At Scotland Yard, a tired Inspector Frederick George Abberline sat in his office late in the afternoon, studying a letter which he had received yesterday. He had been assigned to the 'Ripper' case, as the papers started to call him. Bloody papers, he thought. Annie Chapman was murdered on the 8th of September, and the 'Dear Boss' letter was sent to Scotland Yard on the 29th. Just as that happened, on the same day, Abberline received another letter.
Abberline was known to be meticulous and had been handed the 'case' concerning these manslaughters. Two dead women, killed brutally and savagely, left behind. The rain could be heard as it fell on the roof. The letter had no return address, fine parchment, but an unpolished script.
.
~~To the Right Offices of the Lawful Men,
I dare say you shan't know me, nor wish to, but I've words to pass on what the eye may overlook.
The knife he carries is sharp, not new, but honed careful-like. He has used it more than once—long afore these deeds in the alley, you now know of. Not a rager, this one—not a brawler. He don't kill for coin nor drink. He watches and plans meticulously, following an urge.
Look near the cutting places—not the blood spots, but the places where muscle falls loose and neat. That's no guesswork—that's experience and learning.
He knows the inside of folk—mayhap he studied it, or learned where poor men get taught in backrooms and cellars. A place where animals get gutted and folks don't speak of it.
Mark him not by dirt, but cleanliness. His hands is not labour's hands. The stains is inside him, not on his coat.
He'll strike again, unless you're quicker. Observe the gutters.
Yours,
-- M.H.
.
Abberline turned the letter over slowly, his fingers tapped the blotched ink. His mind raced, thinking about it. It couldn't be, it was unheard of, simply fantastic. Murders that were supposed to be connected? A series of murders, committed by one person...
The door opened, and Sergeant Collins entered. The man was younger than Abberline, tall and strong. He looked at the Inspector and waited, knowing that he was thinking and that he needed time.
"Didn't come through the post. No stamp. Hand-delivered to the desk sergeant by someone he naturally doesn't remember and left with no name. Said it was for the eyes of the person dealing with the Ripper case. That's all," Abberline says in thought.
"Could be a crank, sir. You know how the East End's full of ghost-chasers and gin-drunk prophets," Collins suggests.
"Mm. Possibly, and I wish it were so, but no. This one is different. Listen to the choice of words: 'the muscle falls loose and neat'... and 'not the blood spots'. That's a man who understands accuracy. Not superstition," Abberline answers, half-smiling.
Abberline held up the letter to the lamp, watching how the ink pooled in certain strokes. He nodded his head, his suspicion becoming a fixed idea and some truth.
"Look here. He's trying to sound rough, like a man from Whitechapel. 'Mayhap he studied it'... 'folk'... 'cleanliness'. But it's too deliberate. It leans into dialect like a bad actor hamming it on stage," Abberline shakes his head.
"But the grammar is bad and imperfect, no? Wouldn't you say he is trying to compensate and seem more literate than he is?"
"That was my thought initially as well. But as I said, it's too deliberate. These language choices feel fake and exaggerated—someone is trying too hard to sound uneducated. The obvious is wrong, but the unobvious is just as wrong. The only other option has to be true."
"An educated man pretending to be common?" Collins asks.
"Exactly. And I believe he wants us to know. Look at this phrase: 'long afore these deeds in the alley'. 'Long afore' is old Yorkshire dialect, but then he pivots to 'keen' and 'studied'. There's no consistency—because it's not his real words he would use."
"Could be a trick. A taunt."
"No... It's a test."
"A test, sir?"
"Someone wants to see who's paying attention. Whoever wrote this... most likely knew I'd be the one to read it. He left breadcrumbs. He speaks of anatomy, not violence. He says, 'the stains is inside him' — poetic, but surgical. There's clarity there."
Abberline leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes in thought. Under normal circumstances, he enjoyed puzzles; it was one of the reasons he became an inspector. But this was different. Someone was taunting him, he thought.
"This letter didn't come from the East End. It came from a drawing room. A mind that's used to thinking sideways."
"Then why pretend to be otherwise?" Collins asks, a bit unsettled.
"There are two possibilities. Possibility number one: Because he wants to help but not be known for it. Or maybe he's involved, just not guilty. Men like that don't walk in straight lines."
"And the second possibility?" Collins asks.
"He is the murderer himself and is playing games with us."
Abberline and Collins grew quiet. Both were busy with their thoughts.
"There's another game afoot behind this one. He left initials... M. H."
The door opened again, and a constable entered.
"Beggin' pardon, sir! Another one. A woman — Buck's Row, no— Berner Street this time. Outside Dutfield's Yard. She's gone, throat cut like the others."
Abberline straightened his back and stood up, already reaching for his coat.
"Berner Street? That's... near the socialist club, isn't it?" Abberline asks.
"Yes, sir. The crowd's already gathering."
"Right. Collins, with me. Tell H Division to meet us there. And God help us if the ripper's still warm."
.
Fog swirled low around the area. Gas lamps burned dimly, giving the moment an eerie atmosphere. A body lay half in the shadows. Her throat was cleanly cut, but there was no time for anything more. No abdominal mutilation. Blood pooled around her, not yet dry. It must have happened not that long ago.
Abberline crouched, examining the scene. Collins hovered nearby, focused and looking around the crime scene.
"No mutilation this time, sir. Do you think it was the same one?" Collins asks.
"I'm not certain. I suppose we need to have the slice checked. Find out what happened and whether it's the same weapon by chance. Seems to be the same pattern, though, for the most part."
"Why would he deviate from his usual pattern, sir?" Collins asks.
"Assuming it was the same guy, he most likely had no time. Most likely, he was interrupted," Abberline suggests.
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Positive. Look here; the blade went across the throat, left to right. That's his style. But nothing else. Something, or someone, scared him off."
"So someone might have seen him?!" Collins asks.
A second constable jogged into view, hat askew and out of breath.
"Inspector! Another one — Mitre Square! Not ten minutes from here. Another woman — it's bad, sir."
Abberline rose slowly, eyes narrowing again.
"Well, it seems he finished what he couldn't with her."
"Two in one night… the letter said— If a third woman dies with greater care taken to extract parts of her…"
"Crikey! He warned us. It appears that now he's proving a point."
.
The setting was colder somehow. The square was dark, lined with brick, eerie in the silence of early morning and the smell of decay lay in the air. The remains of what was once a woman lay brutally mutilated on the wet, cold floor. Her face was slashed, her abdomen opened, and the womb missing. A piece of her ear was also gone.
The two men, who had seen a lot in their time as policemen and had by no means weak stomachs, found it hard to breathe. A disgusted and pitiful look marred both their faces. Abberline was unhappy and disappointed in himself. It seemed that he was not only too late for two murdered women but four. And two of them happened in one night. The same night... this one.
"Heavens..." Collins manages to say.
"Look at the precision. The uterus, taken or rather ripped out with seeming rage and necessity. And the ear..."
Abberline stopped and looked away for a moment. He couldn't go on and took a deep breath, steeling his nerves.
"The letter, Sir. "Clip the lady's ears off."
"Seems like he's reading our mail. Or writing it," Abberline says.
"What shall we do now, sir? Do you think he will strike again? Or has two satiated his urge for death?" Collins asks.
"I believe he has quenched the need to do what he did. I am now more convinced than before. He was interrupted in some way and couldn't do it with the first woman... what was her name?" Abberline asks.
"Elizabeth Stride, sir. And this poor woman's name is Catherine Eddowes."
"Right. So, he failed to do his desired ritual with Stride and had to find another one, which he did. And from the looks of it, he had to compensate for something—most likely frustration. This is a nightmare, Collins. The public will be struck in fear by this."
"I agree, sir. Shall we keep this to ourselves?" Collins suggests.
"For as long as possible. But it will spread either way. You cannot keep an atrocity of this degree a secret for long, not in London, not here."
"Another idea then, sir?"
"Sadly, no. Although..."
Abberline stopped talking and thought for a moment. He thought about the second letter he received, signed M. H. It made no sense for the murderer to write two letters back to back. If he wanted to taunt them at Scotland Yard or strike fear into the hearts of London, he had succeeded with the first one. So why write the second one? It made no sense.
Then again, a killer was walking around at night, reducing the population by one woman at a time - a serial killer, if you will.
Abberline's gut told him that, once again, things weren't as they seemed. He was certain that the author of the second letter, which was not sent to the papers but to them directly, was trying to gauge their reaction and see what they did. Whatever the case was, whether it was a good person trying to help or the killer himself, he needed to be found.
So Abberline decided to do just that.
"Where are you going, sir?" Collins asks.
"We need to find the author of the letter we received, Collins. He could be the key to ending this tragedy."
"But I thought it may be the killer himself, sir."
"Exactly right. Either way, they could be useful for us. This has to happen now. Let's go. We have no more time to lose. If we don't make some breakthrough, we might both lose our jobs."
"Truly? That's terrible."
"It would be."
So, the two got to work. They talked to the constable who had received the letter. They wanted to know who sent them the letter, but he only told them that it was an average-height man with a beard. Undeterred, Inspector Abbeline and Sergeant Collins visited their informants in London to find the mystery man.
And as it happened, they did find him.
"You're the one who delivered it?" Abberline asks.
"Yes, guv'nor. Handed it in proper, I did. Told it were important, and urgent," the man tells them.
"Who gave it to you?" Abberline asks.
The man scratched his nose.
"Gent as tall as a lamppost. Spoke real posh — like one o' them theatre folk, but quieter. Had a 'brella, even though it weren't rainin'. Gave me a shillin' and said, "Take this to the Inspector with speed and care. And mind you — don't read it."
"Did you?" Collins asks.
"Course not! …Well, I tried, but it was sealed soo."
"Where did he give it to you?" Abberline asks.
"Just outside the Athenaeum Club. Big building, smells like books and old men. Near Pall Mall, sir," the man says.
"The Athenaeum…"
Abberline exchanged a look with Collins.
"That's a gentleman's club. Reserved for scholars, men of letters. Politicians and all that."
"Not the sort who mingles with messenger boys," Collins says.
"Exactly. He wanted to be noticed — just not directly."
Abberline turned to the man again.
"Did he say anything else? Anything strange?"
"Only… he said somethin' about George and a saint... I didn't understand 'em. Then he tipped his hat and walked off," the man tells them.
"George? And a saint? What is that supposed to mean, sir?" Collins asks.
Abberline was in thought. His mind was racing faster than ever before. The breadcrumbs were in front of him; he only had to follow them.
"George and a Saint... George's Saint... or Saint George... Wait! I heard that name before, didn't I? St. George's… St. George's..."
"I don't know, sir," Collins says.
"I think... that's a school, isn't it?"
"A school, sir? Do you think one of the professors there might be the one?" Collins asks.
"Indeed. Come, Collins. Let us check the initials of St. George's school for M. H."