I See You, Jack! Chapter 22
Created | Updated Jun 15, 2024
I See You, Jack!
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Chapter 22
Mary Ann Nichols. Transformed.
Annie Chapman. Transformed.
Elizabeth Stride. Transformed.
Catherine Eddowes. Transformed.
Mary Jane Kelly.
Kelly?
No, not Kelly.
Although she was reportedly the Ripper's last victim, Riding had witnessed her death on several occasions: totally different ritual, if you could even use that term. Animalistic in execution.
Brutally cruel. A foul end, not in keeping with the Architect at all.
Still, Mary Jane was considered as part of the mystery and, as there could be no clumsy copycat murder if there was no Jack, she had to die.
Her life would return Riding to his.
Riding was glad her end would not be at his hands.
He'd arrived in Millers Court, steadfast in his intent, only to discover the horribly butchered body on the bed. The clock had reset, the copycat had beaten him to her squalid home.
And so it was, that on the morning of November the 9th, 1888, Mary's landlord sent his son to collect her overdue rent. Her mutilated body was found, and the police informed.
The Ripper had struck again: the final victim in London.
Telegrams were sent around the country, information shared between the capitol and the provincial forces.
Little in the way of suspects, but the details of the murders collated, detectives keen to hear if similar M.Os had been reported.
Pat O'Leary stood to attention in the Seel Street Parade Room, presenting his appointments before duties were given, cape across his left forearm, whistle, rattle, and truncheon in his right hand. The Superintendent inspected his men with an air of obvious excitement this evening.
Inspection over, he opened the Reading Out File.
'At ease, gentlemen. I have received a telegram message from the London Metropolitan Police and the City of London Detectives Office. These fine Officers are investigating a series of homicides.'
He held the telegram aloft as though it was the Holy Grail. Several officers whistled in awe.
'This new technology is transforming law enforcement, truly cutting-edge! I shall leave this telegram in the Cons Writing Room, please read it – and please be bloody careful with it!
'Those Officers with reading difficulties, present yourselves to Sergeant Jones and he will read it to you. I think you will all find the contents, given our recent incidents, extremely interesting. I can inform this Section that I have personally communicated with the Detective in Charge and offered this station's assistance in the cases in question.
'Chief Inspector Abberline of the London CID is currently on route to Liverpool and will be taking lead. I urge you to offer the DCI every assistance.
'O'Leary, Grimes, and Butler, you will report for tomorrow night's duty in civvies, you will of course receive Plain Clothing allowance for as long as you are deployed. You will be responsible for escorting Mr Abberline around the area, educating him in how and where prostitution operates in the South, and introducing him to any of the ladies, if he so requests. Sergeant, please give the Section their beats, Parade, Parade 'shun!'
O'Leary beamed at the others, 'Let's hope the Detective is as useless as our jacks, drag it out, especially if we're getting an extra two bob a week just for wearing plainies! Hope he likes a pint, though.'
Riding had waited in the Spitalfields area, keen to witness the police arriving at Millers Court, Dorset Street.
By midday he was satisfied that the rumours had started, Ginger Mary was dead! Dead at the hands of Jack the Ripper! The reporters were already buzzing around, cameras as ready as the bribes they'd pay to snap the gruesome scene.
Riding walked a few streets away before pressing the pocket watch.
He rolled up his cape, tucking it beneath his arm, knowing that most of the bustling crowd were more intent at looking at their phones than noticing his outfit, and made his way to the underground car park where he'd left the old Ford.
He reached up to the max headroom sign, feeling around in the dust for where he'd left his car keys, fingers closing on the fob.
He waved his hand in the air, trying not to cough as the cloud of dust showered down, hearing a familiar jingle of door keys on the ring.
Riding stood open-mouthed with shock, then put the keyring to his lips, kissing the unmistakable Audi logo.
Sitting in the beautiful leather driver's seat (God, he'd missed this car!) he opened the glove box, relieved his phone was there in this new reality. Fingers stabbed at the keypad. A quick search.
