The Ripper's Tale

“So,” the detective began, taking his seat at the scarred wooden table, scene of many a confession, covered in rings of coffee and tea and the small charred marks of stubbed out cigarettes. He pulled the chair closer to the table and watched the man on the other side wince at the shriek the metal chair legs gave off as they scraped across bare flags. “So, here we are.”1

He was a short man, dumpy and middle-aged. His hair was receding quietly from his forehead and already a small round patch of baby-pink skin attested to the genetic tendency to baldness on his father’s side. He pulled out a cigarette and applied a match to it. The smoke rings blew over the suspect’s face like pallid halos.2

He tapped ash into a saucer and leaned back in his chair, waiting. He and the suspect were not strangers and yet they had never met. There had been far-off sightings, near misses and the occasional red herring, but tonight was the first time they had met face to face. He had expected to meet his adversary in many places, but had not guessed it would be here, in this small room with wet stone walls and feeble gas light casting flickering shadows on the floor and ceiling. It was obvious that his old rival was not going to talk of his own volition. Yet, the detective could not suppress the small quiver of excitement that ran through him, tonight he could have all the answers that he had ever wished to possess, tonight he could know finally what had been haunting him for the last five years: he could know the truth about this man.3

The detective signalled to the boy in the corner of the room, indicating that he wished him to commence dictation of everything that was about to be said. He leaned back in the chair and began.4

“Tell me your name.”5

There was silence. The suspect simply stared at him, grey eyes heavy and lifeless. The only clue to his existence was the rhythmic rise and fall of the thin chest, the careful blink of an eyelash and the slight flaring of the nostrils.6

The detective began again. “What is your name?”7

Again silence, the detective was beginning to lose his patience. His hand curled into a fist of its own accord and he was about to raise his voice when he paused. For months the suspect had enjoyed toying with him, leading him on, almost to the edge of frustration and anger, always dancing around him just beyond reach. Now, though, it was different. The suspect was at his mercy and he could see, despite the expressionless, bland face that the suspect was trying to take control. To lead him once more a merry dance and into anger and perhaps violence. The detective took a deep breath. He would not be manipulated.8

“It does you no good, you know. It is already too late. You are caught and your apartments have been found. Those who knew you have been questioned, your secrets discovered. You may as well tell me what you know.” Once more he flicked ash into the china saucer and let his words sink in. “Now tell me, what is your name, who are you, where do you come from?”9

There was a brief moment, just one tiny minute second when the detective thought he had failed. The suspect leaned forward into the light of the gas lamp. His face looked paler still in yellowish glow and he was gaunt and haggard. When he spoke, his voice held the trace of a French accent, mixed in with the far more dominant English and a hint of the Orient.10

“My name is Pierre Abdul Shah, though I have been known by many others. My father was a Frenchman and my mother came from Persia. It is said that when my father laid eyes on my mother, so bewitched was he by her beauty that he told my grandfather he would lay down his life unless he could marry this most auspicious daughter. My grandfather, a wealthy man, being moved by the impetuosity of my father’s love and the passionate nature of his request, consented to the union on the condition that my father journey across the desert and bring back a wedding gift from the Sultan himself.”11

So here explained the eloquent language that had flowed from all communications the suspect sent. If he was to be believed, and it was doubtful that all was truth and all was lies, then Oriental blood resided in his veins perhaps explaining some of his bloodthirsty nature. The detective nodded, happy to humour the man for the time being. In the corner, the scratch of pen on paper told him that the boy was translating everything meticulously.12

“Well, go on,’ the detective said. “Did your father succeed?”13

For the first time, the suspect smiled, his teeth gleamed white in the dark. “Oh yes, he did Monsieur. But my father was a prudent man. He made plans that if he should fail, or if my grandfather should change his mind, then he and my mother would steal away and marry in secret. He journeyed into the desert with a horse, two camels and one manservant, bought with his own money. My mother wept to see him go, not believing she would ever see him alive again. Within five days the manservant was suffering from heatstroke, the going was hard, the pace slow. The dunes rose in high hills of soft, luxuriant sand, all about him, so soft that they could carry a man to his death in a glorious caress of ecstasy.” Here the suspect’s eyes shone and he spread out his arm as if to paint the golden dunes onto the walls of that dark, wet room.14

The detective realised that he was transfixed, in hushed tones he said, “What happened?”15

Abdul Shah allowed his arm to fall. “He survived the desert. The manservant was dead by the fourth day. My father continued alone and his water began to run out. He began to hallucinate. On the sixth day he stumbled across an oasis. He had time to slake his thirst and rest. By the seventh day he had reached the city. He presented himself to the palace, but the Sultan refused to see him. In the end my father knew that he would have to ingratiate himself with the Sultan in some way. He took work in the palace garden, watching and waiting for his chance. It came not long thereafter. The Sultan’s palace held a great pool of water where the Sultan liked to bathe once a day at noon. His son and only heir, the prince, ventured into the gardens one day unaccompanied by his attendants. My father happened to see the prince disturb a nest of bees. The bees were angered and flew after the prince, in great terror the child ran away and fell into the pool. He could not swim and began to drown. My father saw his chance, without a moment’s thought, he dived into the pool and pulled the prince out. By this time the beekeeper had persuaded the bees to return to their hives. He had almost certainly saved the prince’s life.16

“My father was brought before the Sultan who ordered the hives be burnt and the hapless beekeeper put to death. On my father he bestowed many gifts and gratitudes. He vowed that whatever boon my father asked of him, he need only declare it and it would be granted. With great solicitude, my father said that what he desired most was far more than he could hope for. He promised to remain the Sultan’s faithful servant until the day he died and prostrated his form before him. The Sultan was angry. ‘You have saved the life of my son,’ he said. ‘My house owes you a debt and it must be fulfilled. You have only to ask and with Allah’s blessing, I shall give you what you so desire.’17

“This was more than my father could have hoped for. In feigned embarrassment he laid his plight before the Sultan, telling him that he had been refused marriage to his beloved because he was a poor man from France. He elaborated greatly on my grandfather’s anger and rejection. At these words the Sultan grew angry. Immediately he dispatched messengers to my grandfather instructing that this most loyal servant should at once be granted the rights of marriage to his daughter. Then he conferred on my father new clothes, a good many jewels and sent him off back through the desert with a great entourage.”18

“My grandfather was shocked to learn of my father’s fate. He had thought that he would die in the desert before ever reaching the Sultan. Indeed, he had thought that even if he was granted an audience then the Sultan would never grant his request. He had no choice but to allow my mother and father to marry. At once my father took my mother back to his own people, the French. Here, where the women did not hide their faces and walked openly with their men, exchanging vows of love and open affection, did my mother begin her strange new life.”19

Although fascinated by this tale, the detective remembered himself and cleared his throat. His cigarette was worn down to the stub. He hastily lit another. “And what of you? You were born in France I believe, what happened to you and how did you come to be here?”20

Abdul Shah smiled again. “That is a great tale and I would tell it to you fully, but I suspect that we are short of time my friend. Know only that I was born in France and raised as French. My mother often told me stories of her strange land and its people. She talked often of Persia and Arabia and I longed to go there. When I was only a young lad my father died suddenly from a fever. With no family and nowhere else to go, she took me home to her country. My grandfather had grown fat and lazy, reaping the benefits of the Sultan’s gratitude. The country fascinated me and I was received by the Sultan and admitted as a servant in his great court. I passed many years there and grew great in such knowledge as this small, damp country shall never know.” His eyelids lowered salaciously. “I learnt much of women and before I was but 20, I had left the Sultan’s court in disgrace and travelled to Arabia and beyond. It was there that I found my calling, there that I knew what purpose Allah had intended me for.”21

The detective’s heart was beating faster, now it would come; now he would have the answers he craved. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his lips cracked. His tongue slid out to wet them and he leaned forward eagerly. “And then?”22

Abdul Shah shrugged, a truly Gallic gesture born of his French ancestry. “And then I killed my first woman, a heretic, a woman who did not deserve to live. She was beautiful, dark as night and smelled like oranges and the spices of the Orient. It was love at first sight you know. It was bliss beyond all imaginings. To take the life of another, to see the rich, warm blood flooding away and to know that I had served both God and Allah. Oh, the rich tang of steel, my hands around the slim, warm neck, the cold, blue beauty of death and the sweet music of screams. Such bliss.” Here he closed his eyes and sighed deeply.23

The detective was chilled to the bone, for the first time he began to have a sense that the man before him was truly mad. His fancy words and expressive gestures could not conceal the hint of insanity that lurked within this cool and calculating mind.24

“How did you come to London?” His voice was quiet, his excitement eking away as he began to realise the danger of this man.25

Abdul Shah opened his eyes and frowned. “You are not impressed Monsieur? My tale sickens you? Ahh, well. Therein lies the curse of the gifted ones who are spoken to by God himself. But of London, you want to know how I came to be in your smog-ridden, smut stained city. It is simple enough, as you may have guessed my appetite for God’s work began to be harder to satisfy. I tried so very hard, but when all those young girls began disappearing people did notice. I had to flee, so I went home to my beloved France. If Arabia is my luxurious father, then France is my great and sumptuous mother. She welcomed me willingly back to her bosom, but what did I find? Yet more degradation, more women who flaunted themselves, tainted and unable to redeem themselves. I could not rest easy, and once again I began the work I had set myself in Arabia. I revelled in it even. Here in France, it was so much easier and there was so much more to be done.”26

“I will need the names of these women, Sir.”27

The suspect waved away the words with his hand. “Of course, but that is no matter now. The evil deeds shall be set down for all to see before long.” He smiled again, but this time there was something dangerous and unhinged about it. “The turning point came when I was discovered. It was a near thing. I had a long flirtation with the police, much as I have done here. I was caught, but managed to escape at the last minute. So I came to London and discovered that vice, corruption and heresy is as rampant here as anywhere.”28

The detective closed his eyes and steeled himself. Now was the important part, now he had to take back control of the interview and get the answers he need in plain and undeniable English.29

“Do you admit to the killing of eighteen women in London in this the year of our Lord 1888?”30

“But of course and more. How could I not?” The suspect looked surprised as if the question was absurd. He did not seem to realise that with every word he spoke he was condemning himself to death.31

“Do you deny that you have communicated with the police and various other officials?”32

“I do not deny it.”33

“Do you admit that you murdered these women and left various notes about their person?”34

“I do.”35

“Do you admit that you knowingly and in cold blood murdered these women?”36

There was silence and the scratching of pen on paper seemed to halt for a second. The detective realised he was trembling with fear.37

Abdul Shah looked at him with something like pity in his deep chocolate eyes. “Ahh my friend, I hoped you would understand. We are the same are we not? You search out the criminals and bring them to justice. So do I. Our ways are different, but the result is the same. We purge society of those not fit to be in it. Have you not listened to my tale? There was nothing cold blooded about the murder of these women. No, no, no. It was but art, glorious, beautiful art. And completely necessary. God has spoken to me, Allah has commanded me. The fallen women are the scourge of humanity, they must be eliminated.”38

The detective felt as if he was choking. “We are not alike in the least,” he sputtered, running a fervent finger around his collar to loosen it. 39

The murderer, for this was how the detective now thought of him, shook his head. “Oh Jack, Jack. Did you not see? I chose you. You were my great friend, my eminent foe and my unwilling assistant. We have had a merry dance this past year have we not. You were my playmate, my confessor. I even let them borrow your name. They were so determined to name me something you see. I had to give my public what they wanted. Your name was as good as any. Of course I knew that you would not believe that it was my true name. I always knew that you would find me one day....”40

The detective pushed back his chair, this time the drag of metal against stone was like the scream of the dying. He was sweating, trembling and unable to hear anymore. The man would hang for what he had done, not even a mental asylum would be able to save him. 41

“Sit down Jack...don’t go. You must see, surely that it was important. We are all pilgrims on the same journey, but some pilgrims have better road maps. You do not know your way yet, but I shall show you. You have been called, as I was. Pilgrims on the same journey, yes. Where are you going? You cannot run Jack. You cannot hide. I will find you, Allah will find you. I have a great work to do and I will do it! One day Jack, one day you will hear footsteps behind you and you will know then, you will know! GOD HAS CALLED ME!”42

The murderer’s voice was rising into a shriek. Motioning the boy to follow, Detective Jack Ripon left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.43

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