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96 pages

English

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Set in the gas lit streets of East London in 1888, this novel follows a man's descent into utter evil and his wife's desperate attempts to save her children from the feared workhouse. Upon discovering her husband is the murderer, Fanny is caught in a dilemma. Should she expose her husband to the police to save others and face destitution herself? Or should she keep quiet to protect her family? But she knows her husband has become insane and someone must stop this monster.

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Publié par	eBook Versions
Date de parution	04 septembre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781843962335
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0240€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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BRED IN
WHITECHAPEL

Tom Coleman and Robin Prior

FICTHIS PUBLISHING
Published by
Ficthis Publishing

Copyright © 2013
Tom Coleman and Robin Prior

Tom Coleman and Robin Prior have
asserted their right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be
identified as the authors of this work.

ISBN-13 978-1-84396-233-5

A CIP catalogue record for
this ebook edition is available
from the British Library.

ePub edition production
www.ebookversions.com

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system
or transmitted in any form
or by any means electronic,
photomechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without
the prior written permission
of the publisher. Any person who
does any unauthorised act in
relation to this publication may be
liable to criminal prosecution
Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Catherine Prior, Sandra Bailey and Margaret Sasson for their help and support
Contents

Title Page
Copyright Credits
acknowledgements
Foreword

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Foreword

This novel is based on the Whitechapel murders committed by Jack the Ripper in 1888.
Where facts are verifiable, they are included accurately. Where there is no recorded fact, we have fictionalised probability and possibility.
It is predominantly, but not exclusively, Jack s own story.
1

Outside, in the slippery darkness of that October night, an army of policemen searched the streets of Whitechapel for Jack the Ripper. Each was desperate that the killer be caught; each hoping it was not he who happened upon him. This was no time for heroes. Fear had settled like a fog.
Armed with an oil lamp, a wooden truncheon and a whistle, the police had scant protection against a foe adept at hiding, and swift and lethal with a knife. Old and welcoming haunts were now closed to them. Places where they would have stopped for tea or ale were shut against them. Apart from brief exchanges with colleagues where beats crossed, or words of empty encouragement from the despairing sergeant on his rounds, these policemen spoke to no one. They saw only the homeless and prostitutes needing their doss money, and cats and rats playing their own game of hunt. This most populous city in the world had become a frightening and lonely place even to those pretending to be brave
Inside the office building in Whittington Avenue where he was caretaker, the man they all sought, John Nething, was sat in his favourite chair in the basement boiler room fearful of his own death. He was alone, hidden away with a clear view of the door, lamenting this sombre October. For his plans had gone very wrong. He was puzzled and confused. For the first time he had doubt. What had been so clear and straightforward was now uncertain. The foundations upon which he had built his life were showing cracks and he had no way of repairing them if he was to die. He feared for his family and was scared by the eternal blackness that would be his death. John was angered by the irony that one of his murders could bring about his own demise
If John did die the recognition he so wanted could go to waste, lost with the newsprint, forgotten behind tomorrow's gossip and some worthless character might step forward to steal his glory, leaving John forgotten forever and his wife and children ashamed of him.
John s left arm throbbed constantly. Some germ must have seeped into his blood through a scratch when killing Kate Eddowes, he guessed. The thin gas lighting in Mitre Square had been partly broken and he d had to work by feel more than sight. He d seen enough of doctors to know the germ must have come from Kate s intestines and had grown from an irritating sore to a swelling too painful to touch
Having seen such infections in the army, he had to act soon or face amputation or even death. The swelling needed to be lanced but he could not do the lancing himself. The thought of inflicting his own pain, using his own knife to cut his own skin, and seeing his own blood was something he could not stomach. John looked at his morbid trophy cabinet with its comforting specimens and moved his focus from the trophies inside to his reflection in the glass. They called him scrawny, a word that sounded like gristle in his head. John reached out to touch his face with his fingertips. The newspapers described him with words more fitting a grotesque, making him sound big and with the power of some beast. They only saw his actions as bad and evil; not one of them attempted to understand the reasoning behind them. He smiled to himself in the glass. One day they would know how he really looked. They would learn that a good man did not need piercing eyes or a salivating mouth to do what was right
And it had all been going so well. Days earlier, The Star newspaper was the first to call him Jack the Ripper and the name had fitted like a toff s suit. Before that they d called him the Whitechapel Murderer as if he had owned the place. Politicians were panicking. They didn't understand what was going on. Senior policemen were in despair, humiliated and hounded by the papers. The public were in a state of constant fear, worried about their wives and daughters, angry that the authorities were not solving the murders. The officials were so confused they could not even agree to offer a reward. Not that a financial enticement would have brought them any closer to finding John. Money would have clouded their efforts further, bringing more bogus claims of sightings and misinformation as men in the street sought their own moments of notoriety. The newspapers would have stirred these claims into even muddier waters to sell copies.
Eventually, the fear of death did make John take action. Reluctantly, before his wife Fanny settled down to read, John left the solitude of his basement to go upstairs to his rooms at the top of the offices. Pulling himself from his chair with his good arm, he laboured up the broad stairway with Fanny s words echoing in his head. A doctor now is cheaper than amputation, she d said repeatedly. He won t ask questions, he won t need to know how you got like that.
Out of breath, John stood in the doorway of their scullery with his forearm resting on the frame for support. Apart from the basement, this was his favourite room. This was home, clean and bright. This was where the children ran to sit on his knee, and where he would make faces that made them laugh. In this scullery John let the children ride him like a horse and they would scream with delight as he bucked in pretence of unseating them. It was the love and fun of this room that John so wanted back. This was a safe room, where Sophie could be just a little girl with no fear of contamination from outside. This is where she was protected and free to be herself
Now the scullery seemed like a cage he had to enter. Fanny was sewing a patch on Edward s coat. John felt hot, a sweaty nauseous hot
You ll have to do it. He shot the words at Fanny. He ran his hand along the wood of the frame and wiped his lips with his shirt cuff
Coldly, Fanny mouthed, Right. She seemed to give it no thought at all.
John then waited. He d expected a fuller response from Fanny. You ll have to take the children to your friend , he fired. That bossy one round the corner.
Right, Fanny mouthed again. With her I know best but you won t listen voice she added, The streets are full of police. Again. She paused then. I think they always will be. She looked straight at him. Until.
The police in the street and the likes of Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and Inspector Abberline gave John little cause for concern. He could move amongst them like an eel, outwit them any time he liked. He had proved that. What frightened him was a germ too small to see.
They won t stop a woman with children, he said. And don t get any second thoughts.
There's no need to take the children. We can do it now.
John paused before saying, No, you d better take them. He pushed his hair back
I'll be straight back. I'll have to tell her why I m bringing the children.
No. No. No explanations. She'll tell everybody. We don't want more rumours.
Rumours? Fanny raised her eyebrows and shrugged. For a moment John worried she might give words to their silent acknowledgement of what John had done
Get on with it.
While Fanny was away for those few minutes taking the children to her friend s, John sat in the parlour and rested his head on his good arm, longing for the pain to give him a moment s respite
On her return, John told Fanny to go into the scullery; he followed her in, taking his knife in its sailcloth bag. As they stood in that cold room with its smell of soap and food and the sky through the windows heavy with dark cloud still visible against the darkness of the night, John looked Fanny in the eyes. Are you ready? he asked.
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