Annie and the Ripper Read online

  ANNIE & THE RIPPER

  By Tim Champlin

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2013 by Tim Champlin

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Tim Champlin was born John Michael Champlin in Fargo, North Dakota, the son of a large-animal veterinarian and a school teacher. (Tim is a Confirmation name he uses for a pen name.)

  He was reared in Nebraska, Missouri and Arizona, graduating from St. Mary’s High School in Phoenix. When his father was again transferred—this time to Tennessee--

  Tim moved with his parents and siblings to Nashville. “It was the first time I’d ever been east of the Mississippi,” he stated.

  Tim would later graduate from Middle Tennessee State College in Murfreesboro. In 1964, he declined a job offer from the U.S. Immigration Service as a Border Patrol Inspector to finish work on his MA degree in English at Peabody College (now part of Vanderbilt University.)

  In 1994, he retired from the U.S. Civil Service after 30 years with four different federal agencies. During this time, he and his wife, Ellen, were bringing up three children. He was also working at becoming a professional author. “Writing was my escape, and I believe it saved my sanity during those high-pressure years,” he declared.

  To date, 22 of his short stories have been published in various periodicals and anthologies, including a story in The American Way, American Airlines in-flight magazine. In addition, 20 non-fiction articles have appeared in magazines. One of these, “Sailing the Mississippi” a photo article about a river adventure, was his first commercial sale more than forty years ago.

  His latest novel was a Finalist in the Western Writers of America Spur Awards competition for 2013. His 32nd novel, CROSS OF GOLD, will be published in November, 2013 by Thorndike. “One good thing about historical novels is they don’t become outdated with the passage of time,” he noted.

  To be closer to their grown children and ten grandchildren, Tim and his wife moved in 2012 from Nashville to Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia.

  He has a rapport with animals and has owned a succession of dogs over the years.

  His latest “best friend”, a Cocker Spaniel mix, recently died of old age.

  Besides writing, Tim’s interests include sailing, coin collecting, manual typewriter sand target shooting. A long-standing enthusiasm for sports continues with tennis and bicycling. (He took part in track and football in high school and college).

  He is currently writing a novel about a World War I pilot who is flying for France in the LaFayette Escadrille.

  Other Books by Tim Champlin

  Summer of the Sioux, 1981

  Dakota Gold, 1982

  Staghorn, 1984

  Shadow Catcher, 1985

  Great Timber Race, 1987

  Iron Trail, 1988

  Colt Lightning, 1989

  King of the Highbinders, 1989

  Flying Eagle, 1990

  The Last CAmpaign, 1996

  The Survivor, 1996

  Swift Thunder, 1998

  Deadly Season, 1998

  Wayfaring Strangers, 2000

  Lincoln's Ransom, 2000

  The Tombstone Conspiracy, 2000

  A Trail To Wounded Knee, 2001

  Treasure of the Templars, 2001

  By Flare of Northern Lights, 2002

  White Lights Roar, 2003

  Raiders of the Western & Atlantic, 2003

  Fire Bell in the Night, 2004

  The Blaze of Noon, 2005

  Devils' Domain, 2005

  Territorial Rough Rider, 2005

  Cold Cache, 2007

  West of Washoe, 2009

  Beecher Island, 2010

  Tom Sawyer and the Ghosts of Summer, 2010

  Annie and the Ripper, 2010

  The Secret of Lodestar, 2012

  Cross of Gold, 2013

  Two small, illustrated children's books:

  Lummox, 2011

  Susanah and the Frog, 2012

  Chasing the Golden Treasure--A series of 6 connected short stories for young teens, published online by Echelon Press, 2011.

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  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Everyone loves a mystery. Jack the Ripper is still a mystery. His legend, ever new, continues to evolve. What makes the case of this notorious serial killer so fascinating is the fact that no one was ever arrested or tried for the murders. He remains unknown to this day. For a century and a quarter, latter-day sleuths—Ripperologists—have attempted to positively identify the slasher of prostitutes who terrorized London's East End during the last few months of 1888. Over the years, many authors have put forth their arguments for this suspect or that suspect—some of them hardly known in 1888—as being the Ripper. But there's always at least one hole in every carefully crafted theory that lets the air out of the balloon. The case has never been solved. Now, several generations after the murders, it's not likely to be, barring some startling factual evidence that has yet to come to light.

  Also in the late 1880s, Annie Oakley was the internationally acclaimed star of William F. Cody's Wild West Show, which performed in London for six months in 1887, the jubilee year of Queen Victoria's coronation. The show also returned to perform in London and Europe in 1889.

  What if Annie Oakley and Jack the Ripper had met? I was intrigued by the possibilities. What would have happened if this demented serial killer of women had come up against the courageous, athletic woman who was very likely the world's most skillful rifle and pistol shot? What if…? I had to know. So, I created this novel to find out.

  The pairing of these two disparate historical characters is not as implausible as it may first appear. Annie's own factual background as an abused child slave would have given her a strong motivation for cooperating with the law to assist in luring and trapping the Ripper.

  I wove many of the known facts of the Ripper case into the story. I have attempted to depict all historical characters the way they were perceived in 1888. My tale is historical fiction, a blend of what did happen and what could have happened.

  So, settle in and immerse yourself in this Victorian tale where fact and legend envelope you thicker than a London fog.

  PROLOGUE

  3:10 a.m.

  August 31, 1888

  London, England

  "Polly, come along with me. You can share my room."

  Two women stood on the sidewalk in front of a darkened lodging house.

  "I'll not be beholden to you, Sarah." Polly made as if to turn away.

  "It's all right," the first woman pled, "you can save your money."

  "I've earned my doss money twice tonight, but I drank it up." She giggled. "I can earn it again, don't you fret."

  "I know you can. It's just that the night's nearly gone. Come, get some rest. Sleep it off and we'll start fresh tomorrow evening," Sarah said.

  "Not a bit of it. There's plenty of fish out there yet, and I'll snag one." She disengaged herself from Sarah's arm. "I've got on a jolly bonnet that'll fetch
'em." She leaned forward as if to show off her hat, and nearly lost her balance. She straightened up, moving carefully. "I'll be back shortly." She reeled off down the street. "Don't wait up," she said gaily over her shoulder.

  Twenty minutes later Polly was more than a half-mile away, moving along deserted Buck's Row, clinging to the arm of a man in dark clothing a few inches taller than she. They paused by a head-high wooden fence that enclosed an empty stable yard between two buildings.

  "This all right?" the man asked in a low voice.

  "Why, sure, luv," she said. "Good as any."

  He pushed open the gate and followed her inside the enclosure.

  With practiced ease, she flipped up her skirts over her backside and leaned forward, palms flat against the fence.

  The man moved in behind her and fumbled with his pants. Then, swift as a lunging panther, his hands shot forward and locked around her slender neck. She sprang upright, gurgling, clawing at his powerful grip. The silent, deadly struggle continued for long seconds, stretching out to a minute. Finally, she went limp and he lowered her to the ground, face first. A long knife appeared in his hand. Yanking her head back by the hair, he reached around from behind and, with two swift sweeps of the blade, slashed her throat. He paused, panting, and looked over the fence. The street remained deserted. He rolled her over onto her back. During the next half-minute, he wielded the thin blade with dexterous efficiency, swearing when it caught in her voluminous clothing and waistband. With one final thrust, he appeared sated and stood up, breathing heavily. He wiped the blade on her skirt and slipped the knife back into a leather sheath sewn inside his coat.

  Gliding out, he left the gate open and catfooted away, blending with the shadows.

  CHAPTER 1

  August, 31, 1888

  Bong!…Bong!…Bong!…Bong!

  Measured strokes from the clock tower in Spitalfields tolled four--a deep-black, vulnerable hour of the London night. The last echoing chime faded into silence, and the quiet breath of slumber settled once again over the sprawling city. In Bucks Row, a workingmen's street in the East End, a corner gaslight hissed softly, forming a cottony halo of light in the summer fog.

  The distant, rhythmic clicking of a trotting horse broke the silence. Its staccato clatter of iron shoes on cobblestones grew louder and a Hansom cab passed the streetlight. Fifty yards beyond, the horse and cab drew to a stop where lantern beams were stabbing the darkness.

  Two men alighted. Scotland Yard Inspector, Frederick George Abberline, rubbed his tired eyes and bit his lip to keep from snapping at the uniformed patrolman who had roused him from a sound sleep in his bachelor's quarters. No need to upbraid a man for doing his duty. Odd hours were part of the job; criminals didn't fancy daylight.

  Abberline sniffed the familiar odors of rotting cabbage, limed outhouses, and cigar smoke as he followed the constable toward a knot of men clustered near a five-foot wooden fence enclosing a stable yard

  "Make way!"

  Curious men in work clothes fell back for the uniformed patrolman and Abberline to reach the inner circle.

  "Hold your light down a bit," a kneeling man directed, bending low over a pile of rumpled clothing. Two constables redirected the beams from their bullseye lanterns and Abberline, looking over the kneeling man's shoulder, saw the glint of wet blood. Recognizing the back of the hatless gray head of his friend, Doctor Andrew Llewellyn, the chief inspector stood patiently for another minute or two to allow the doctor time to finish a cursory examination.

  Frederick Abberline wondered why he'd been called. As a detective of long-standing and considerable repute, he was accustomed to being brought in solely to assist with unusually difficult murder cases. In London's Whitechapel district, where he was known and respected, murders were only slightly less frequent than deaths from malnutrition, alcohol, and various untreated diseases. The constable who had come for him mentioned something about this being a particularly gruesome crime.

  Finally, the middle-aged doctor struggled up from the paving stones, and turned around. "Ah, inspector. You made good time. The handcart ambulance is on the way. If it's all right with you, we'll take the body to Old Montague Street Workhouse infirmary mortuary. I'll need more time and light to do a thorough examination…"

  He paused as Abberline turned to one of the constables. "Let me borrow that." He reached for the man's bullseye lantern, pointed the beam down and squatted next to the body. His sensitive nose picked up the scents of blood, urine and feces.

  "Eviscerated," the doctor said quietly to Abberline, "and head nearly severed."

  The woman's eyes were still open, as if looking in vain for her attacker—a disconcerting sight. Her throat and blouse were spattered with congealed blood. Abberline gingerly lifted her skirts. The doctor's succinct description hardly prepared him for what he saw.

  He dropped the layers of petticoats over the gruesome vision, clamping his jaw angrily at the brutality of the attack. Her hands were open at her sides, the left just touching the stable yard gate. He drew his notepad and pencil and quickly sketched the position and attitude of the body.

  "Anyone see anything?" He directed his question to the small group at his back without looking up.

  There was a murmur of negative answers.

  "I found 'er, sir," a voice said.

  Abberline turned his head. "What time?"

  "About half three, I'd say."

  Doctor Llewellyn nodded. "Upper arms and thighs still warm. She's been dead not more than thirty minutes."

  "What's your name?" Abberline asked, pencil poised.

  "Charles Cross, sir. I was walking to m'job as a carman in Broad Street when I saw what looked like a tarp someone had dropped over here by the gate to the stable yard. Took a closer look and saw 'twas a woman laid out with her petticoats hiked up. Thought at first she was dead drunk and passed out, so I called out to Robert Paul who was passing by on his way to work. Her hands were cold, but Robert thought he could feel her heart beatin' and her chest movin' with breath. We didn't have a light or nothin', but just then a constable come by on his rounds with a lantern and we see she'd been gashed sumthin' 'orrible. She was dead for sure by then."

  "That's a fact, inspector. I'm Constable John Neil. I signaled with my lantern for John Thain, the constable from Brady Street and he went to fetch Doctor Llewellyn down Whitechapel Rd. While we waited, I rang the bell at Essex Wharf across the road from the stable here and asked if anyone had heard a disturbance. The manager, Mr. Purkiss, said he and his wife were asleep and heard nothing. Sergeant Kerby arrived about the time the doctor did and he inquired at the next house here where Emma Green and her daughter live. Same story. Nobody heard a thing."

  "Constable Neil, take down everyone's statement while things are fresh in mind," Abberline directed. "You know the procedure. Question more of the neighbors. Record all the information you can. Don't neglect the smallest detail."

  "Yessir."

  The ambulance arrived just then and the two constables lifted the woman onto the canvas stretcher, smearing their hands with blood. Abberline noted the reason he'd seen little blood on the sidewalk and in the gutter--most of it had run underneath the woman and been absorbed by her clothing.

  To prevent the wheeled stretcher from bouncing on the rough street, Abberline instructed the two workhouse inmates who'd been sent to pick up the body to lift the handcart clear of the pavement. They complied, trundling the covered corpse off toward the temporary morgue, several blocks away.

  The two men who discovered the body began dictating their stories to the constables. The half-dozen workmen who were on their way home or to the early shift, dispersed, walking in the middle of the street and casting glances into the black shadows.

  "We can take my hansom," Abberline said to the doctor. The two men climbed in and pulled the half door closed over their legs.

  "The workhouse in Montague Street," Abberline called up to the driver, who snapped the reins and the horse clopped off at a walk.<
br />
  "Cigar?" Dr. Llewellyn offered.

  "Don't mind if I do," Abberline answered, taking the slim smoke.

  The doctor selected one for himself from the flat cigar case and struck a light for both of them. Abberline noticed how tired and lined his friend's face appeared in the flare of the sulfur match.

  "I thought you gave up smoking," Abberline remarked after a couple of puffs.

  "I tried. But I find I need one of these to get the smell out of my nostrils after something like that."

  "What do you make of it?" Abberline asked.

  "My job is to examine, record and report," the doctor replied. "Yours is to analyze, speculate and deduce. Mine is the 'what'; yours is the 'why'. I'd rather have my job any day than yours."

  Abberline gave a harsh cough. "You're absolutely correct. That was a ghastly murder. Now I must figure out a motive. A poor prostitute, who wasn't particularly young or pretty, in a poor section of town. I suppose we'll find out who she is. Did she have anything in her pockets, or carry a handbag?"

  "Didn't look. If there was anything on the ground the constables will find it. I'm sure she had friends in the area. Word will get around quickly and someone will come in to identify her."

  "We can assume she had little or no money. Likely only trying to earn enough for a bed or a gin. So robbery wasn't the motive."

  "Even if she had a pocketful of gold coin, there was no justification for the mutilation," the doctor said.

  "The work of a madman, indeed."

  The end of the doctor's cigar glowed red in the dim light. "There's no shortage of those in London. The asylums are full."

  "A man who hated women, or prostitutes for some reason," Abberline muttered, thinking aloud.

  "Possibly. Or a man who was angered about something entirely unrelated, and just took it out on this poor woman."