A few years ago, I wrote a short story that takes place during the Jack the Ripper era in London. Written from the servant's perspective, the fictional piece, titled
Jack, addresses the crimes of that period from a different angle. Thanks to all who take the time to read my fiction and posts. I do appreciate it. As always, copyright applies to all content.
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
Jack
The darkness of
the night was coal black, created by a dense fog that enveloped the air
suddenly and without warning. It
was difficult to make out figures before one’s eyes but the sounds of the
evening were keen and crisp. The
creatures of the night had emerged and with them the raucous sounds followed. Bellicose laughter and loud
propositions rang out, along with drunken swearing and then the shrill whistles
made by police officers. A
piercing female scream shattered the blackness and then silence. Immediately, the quiet was followed by
shouts, which seemed to emanate from every direction. Shivering, I drew my cloak around my shoulders and
returned inside, shutting the door firmly behind me.
The following
morning brought the usual rituals that greeted servants of London’s upper
class. Yet an uninvited twist
marked the atmosphere with dread and expectation. Mr. Dalton returned from his morning walk, face flushed and
out of breath, with a newspaper tucked under his arm. All eyes turned questioningly toward him, and all he did was
slightly nod to no one in particular and avert his own eyes, affirming what we
already knew. Trembling, I spilled
some tea as I poured it into Madame’s cup, but she said nothing. She was as distraught as everyone else
and her silence at my clumsiness betrayed her distraction.
“It is time we
moved, Richard,” Madame said tensely, as Mr. Dalton removed his cap and tossed
it carelessly onto the sideboard.
He sat down next to Madame at the dining room table and his breakfast
was placed before him. His traditional
early morning meal was devoured heartily as usual, and his ever-widening girth
portrayed a person who enjoyed good food.
“Evelyn, in good
time we will move. I had my eye on
a place further in the city but it was snatched up before I knew it,” Mr.
Dalton said, snapping open the newspaper with a jerk of his wrists, displaying
the disturbing headlines of the day.
“In good time
might be too late,” Evelyn cried.
“We’re much too close to those horrible Whitechapel events! We must move, Richard, the sooner the
better!”
I cleared the
dishes carefully, praying I would not drop a cup or saucer as any broken dishes
would come directly out of my wages.
Usually I was calm in the tensest circumstances, but the recent events
involving a madman calling himself Jack the Ripper was too close for comfort. The china clattered together as I held
each dish tightly to my body, glancing nervously at the blaring headline raised
in front of Mr. Dalton’s face.
Routinely, I
completed all of the morning work required of me and retreated to my room. I had been in the employ of Mr. and
Mrs. Dalton for many years and while Madame could at times be gruff, she was
actually a kind person. As long as
things were done in a proper manner, she generally would not get
agitated. I thought she was fond
of me in her own way and found her very generous with gifts and wages. Mr. Dalton was kind-hearted to a
fault. Too often he was taken
advantage of by individuals with less than honest intentions. Madame was always chiding him for his
gullibility. By all respects, I
was fortunate to have respectable employment and to have maintained it for as
long as I had been in London. I
shuddered, thinking of those poor souls and their line of work, falling victim
to a faceless monster successful in eluding authorities.
Reaching
underneath my pillow, I retrieved the letter. It was addressed to me in the still childlike hand I would
recognize anywhere as being that of my younger brother. Fortunately, no one else had seen the
letter as I received the post on the day it arrived. I still had not read it. Something about its arrival coinciding with the current
tragic events blighting the city made me uneasy. It was an unwelcome premonition. Still, I was curious about its contents and opened
the letter.
The note was brief
and to the point. My brother had
arrived in early March after completing his studies in the medical field. He said he finished training in
Edinburgh and found work assisting a physician at a clinic in the city, and he
hoped to see me soon. It was
signed, “Affectionately yours, Jack”.
My hands shook and
my palms were cold. It had started
again. The same unfortunate
events, which occurred in Edinburgh, and now what I feared the most, had
followed me to London. I left
Scotland ten years prior, with speculation and mystery running rampant as to some
unsolved murders occurring in the area.
Authorities never discovered the person behind the crimes, yet how could
they? What would possibly lead
anyone to suspect a young boy from a good working-class home and with no
criminal past? But I knew. Too many hints, too many stolen glances
and far too many unexplained stories and disappearances pointed right to my
dear adored sibling.
Each time a murder
occurred, Jack suddenly acquired a trinket or two. Often a pocket watch or piece of jewelry materialized in my
brother’s possession. He was
always mysterious about the circumstances surrounding those acquisitions, but I
knew. I could not face the truth
and fled, leading no one to believe, not even my mother, that I suspected
Jack. And now, he was in London
and had arrived shortly before the new batch of crimes started.
I felt a rush of
panic and knew I must find Jack and confront him. I would threaten to go to the authorities, anything to cease
the violent sprees wrecking havoc across London. The following day I would have a few hours to myself and I
was determined to locate my brother, yet how to go about it would prove a great
obstacle. He was not specific as
to where he was working, so finding him would not be easy. But ultimately, the search was not
mine. Jack found me.
As I made my way
down the front walk the following day, I inhaled the morning breeze, still thick and acrid smelling.
It was a rare day in the city to experience clear fresh air, as the soot
and smog blanketed the atmosphere, choking all who ventured outdoors
unprepared. Some days it was
necessary to cover one’s mouth and nose with a handkerchief to escape the
heaviness, which seemed to fill a person’s lungs to the point of asphyxiation. The sensation of suffocating was often
a common experience when greeted with the stifling air.
“Hello, Penelope,”
a masculine voice said from behind me.
It was deep and smooth and had always reminded me of what honey and dark
cocoa mixed together might sound like.
I knew it to be Jack without turning around.
“You have not
changed a bit,” he continued, as I turned to face him. Neither had he. My brother was still as beautiful as
ever, with neatly trimmed dark hair and eyes that penetrated to the soul. His features were delicate and feminine
looking, yet he stood tall, towering over his average male counterpart. Women had always been attracted to him.
Jack, with his charm and good looks, knew how to take advantage of that
fact. It was in his nature to use
anything to his benefit, even if it meant sacrificing his own family to further
his gains. Our mother too often
fell victim to his trickery, believing all he said and holding him accountable
for nothing.
“Jack, you
startled me! I have not seen you
since Papa’s funeral.” It was all
I could say to him as I regarded my own brother with suspicion and trepidation.
His eyes did not
waver from my face, and so intense were they that it felt as if he were reading
my every thought. Could he tell I
believed him a cold-blooded criminal; one so heartless as to commit
murder? Did he know? It seemed impossible to discern what
was truly in the heart of this man who was connected to me solely by
blood. A stranger stood before me
who I had known since his birth, someone who had shared my parents and my
childhood, yet I knew very little of him.
“I brought you a
gift,” he said unexpectedly, handing me a small box tied with a white ribbon.
Inside was a
brooch containing a large red stone resting in the center, surrounded by
smaller, green ones. I did not
think it of any value as the stones held no luster and were glass-like in
appearance. I wondered why he had
given it to me. As if to answer my
thoughts, he said it had been our mother’s and he thought I might like to own
it. I recalled she had very little
jewelry and I did not recognize it as being hers. But I did not express this to my brother. He seemed to be waiting for my
reaction, his intense eyes searching my face with amusement. When I did not provide him with a
response he wanted, he grew impatient with me.
“Look, Penelope,
the least you could do is thank me.
After all, our dear mother passed away last year, and you failed to even
show up to give your respects. I
have made a decent effort to come by and visit with you and give you something
of your own Mum’s, and you treat me like this! Might as well just say my goodbyes then,” he said, looking
at the ground, but making no move to leave.
“Jack, thank you
for the brooch. It was very kind
of you to bring this to me. I am
sorry I missed the service for Mother.
I hope you can forgive me,” I said, a little too humbly, I thought, but
perhaps he would believe it sincere.
Again, the intense
scrutiny. It seemed he was playing
a game. He was trying to bait me
into revealing my thoughts to him.
Then without warning, he would use those reflections to his advantage
even if that meant against me. There is no doubt he wondered why I left
abruptly after Papa’s funeral ten years ago. There had been the occasional letter sent to Mother, but
never had I corresponded with Jack at any time over the years. It struck me that perhaps I was too
secretive for his comfort. That
would certainly be true if in fact Jack were guilty of those heinous crimes, as
I believed him to be. It occurred to
me then that maybe I should be concerned with my own safety.
“Well, Jack, I
really should get on with my day.
It has been good seeing you and thank you again for the brooch,” I said,
gathering my cloak around me and stepping a little farther from him. “By the way, where is it you are
working?” I remembered to ask.
The amusement
returned and with a twitch of his lips he replied, “Over in Spitalfields, not
too far. Take care of yourself,
Penelope.”
Touching the brim
of his hat, he turned and left, just as quickly and quietly as he had
appeared. I watched his retreating
form slowly disappear into the pedestrian traffic along the street. The encounter left me uneasy and I had
not done what I had intended. It
was one thing to think someone guilty of murder; it was certainly something
else to verbalize the accusation.
Perhaps the police would like to hear my theory, but without proof I was
not sure I had a leg to stand on.
It was a frightening prospect to actually formalize my suspicions about
Jack. What if I happened to be
wrong? It would mean the
authorities investigating an innocent man who would no doubt be furious with
me. But the brutal attacks on
innocent victims outweighed the inevitability of my brother’s scorned pride.
Without knowing
where I was going, I suddenly found myself standing in front of Scotland Yard.
***
The inspector had
heard it all before and sat across from me with eyes glassy from lack of sleep,
and a weary expression displayed on his face. He was middle-aged and wore his spectacles low on the bridge
of his nose as he wrote down the information I gave him. His disheveled appearance indicated to
me he had been working around the clock on this case; and his lack of
enthusiasm for what I had to relay suggested I was giving him nothing new. I gathered every other citizen of the
city had already been in, offering opinions, suggesting leads and implicating
neighbors or distant relatives due to some odd behavior or unexplained activity. Nothing I said about my brother or my
suspicions created any interest from him.
After he finished jotting down the last note, he readily dismissed me.
“Well, I think
that is about it, Miss, er,” he began, looking again at his notes to recall my
name.
“Miss Thornbury,”
I said, “Penelope Thornbury.”
“Right, Miss
Thornbury. Thank you for coming in
and we will keep in touch.”
I gathered my
belongings about me and wondered if I had done the right thing. The inspector did not take seriously my
account and probably thought my brother posed no threat. I made my way through the sea of people
trying to find the corridor, which would lead me outside, while someone was
hurriedly trying to get my attention.
“Excuse me, Miss
Thornbury?” a male voice asked.
“I am Inspector
Sedgwick,” he continued, “I overheard your conversation with Inspector Brindle
and I wondered if you had a moment.”
He was younger
than the other officer and possessed a friendlier disposition, which led me to
eagerly recount what I told Inspector Brindle. Inspector Sedgwick appeared very interested in my brother
and what had happened in Edinburgh.
He asked many questions, writing notes as he did so. I noticed too he was attractive in a
comfortable looking way, with fair hair and an easy smile. He readily put me at ease.
“So, may I call on
you if I have further questions?” he asked, ending our interview.
I thought about my
situation and how it might appear to Mr. and Mrs. Dalton. Under no circumstances could I afford
to draw attention to myself with respect to these matters, and an inspector
from Scotland Yard inquiring of me at their home would do just that. I explained to Inspector Sedgwick the
reason for my hesitation and he was quick to offer a solution.
“I will just send
around a note first. Then perhaps
you might meet me somewhere. Would
that work?” he asked.
I assured him it
would and left feeling as if I had done the right thing, yet experiencing
tremendous guilt at betraying my brother.
The best thing that could happen would be proof of Jack’s innocence, but
innocent or not, I knew that he would be very angry with me. I did not know to what extremes he
might express his fury. It made me
feel very uneasy.
***
It was not long
before another horrible crime was committed and the household was once again on
edge. Madame fretted more so about
moving and Mr. Dalton patronized her with promises of a better place as soon as
something became available. I had
heard nothing further from Jack and wondered if Inspector Sedgwick followed up
on my story. It seemed certain
that Jack would have called on me if he had been questioned.
Two days later,
Inspector Sedgwick sent a note asking if I might meet him. He set the time and place and told me
if I did not appear, he would assume I could not get away. Fortunately, I was able to sneak out
that afternoon. Madame had taken
to her room, a habit that was increasing in frequency. I welcomed the interlude and the
thought of Inspector Sedgwick caused me to take a little more care in my
appearance. As an afterthought, I
grabbed the brooch Jack had given me and tucked it inside my pocket. It had not occurred to me to show the
inspector the jewelry when I first met him. I thought it best to do so as I could not remember my mother
owning that pin. Perhaps it could
prove relevant to the case somehow if Jack were involved.
Inspector Sedgwick
was waiting for me in the park where he said he would be and seemed genuinely
pleased to see me. I wondered
though if that was my imagination as I was happy for some reason to see him,
and hoped he felt the same. There
was no reason to assume he had a personal interest in me, but I did. I knew the meeting to be purely
professional and relating to the case, yet secretly I took pleasure in meeting
him if only for a brief amount of time.
“Inspector
Sedgwick, have you seen my brother?” I asked.
“Honestly,
no. Are you sure he said he was
working in Spitalfields?”
“Yes, but he
didn’t give me a specific place.”
He looked tired,
as if the pursuit of the phantom killer haunting the streets of London preyed
upon his own dreams, robbing him of much needed sleep. I felt the sudden urge to touch his
hand in reassurance, but restrained myself, not wishing to appear forward or
revealing feelings that might not be reciprocated.
“I’m afraid I can
not find anyone in Spitalfields who has heard of your brother. I do recall those events in Edinburgh,
but it seems nothing was ever officially reported. Apparently, it was hushed up by someone. Can you tell me about your father,
Penelope?” he asked.
The fact that he
had called me by my given name was not lost on me. I explained to him that my father had been the rector of a
small parish and a well-respected man in the church. Both he and my mother doted on Jack. I recalled that my father would not
allow us to mention those horrible events and shortly after the last murder,
Papa died quietly in his sleep. I
suspected my brother of the crimes, but I did not know if my father had. Shortly after my father’s funeral, I
left with very little money and found myself in London, and quickly under the
employ of the Daltons.
I remembered the
brooch and handed it to the inspector, telling him I had not remembered my
mother wearing such a piece of jewelry.
It was possible however that she acquired it after I left Edinburgh. He looked at it closely, turning the
pin over in his slim hands, examining the back as thoroughly as the front. Was it possible Jack had taken this
item from one of the victims? I
could not ask but I knew Inspector Sedgwick wondered the same thing. I shuddered at the thought.
“Were there any
suspicions concerning your father’s death?” he asked.
“No, although I
knew Papa and Jack had argued quite violently a few days before Papa’s
passing. But I did not know the
reason for their argument. I had
my own suspicions when Papa died, but no one else did. Perhaps Papa doubted Jack’s innocence
as well,” I said.
He handed the
piece of jewelry back to me and clasped my hands together in his own. “You must take care and never find
yourself alone with your brother if he seeks you out again. It could be very dangerous.”
I noticed the look
of concern on his face and oddly it comforted me. I barely knew the man standing before me but I took solace
in his words. No one had ever
truly cared about my safety. It
pleased me to know he did.
“I must get back,
Inspector Sedgwick. Mrs. Dalton
will be wondering about me,” I said.
“Please call me
Martin,” he said. I nodded and
turned away, knowing he was watching me as I walked. I did not have to look to be certain. I just knew.
***
November 1888
seemed to bring the last round of escapades brought on by Jack the Ripper, at
least any that were publicized.
Little was mentioned of the maniacal atrocities in the press from that
point on. But unsolved murders of
similar origins continued to occur and most concluded it was the work of the
same madman. No suspects had yet
been arrested nor had I seen my brother again.
I did, however,
receive another gift from Jack.
Wrapped in plain brown paper, the parcel arrived early one morning. Immediately, I recognized Jack’s
handwriting and went to my room to open it. Inside were a pair of earbobs, each containing one small
black stone. Upon closer inspection,
I noticed one of the stones was chipped on the edge. There was no note accompanying the package and I quickly
rewrapped the unwanted delivery.
It would be turned over to Martin, I thought, along with the brooch and
samples of Jack’s handwriting. I wanted
nothing more of my brother, yet I feared there would be more in years to come.
Martin Sedgwick
had become a strong comforting force in my life. Without knowing the particulars, Mr. and Mrs. Dalton
welcomed his presence in their home, even though his visits were with me. They felt safer, as I did, in his
company. So Madame did not question
me about any unfinished work when he chose to drop by to see me. During the troubled times known to our
city, he was happily received with open arms, due to his occupation on the
Daltons’ part, but on a personal level for myself.
Perhaps it was too
coincidental to think my brother would use his actual name when leaving his
mark on the poor victims of those unsolved crimes. Yet it was like him, really, to taunt the authorities and
think himself invincible and far too clever to be caught. It was clear to me that Martin highly
suspected Jack as well.
Fortunately for me that suspicion led to him being part of my life
permanently.
Martin Sedgwick
and I married quietly at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in May 1889. It was a small service with very few
people in attendance. As we left
the church on an unusually glorious and clear morning, a man approached me
holding an envelope. He was
unkempt and dirty and smelled of liquor, with a sneer of his lips that belied
the contempt he held for anyone who had better fortune in life. Saying he was paid to deliver the
message, he handed it to me and limped away.
I opened the
letter and all that was written in the childlike hand was, “Stay safe,
Jack”. If it had a double meaning,
Martin and I certainly took notice of it.
Taking my hand in his, he led me to the waiting carriage and said, “You
will be safe, with me.”
(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)
