned Yankee in the dining room? Not to mention an African wastrel.”
This brought a smile to Susan’s face. “You’re a strange man ain’t you Fred? I dunno of another police inspector what would care about a girl like me.”
“You remind me of someone else Susan. Someone I knew a long time ago…” he broke off. “Doesn’t matter. I have something else to ask of you. I am not entirely sure I should even be suggesting this. It’s a wild idea I had when the four of us were standing together, when we were discussing the carrying of firearms on the streets of London.”
I knew exactly what Frederick was about to say. It was as though a veil opened before my eyes and I had a glimpse into the future just a few seconds hence. I have never laid claim to having any  kind of second sight, but at that moment I knew what Frederick was going to say before he spoke the words…and more I knew the whole scheme he was about to outline in his pursuit of the notorious murderer, Jack the Ripper.

End of Part Three

To be continued…

[Jaqhama]

Gaslight Fantasy: A Ripping Yarn
By
Jaqhama

Part Four

We were comfortably seated around the fireplace in my uncle’s lounge. A log was blazing nicely and it was all quite homely.
“Before I outline my idea; Bull I have to ask you a question,” Frederick said. “As you were armed with a pistol, which you seem quite adept at using, why didn’t you simply shoot the blackguard dead when he produced his knife?”
Sackett shrugged. “Feller pulled a knife, figured I’d do the same. Kind of give him a taste of his own medicine, see how he was inclined towards it his own self.”
Fred nodded. “I see.” He shrugged. Then added. “If you chance upon the scoundrel again I’d most appreciate it if you shot him dead.”
Bull Sackett laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ve got me curious now Frederick…what’s this idea of yours? You got a plan to catch this critter?”
The other became pensive. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and yawned. I had no doubt that he was extremely tired, having been up all of the night before and all of today. I admired his fortitude.
“I could never propose this idea to my superiors, they would be aghast. It’s likely too dangerous a ploy to even attempt.” He looked at Susan. “It involves you m’dear. You and Mr. Sackett and my friend Allan here.”
“You want to use Susan for bait and have Bull and I as the shooters,” I interrupted.
Fred blinked. “Good God are you psychic?”
I shrugged myself. “I knew what you were going to suggest a few moments ago. For heavens sake Fred it’s just too dangerous. You can’t expect Susan to wander the back alleys of Whitechapel, hoping to draw the Ripper out. And even more, hoping that Bull or I can shoot the bugger on sight. Supposing something goes wrong?”
“I know, I know…it’s a mad idea. But I’m fast running out of any ideas at all. And I thought with two redoubtable men of action such as yourselves that the hare-brained scheme might just work.”
“I won’t hear of it Fred,” I told him. “There’s way too much risk for Susan.”
“Am I bleeding invisible?” snapped the young woman herself. “Do I get a say in this or what?”
I blushed. “I do apologise Susan. I just won’t have you placed in danger like this.”
“Will you not now Mr. Great White Hunter? And suppose I say I want to hear the rest of Frederick’s plan hey?”
“Err…” I was now at a loss for words. I turned to Bull and Henry for support.
“Allan’s right Susan,” agreed Bull. “It’s a wild idea.”
“I say Frederick,” interjected my uncle. “What makes you so sure this Ripper fellow will strike again?”
“I can answer that uncle,” I said. All eyes turned to me. “I’ve seen this with animals that get a taste for human flesh in the veldt. Once they turn rogue, become man-eaters, they get a taste for it. I’ve shot at least three lions that had started to prey on local villages. Once they discover how easy it to attack and kill an unarmed man or woman, a child even, there’s only one way to stop them.”
Frederick nodded wearily. “Exactly the conclusion I’ve come to with the Ripper. That second poor woman whose remains I viewed this morning?” He shuddered. “The worst so far. The killer must have attacked her in an absolute frenzy. Each time he kills the attacks are more vicious. I don’t believe he will stop until he’s caught. Caught or killed at any rate.”
“I see,” said my uncle.
“And what’s your plan then Frederick?” asked Susan. “I mean the bit that you need me for?”
The inspector rubbed his hands together. “I had the idea that you might wander the alleys of Whitechapel. With Allan and Bull here as close to you as they could get without being seen.”
Bull and I both opened our mouths to voice our objections, but Fred held up a hand. “Wait lads, wait. Hear me out I beg of you.”
I closed my mouth. Bull fiddled with the butt of his pistol. He had removed his frock coat and sat beside the fire in his fancy red silk vest. His leather shoulder holster worn over the top of it. Frederick continued. “I had the thought that Bull here, as expert with a pistol as I’m sure he is, and Allan himself for that matter, might in fact teach Susan how to use a firearm herself. I don’t mean just a passing familiarity with a pistol. I mean we might retire to a country estate I know of, where you chaps can spend a whole week or more teaching Susan the entire in's and out’s of the weapon.”
There was silence. Bull rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If what I understand is correct Fred, you want me, and Allan, to turn Susan into a shootist? A fast draw pistoleer?”
“Yes,” agreed the other. “Exactly!”
I just looked at him in amazement as he went on. “I see little chance of the Ripper being caught by one of my constables; he’s already proved himself too canny for that. But if we could get him to seek out another woman for his prey, Susan…armed with a pistol and proficient in its use…then we might be able to slay the tiger!” 

And that’s a teaser until I return to write some more  tonight

[Jaqhama]

The story continues...

   There was silence after Frederick dropped this bombshell on us.
Then Susan said. “I’m game if Bull and Allan are.”
   Sackett smiled gently. “I admire your pluck Susan, but it won’t work honey.”
   “You don’t think I could learn to shoot quick and fast in a week?”
   “I’m sure you could learn as well as anyone Susan. But that’s not what I meant…wait a moment if you would.” Bull held up a hand and put his finger to his lips, ushering us all to silence.
    I frowned, wondering what was going through his mind.
   The westerner got up from his chair and walked over to the open doorway into the large lounge room. He looked into the corridor beyond. Seemingly satisfied he pulled the door shut and closed it. Then he walked over to the windows; that looked out upon a small garden and thence onto the street outside my uncle’s home. First he made sure they were closed and secured, then he pulled the heavy drapes firmly shut, making sure that one overlapped another.
   “I say Bull, what are you doing lad?” asked my uncle.
   “Be patient Henry and I’ll explain everything in a moment,” was the cryptic reply.
   Having closed the door to the lounge and pulled the drapes Bull now looked carefully around the entire room. He shrugged to himself, as though indicating that he had sealed the room off from the rest of the world as best he could. He walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. He indicated the box of cigars that my uncle always had on hand there. “May I Henry?”
   “Be my guest Bull. Pass them around if you would. I think perhaps I’ll pour us all some more brandy shall I?”
   “Might be a good idea,” the other agreed mysteriously.
   Bull was in the process of passing the cigar box to me.
   “’Ere, don’t I get a cigar for me-self then?” asked Susan. I coughed in surprise. She gave me a withering look. “Oh it’s alright for you gents to smoke a bloody cigar but I’m not allowed to, is that it?”
   I swallowed hard. “Not at all,” I managed. “It’s just that…”
   “Yes Allan?” she smiled sweetly. “A lady don’t smoke cigars, is that it?”
   I made a futile gesture. “Ah, well, I umm…”
   The damned American was chuckling. “By heck missy I like you,” he said. “I figure if you’re going to be part of this here adventure then we should treat you as an equal.” He passed her the box of cigars and I watched as she picked one out. The way she looked at it, rolled it around between her fingers, then sniffed suspiciously at it, had me convinced that she’d never smoked one in her life before. I thought I wouldn’t mention this out loud. I seemed to be developing a nasty habit of opening my mouth, only to find my foot firmly in it.
   While my uncle passed the brandy around (a glass for Susan now of course) Bull showed the young woman how to clip off the end of the cigar and light it with a match he held for her. I watched in interest as she inhaled the aromatic smoke….then burst into a coughing fit. She coughed and gasped and made faces. Her eyes watered and Bull had to resort to patting her heartily upon her back.
   “Gawd ‘an bennet,” she gasped out. “How the flipping heck can you smoke one of these things? It tastes disgusting!”
   “Not tried one before then?” I inquired innocently. She turned her head and fixed me with a stare that could have melted solid steel at twenty paces.
   “I’ll just have me brandy,” she said with a dark look.
   I smiled. “Jolly good.”
   Bull looked at all of us. He nodded to himself. For our part we all expectantly awaited to hear what he had to say. That he felt the information he was about to impart to us was of a secretive nature was obvious in the manner in which he had sealed the room.
   “Once I begin my story I’d be obliged if no one interrupted me ‘till I finish,” he requested. “Going to be a mite long. Going to seem more than a mite odd. Y’all are going to have a lot of questions when I stop jawing. I’ll do my best to answer them after.”
   “If I can understand what you’re bloody saying.” Frederick muttered to himself.
   The other grinned. “I’ll try and speak in passable english Fred.”
   “Alright boys and gal…here we go…”

*          *          *

   “First off let me tell you all that’s there’s no point in teaching Susan here how to be a pistoleer, because even if she shot the person you folks call Jack the Ripper it wouldn’t make any difference. If the Ripper is who I think he is, and I’ve got no doubt he is…then a bullet fired from a gun ain’t going to kill him.”
   “What?” interrupted Frederick. “A bullet won’t kill him? What on earth are you talking about man?”
   This outburst received a stern look from Bull Sackett. “Fred, I asked if you all might do me the favour of keeping your traps shut until I was finished did I not? I know this tale is going to be hard for you all to believe, but let me say my piece before you all start yammering will you please?”
   “Humph,” responded Frederick. “Very well, pray continue with your…odd story.”
   Bull Sackett nodded. “Thank you Frederick. Where was I?”
   “Bullets won’t kill Jack the Ripper,” I suggested helpfully.
   “Right…so we don’t need to turn Susan into another Annie Oakley. Annie’s a famous female shootist by the way. As far as I know there’s only one way to kill the Ripper. I’ll get to that in a while. First off I’ve got to try and explain to you what exactly the Ripper is.”
   What the Ripper is? I thought to myself. I was now completely intrigued. Like the others I sat almost without moving a muscle as our new American friend continued his strange story.
   “In native American Indian legends the Ripper is a Yee naaldlooshi, a skin-walker. They were human once as I can figure it. Indian magic changed them from regular men into skin-walkers. A skin-walker normally looks like anybody else. But they’re shape-shifters. Supposed to be able to take on the shape of any kind of creature. A wolf, a bat, rat, dog, a crow, even a bear I’ve heard. They say you can always tell a skin-walker when he’s in his animal form, ‘cause they don’t quite move right, not like you’d expect an animal to. In their human form they look just like you and me. In fact I’ve got to figuring lately that maybe they can even take on the appearance of anyone they want. Maybe they’re not locked into their original human body at all.
   “Now my story concerns one skin-walker in particular. A full blooded Apache shaman, a sorcerer, a witch I’d guess you’d call him. Baylok he’s called. Leastways that’s the name that most ‘paches know him by. I’ve been tracking Baylok from one side of the States to the other. Down Texas way there was some killings a couple of years ago. Almost identical to the way your Ripper operates. People, cut and hacked up, just like now.
   “Started off on a reservation. An Indian agent and his family were found all mutilated. Local’s I talked to told me the agent and his wife were a mean couple. Treated the ‘paches on the reservation quite badly. Kept money and goods that were supposed to be for the Indians for themselves. (Though that’s a common story on reservations.)    “Anyway…most folks suspected the Apaches themselves had killed the family, ‘Paches being well known for their love of killing and torture where white folks are concerned. I got sent down there right hasty like, Governor feared we was about to have an uprising or something. The Army had locked the reservation down tight as a drum. Threw some of the younger bucks into the galoose, the jail. Now it happens I speak passable ‘pache my own self. I kind of grew up with a few of ‘em in the neck of the woods where I was born. I got the job of interviewing them young bucks in the prison, also the older ‘pache folk on the reservation.
   “Right away I could see they was scared. Not scared of me or the Army, scared of something else. They told me that a skin-walker had been summoned by one of their shaman. That Indian agent and his wife had crossed the old man once too often. He’d got right ornery and figured that it was time to do something. They told me he’d brewed up some big magic in his hogun one night. Called himself up a skin-walker. Not just any walker though you understand. He’d summoned up Baylok himself. I ain’t real sure I get the whole deal, but Baylok seems to be some kind of skin-walker honcho. Long story short, Baylok comes along, takes over the old shaman’s body. Does his bidding ‘an kills the Indian agent and his family like he was supposed to…but then he didn’t give the old man his body back.  Seemed he didn’t want to go back to wherever it was he came from. Next morning the old shaman was gone. His hogun (that’s like a small house) was empty. Folks I talked to said they found strange tracks leading away into the desert. Long thin footprints, like a cross between a human and a coyote.
   “Now I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking the Apache’s did the killing themselves and blamed it on the old man, who maybe they did in for some reason? I kind of figured the same. I hung around the reservation. Kept asking questions, digging up a few bits and pieces here and there. Found a young feller that wanted to be a scout for the Rangers. He and me kind of hung out together. We even spent some time out in the desert. Found some tracks like was described to me. We followed them for a whole day, they just petered out eventually. Went inside a cave and just stopped. Young feller told me the Baylok had found a door back into the ‘Other” world.
   “Near as I can work out the Other world is a place much like our world. ‘Cept there ain’t no white men there, and the Indian spirits and a lot of other strange critters live there.
   “So that was that. I hadn’t been able to find out who killed the agent and his family. But I was convinced it wasn’t anyone still on the reservation. They was all terrified the Baylok might come back one night. Night-time seems to be when the thing is at its most powerful. I’ve been told that they sleep during the day. Or maybe they don’t even exist in our world at all during daylight hours. It’s hard to tell, too many legends mixed up with the truth.”
   “The truth?” Frederick interrupted again. “The truth? My God Bull listen to yourself. Are you seriously trying to tell us that this Baylok creature…this…this…evil Indian spirit that you think killed a family in Texas, has suddenly appeared here in London and is continuing his grisly work? Good God man, don’t be preposterous. And lay off the brandy for heavens sake. It’s obviously affecting you more than you realise!”
   I met Henry’s glance. And Susan’s. I shrugged. I’d heard very similar stories amongst the natives of Africa, and indeed myself had come across things I wasn’t fully able to explain.
   Bull Sackett was nodding and blowing smoke from his cigar. He took another sip from his brandy glass. “Don’t blame you for being sceptical Frederick. You did say you’d keep silent until I finished my story though. I’ll hold you to that if you don’t mind?”
   Fred raised his hands in exasperation, as I said. “Please Fred. I’m not totally unfamiliar with the things that Bull is telling us about. I’d like to hear him out before I start to make judgements on his state of mind.”
   The inspector looked at me in surprise. “You can’t possibly believe this hogwash Allan. I mean really my boy?”
   “You agreed not to interrupt Bull until he’s finished,” I chided gently. “The least you can do is hear him out.”
   “Yes please Frederick," insisted Susan. “I love a good ghost story. Giving me goosebumps this is.”
   I saw then that Susan was not taking the American seriously either. Only my uncle and I seemed at all prepared to give Bull the benefit of the doubt. But then we’d both spent time in Africa…and the Dark Continent is full of unexplainable phenomenon.
   Henry had picked up on something that the rest of us had overlooked amongst the startling admissions Bull had confided to us.
   “You said the Governor was worried about an Apache uprising Bull? And that you were sent to the reservation? Do you then have some connection with the Texas state government?”
   “Guess it’s time to put all my cards on the table,” admitted Sackett. He reached into a pocket of his fancy red vest and pulled something out. He leaned over and handed it to my uncle. Henry accepted it and looked down at the object in his hand. It appeared to be a metal circle, with a star shape inside it.
   “Pon my soul,” exclaimed my uncle. “You’re a Texas Ranger?”
   Bull smiled slightly. “Yes, Henry I am.”

*          *          *

   




   

[Jaqhama]

Well that's all for today ladies and gentlemen.

I've got to line edit another story due for publication shortly, so I'll be working on that most of tommorow, hopefully I'll have a chance to add a bit more to the Ripper tale sometime tommorow evening.

Cheers: Jaq.

[Mich]

Wow, really grippiing so far. Looking forward to the next installment!

[Jaqhama]

Thanks Mich.

I've been editing another story most of today/night...and there's a limit to how much screen time my eyes can take.
So I'll not be adding anymore to this story until sometime tommorow.

But more surprises in store.

Cheers: Jaq.

[Mich]

You are a busy Bunny. I can wait though.

[B. Fugu]

OH, the suspense!

[Sir Nikolas Vendigroth]

Just read through the entire thread.

Loved it. Can't wait for the next installment.

[James Harrison]

This is fantastic.  I'm hooked.  I can't wait for the next installment. 

[Jaqhama]

          It was just one revelation after another with Bull Sackett. I said as much. Henry nodded in surprised agreement.
          “Am I to take it that a Ranger is some kind of policeman in the State of Texas?” asked Frederick.
          “Indeed he is,” replied my uncle. “The Rangers are what one might call the elite of Texas police officers.’
          Bull shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far Henry. Main difference between a Ranger and a normal marshal or sheriff is that inside Texas, a Ranger has the authority to operate statewide. I have no authority to operate outside of Texas, but other lawmen generally do what they can to help out a Ranger if he’s in their neck of the woods.
          “No jurisdiction in the British Isles of course,” Frederick pointed out.
          Bull inclined his head. “No Fred, no jurisdiction here.”
          “Hmmm…”
          “So you’re a kind of policeman from Texas are you then Bull?” asked Susan. “A policeman what walks around with a gun and a bloody great knife? They must do things different in Texas, that’s all I can say.”
          “Everything’s different in Texas Susan,” chuckled the other.
          Frederick was sipping his brandy. He made a motion. “This is all very well and good Bull, but I am, as you must understand, extremely dubious…I mean extremely dubious…about your claims that this Baylok chap, you seem to feel is some kind of supernatural being is, in reality, our very own Jack the Ripper.”
          “Well now if y’all hadn’t interrupted my story I’d have got to the end by now Frederick.” He smiled wryly. “Is it alright if I do get to the nitty gritty now?”
          I noticed that Fred had consumed his brandy, and that he in fact, seemed to be getting quite jovial. Doubtless the many hours he had been awake, plus the alcohol he’d already consumed at his club, was starting to have an effect. He waved a hand magnanimously. “Oh please my dear chap. Pray continue. I confess I’m intrigued to hear the rest of your weird western tale.”
          “Oh yes Bull,” enthused Susan. “I’m really enjoying it. Please do carry on.”
          Our narrator frowned and looked at me. I made a covert gesture towards the brandy bottle.
              Ah,” he said.
   “Do finish ” I encouraged the American. He smiled. “Alright. Now the important thing to know here is that something went wrong with the old shaman’s magic. When you call up a skin-walker they ain’t supposed to take over your body. They’re supposed to appear in their own form, do your bidding and then high-tail it back to where ever they came from in the first place. That wasn’t what happened though. Don’t know why. Maybe the old man’s magic went wrong, wasn’t powerful enough, who knows. Point is that the Baylok somehow took possession of the old shaman…which means he’s got a solid foothold in this world for as long as he wants.
   “Baylok must like it here on our side of the fence. He’s been wandering around from Texas, all the way up to New York. Killing people all the time. I been on his trail since that first killing. I’d no sooner got back home than I got news of another series of murders in a different part of the state. They were so similar to the first that I asked to be assigned to the case. Trail was cold by the time I arrived at that one. Didn’t matter none. Was another killing after that, in a different location. Baylok don’t seem to care if’n he kills white folks or red folks, men or women, even kids on a couple of occasions. Word spread about Baylok among all the indians. They knew I was hunting the killer, and unlike the white folk, they believed the stories about Baylok being a skin-walker. Once he killed a native they offered me all the help I wanted. Seems Baylok needs to eat human flesh and blood. It’s the only thing that feeds him.
   “Another Ranger, pard of mine, name of Tex Willer, caught up with the feller I think is Baylok. Only this wasn’t no old man. Feller Tex filled full of lead was a young man. Fit and healthy looking.”
   “Your friend killed Baylok?” I asked, not really following the story now.
   “Didn’t say Tex killed him. Said he filled an indian feller full of lead. Four shots in the chest, knocked the feller back over the edge of a cliff. When Tex finally managed to find a way down to the bottom, the body was gone. No blood, nothing. Tex swore blind he’d got all his slugs in the chest. No way anyone would likely have survived the shooting. 45-calibre lead at close range makes a big mess. Then a fall like to have killed a normal man right after.
“Tex couldn’t explain it. But native stories say a skin-walker can only be killed by saying the walker’s name aloud, afore you do something lethal to him. Or her I guess.
   “There was a couple more nasty murders along the edge of the Texican border. I figured it was Baylok. Always the same modus operendi. (At which point Frederick raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked thoughtfully at the American lawman). I rode out to the border and did a bit of an investigation. Trail was always cold by the time I arrived. Hard to track something when you arrive two weeks after the event.
   “The killer started moving across the States after that. Always headed east. I got no idea why. The Governor gave me permission to keep looking for the killer, even after we were pretty sure he’d left Texas. We’d already telegraphed every sheriff and marshal’s office in a half dozen different States. More murders were reported. In Louisiana. New Orleans to be exact.
   “He liked New Orleans. Big mix of people and cultures live there. I arrived in the city less than two weeks after the first murder. Local lawmen thought it was a voodoo killing, they had them from time to time.
   “By the time I arrived three people had been sliced up. I knew I was close to the Baylok this time.
   “Me and a local Cajun law officer took to wandering the poorer sections of the city. Down in the Old Town. From dusk ‘till dawn we walked the streets and alleyways. Then one night I caught up with Baylok face to face.”
   The four of us expressed surprise at this revelation. “You apprehended him?” asked my Uncle Henry.
   “Got the bugger did you Bull?” this from Susan.
   I think, like myself, Frederick knew that we were about to hear something that would shock us. Bull was grim faced and seemed to be looking right through us, as though re-living the past.
   “Heard some awful noises coming from an alley. Me and Ricardo pulled our pistols and ran down the alley. Found a feller bent over a body on the ground. Seemed like the feller on top had his hand on the other person’s chest. A light went on in a window above us…and then we could see the thing sitting atop the body on the ground, pull its hand from inside the chest…lifted up the still twitching heart and took a bite from it!
   “Me and Ricardo starting blasting away. We put enough lead into the thing to sink a small boat. It fell over, off the body…and then started to get up. Ricardo was re-loading. I pulled my second pistol and kept firing. The thing fell over again, and it was still moving. By now Ricardo had re-loaded and he took up firing once more. The damned thing in front of us rolled over and was kind of thrashing around on the ground. Ric’s pistol went empty. I hadn’t reloaded mine. I figured nothing was going to take that many slugs and get back on its feet.
   “It stopped moving. I walked over to it and looked down at the body. I call it a thing ‘cause I can’t rightly say it was human. The head had a long snout, like a coyote. That’s a kind of wolf for you British folk. The body was covered in short fur. The arms and legs were human like, but the hands ended in these long talons, and the feet were longer than normal, and I reckon they were clawed also. I have to tell y’all that I wasn’t rightly sure what I was looking at.
   “Then the thing sprang to its feet and slashed me across the chest. It was a deep cut, real deep. I reeled backwards and dropped to my knees. The thing came at me again, then Ricardo was next to it. He had a Bowie knife in his hand. I guess he figured by then that bullet’s weren’t getting the job done. He swung that big ‘ole knife down across the thing’s back and damn near opened it up to its spine. It howled, by God did it howl. Then it spun around and threw itself at Ric. He slashed and stabbed at the thing. Nothing I could do. I thought I was dying, truth to tell. Blood was pumping out of me like a river. Then Ric tripped on the body in the alley and fell down. In a second the thing was all over him. A moment later and the thing had its snout buried in Ric’s throat.”
   Bull stopped talking and took a big swallow of brandy from the glass he held.
   For our part no one said a word. Even Frederick, sceptical as he seemed to be, remained silent.
   Bull swirled the brandy left in his glass and continued. “Ric died there. In that dark, dirty alley, in the back streets of New Orleans. Killed by something that shouldn’t even exist. The thing climbed off Ric’s body and turned back to me. Right about then a whole passle of folks showed up at the entrance of the alley. People were shouting. I could see a lantern and a couple of people with pistols. They started down in our direction. The thing hesitated. It looked at me. I’ll never forget that stare. The eyes were red, they glowed like hot coals. It held my gaze for a second, then leaped over me and high-tailed it down toward the other end of the alley. I was half lying against the side of the wall by then. The others reached me. I recognised one of Ricardo’s fellow lawmen. Then I passed out.
   “When I came to I was in a hospital ward. I’d been unconscious for over a week. Doctor’s hadn’t thought I’d make it. I’d lost a lot of blood. They told me Ricardo’s wife had saved me. She’d sat with me every day and most nights. Because I’d not known anyone in New Orleans, Ric had invited me to stay with him and his wife…I’d told them about Baylok, and how I reckoned he’d moved to their city to carry on his killing. Ric’s wife was some kind of voodoo practitioner. She believed my story right away, even if Ric himself doubted it. Unknown to the Doctor’s, she’d been giving me some herbal medicine. Dripping it down my throat when I was unconscious. I’m convinced that’s what saved me. I wasn’t out of the woods yet though. That slash from the Baylok’s talons had sliced me open right well. The wound kept getting infected, like it had some kind of poison in it. I was often delirious, with fevers and chills, like a man gets with malaria.   
   “Doctor’s tried everything to help me. But that terrible wound just wouldn’t heal. Ric’s wife brought a couple of local Cajun’s to the hospital one day. An old lady and a younger feller. The Doctor’s weren’t real happy, but they’d about given up on me healing by then.
   “The Cajun folks made me drink some more herbal stuff, poured some weird yellow powder all over my chest, into that wound that wouldn’t heal. Then they sat there and lit candles. The smoke from them stank like you wouldn’t believe. The Cajun pair began chanting. Thank God I was in a room of my own by then. The Doctor’s came by, took one look inside and shut the door. I don’t know how long they kept up that singing. I got delirious and passed out again. When I came to they was gone. Ric’s wife was still there. I mean Ric’s widow of course. When I woke up then, for the first time I felt like I was going to be ok. I felt like I was going to pull through…and I did. It took some time, but finally that damned wound healed, it never got infected again.”
   “Good grief Bull,” I said. “How long were you in hospital?”
   He looked at me. “Damn near a year Allan. I’m convinced that if those two cajun folks hadn’t have made their magic on me, I would have died in there.”
   “That’s quite a story,” Susan said in amazement.
            “Sure is,” agreed Bull Sackett. “I got out of that hospital a couple of weeks later and took care of some business in New Orleans. I spent some time with the two folks that had saved me, and with Ricardo’s widow. A month later I read in a newspaper that there’d been some mutilation killings in New York. I figured the Baylok was still on the loose. There’d been several mutilation killings reported in other States, between New Orleans and New York, while I was abed in the hospital. I knew the thing was still alive. So I headed off to the east coast.”
   “But if bullets won’t kill the creature Bull,” asked my uncle. “What did you plan to do when you caught up with it again.?”
   “Had me something that I believed would kill the thing for sure this time Henry. Got it from Ricardo’s widow.”
   “The poor woman,” said Susan. “I hope she finds another bloke to love one day.”
   “I hope she doesn’t,” replied Bull Sackett.
   “Why, what on earth do you mean?” gasped Susan. “How can you say that after all she done for you?”
   The other chuckled. “Because I married her Susan. And when I take care of my unfinished business with the Baylok, I’ll return to her, in New Orleans.”
   “Well I’ll be stumped,” Fredrick said in surprise.

[Jaqhama]

Next up...New York to London and Whitechapel.

I'm glad some of you are enjoying the tale.
I was kind of making it up as I went along...but now I've got the rest of the story all mapped out in my head.

The parts of the story concerning the Ripper, IE: the details of times and dates and victims are all factual.

Skin-walkers feature heavily in native American legends.

Has anyone recognized any of the characters I've used in my story so far?
(Apart from Frederick Abberline, who really was one of the main investigators in the Ripper case.)
If not, I'll supply the information at the conclusion of the adventure.

Cheers: Jaq.

[James Harrison]

I've put my answers in a spoiler so as not to unwittingly ruin it for others:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Mary Kelly = The Ripper's final victim in our timeline. 
Allan = I'm guessing Allan Quatermain (?)

Edit

What am I thinking, Mary Kelly!?!  My mind is screwed up, well, that or I've been watching From Hell too much  ...

Nope, Susan Saunders= beyond me at present. 

[Mich]

No not sure at this point. Great continuation though!

[Jaqhama]

 

I've put my answers in a spoiler so as not to unwittingly ruin it for others:

I'll leave the info until the end of the tale then.

[Jaqhama]

     “I say, Bull,” asked my uncle. “Why didn’t you say Baylok’s name aloud when you accosted him in New Orleans? You said yourself that the mention of his name was enough to negate his unnatural ability to survive deadly wounds.”
     “I did say the name Baylok aloud, Henry. Right before I put a dozen shots into him. It didn’t made no difference. I’m guessing that either that part of the myth is wrong, or Baylok ain’t the things real name. Or maybe nobody’s told Baylok he’s supposed to die when his name is mentioned.”
     “I’ve heard of a similar creature in Africa,” I admitted. “A demon. Most legends say they can only be killed with magical weapons.”
     “Well we’ll see about that, next time I catch up with him,” said Bull. “But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Let me tell you about how I came to be in London, and why I think your Ripper is Baylok…
     “So I finally got out of that danged hospital, weak as a kitten and only feeling about half the man I had been. I still needed plenty of rest. I moved in with Esmeralda. That’s my wife’s name. I couldn’t actually tell you when we fell in love. Kind of surprised us both I reckon. She had lost Ricardo and didn’t have no other kin. I’m guessing she looked after me in the hospital to begin with, ‘cause it gave her something to do, kept her mind off Ric’s death and his not being around any more. Wasn’t love at first sight or anything like that, was more of a slow thing. I spent a lot of time with them two Cajun folk also. A mother and son they was. They was voodoo practitioners or Hoodoo as they called it. I learned that Hoodoo is the magical side of voodoo. It ain’t white magic or black magic. It’s just magic. I can’t rightly explain it to be honest, so I won’t even try. But they knew about creatures like Baylok. Seems to me that just about every country in the world has a similar thing in their legends.
     “I reckon in our world we’d call Baylok a vampire. All I was interested in though, was how to kill the murdering son of a bitch. They told me that Baylok came from the ‘Other’ world…and that I’d need something from the same place to kill him with. They told me that cutting his head off might work…’course, the problem there was being able to do that little trick without getting killed my own self. I went back to Esmeralda and we pondered some on all this new information I was getting. She told me another story. Kind of a local legend. Involved a feller that was quite famous in our neck of the woods. I ain’t going to speak on that now. Just mention it in passing ‘cause it’s part of the whole story.
     “A month or more passed. I was reading all the newspapers I could get my hands on. Saw mention of those murders up in New York. I told Esmeralda I was going to hunt the Baylok down and finish the thing once and for all.” Bull chuckled at this point. “I was expecting her to show some protest in that regard. She’d already lost Ricardo to the thing, figured that maybe she’d be all against me chasing after it again…but nope…she’s a feisty lady. She told me to go find the monster and kill it stone dead…and she’d be waiting for me when I got back. But she insisted that I go back to the voodoo woman and get myself some protection. So I did. Again, I ain’t going to talk none about that. I’ve learned that the world we think we live in, and the world we really live in, ain’t the same thing at all. Stuff happens around us all the time that we don’t even notice. You might say that the most powerful magic, is being able to recognise all the things that happen that most folks don’t see. Well, my eyes have certainly been opened in that respect, I can tell you.
     “I took trains and stages and hot-footed it for New York. Was another killing the day ‘afore I arrived. Like always it was in one of the poorer districts. It’s like Baylok targets poor areas ‘cause he knows that a lot of people sleep rough, on the streets. A lot of ladies of the night walk the streets and alleyways. Lot of poor folk live in shacks and such that ain’t very well secured. And there’s always drunks and such wandering around, all hours of the night. I reckon he knows that killing poor people ain’t likely to attract the same kind of attention, as it would if he did in some well off man or woman. Over in the western States he’d only killed people who lived out of town, on ranches and small properties. Took awhile for locals to realise that the murders had occurred. By the time a posse was formed, the thing was long gone. Why it was always so hard for me to track the killer.
     “The killing that took place the day ‘afore I got to New York City was down near the docks. I went there right away. Found the local lawman what was dealing with the case. They call themselves police officers there now as well, by the way Frederick. A lot of ‘em are Irishmen, come over from the old country. I was lucky to meet up with a feller by the name of Brannigan. Big hombre, had the brogue and the charm, he did. I told him all about my adventures in the last two years. Showed him all the newspaper clippings I’d kept. Detailing the Baylok’s trail from Texas to New Orleans to New York. Bran was like you Frederick. He was sceptical, but he’d already seen the mess the Baylok had made of the last three bodies, and he wasn’t willing to completely discount my story. He described a wound on one feller’s corpse. Said how it looked like a big claw, like some bird of prey had dug into the chest. I showed him my scar, on my chest. That convinced him.”
     “I say hold on there a moment Bull,” imposed Fred. “You mean the chest wound you received is in the shape of the killer’s hand?”
     Bull Sackett was silent for a moment. I’m sure he knew what we all wanted to see. Even Susan was giving him a quizzical look.
     He sighed and loosened the leather cord that threaded through the silver ornament around his neck. He pulled it clear of his collar. Then he unbuttoned his fancy red silk waistcoat, and followed this by also opening his black cotton shirt. He pulled the shirt and waistcoat wide apart.
     “Oh my bleeding Gawd,” gasped Susan.
     “Great Heavens,” muttered my uncle.
     Frederick and I were silent. Though I heard Fred draw in his breath sharply. I may have swallowed a little harder than normal myself. For there in the centre of Bull’s tanned flesh, almost directly over his heart, was a mark. As he had said, in shape very similar to that of the claw of a great bird of prey, or some long fingered, but taloned hand. The scar was raised, such a mark as a cow might have, branded into its hide. I raised my own hand up and held it a few inches in front of Bull’s chest. The claw shaped scar on his chest was larger than my open hand.
     Of a sudden Frederick got up from his chair, practically pounced on the brandy decanter, and poured a large amount into his glass. He raised the glass and took a big swallow. Was that a tremble I saw? Did I discern a shiver, that flowed through his entire body for a moment?
     “Fred?” I asked in concern. “Are you alright old chap?”
     He took another swallow. His hand was trembling. His face had gone pale, as though all the blood had drained from it.
     He looked directly at Bull. “I believe you,” he said. “I believe everything you’ve told us, now, Ranger Sackett.”
     “By Jove Fred, you’ve gone pale as a ghost, man,” observed my uncle.
     The inspector pointed at the hideous mark on Bull’s flesh. “The first woman that was killed. I saw her body in the morgue. The chest had been cut open. We thought the Ripper had carved a fanciful pattern with his knife. I see now that we were mistaken. The wound on the dead woman’s chest is a match for the scar that Bull sports. And Bull survived because it was but a glancing blow. The woman’s chest was ripped apart.”
     “Yeah,” nodded the American. “Baylok didn’t have time to get a good grip. Just kind of lashed out at me.”
     “The other women’s bodies bear similar wounds,” Frederick continued. “The coroner had some trouble deciding what sort of blade had produced the awful lacerations. He reached the conclusion that the Ripper had used both a large and a smaller blade. Perhaps several. I mean, how was the poor fellow to know?…How would any of us have guessed that some otherworldly creature was the killer? Not knives at all…claws, damned claws.”
     Frederick was obviously badly shaken. He returned to his chair, glancing at the closed drapes, as though afraid the Baylok might be lurking outside, even now.
     “So what eventuated in New York Bull?” he asked.

More tommorow...

[Mich]

* Eyes glued to 'puter*