San Domingo, A.D. 1800. Bryan Edwardes chronicles the uprising of blacks against French rule: “In the neighborhood of Jeremie a body of mulateres attacked the house of Sejourne and secured the persons both of him and his wife. This unfortunate woman (my hand trembles as I write) was far advanced in her pregnancy. The monsters, whose prisoner she was, having first murdered her husband in her presence, ripped her up alive and threw the infant to the hogs.”
Inspector Abberline was finally spending his quiet evening at home.
Mrs. Abberline had laid on a special dinner — roast beef and Yorkshire pudding — which, thanks to his stomach, he scarcely touched.
She put out his robe and slippers afterward, but despite the temptations of comfort he ignored them. Instead he retired to the little cubicle off the sitting room where he’d set up a makeshift working space.
As he seated himself before the deal table serving him as a desk, his wife poked her head around the doorway, speaking softly.
“Are you sure you’re all right. Fred?”
“Quite sure, my dear.”
“But you look so peaked, and it’s cold here. Couldn’t you sit in the parlor? I’ve put new logs in the fireplace.”
“I’ll be joining you there soon.”
“Promise?”
“It won’t be long. Just a bit of work to do.”
She withdrew, satisfied, and the inspector hunched over the array of documents on his desk.
There was no satisfaction in his face as he contemplated the jumble. Bit of work? A ruddy treadmill, that’s what it was — the whole case, from beginning to end.
Only there never seemed to be an end. No matter how many details were attended to, a dozen others kept cropping up to plague him.
Today had been a perfect example. He’d finally cleared Dr. Trebor and Mark Robinson of suspicion, and the pathologist’s findings about the kidney reinforced his own conclusions. But when he tried to get a more detailed answer from Dr. Hume he’d come a cropper. Hume refused to talk. Too busy, he said. And that only led to another question. Why was Hume always busy — not just on the job but during his leisure hours away from the hospital? Animosity might prompt his excuses, but there must be a reason for that in itself. Now he’d have to look further into Hume’s activities before he could risk checking him off the list of suspects.
Damn the doctors! Too many medical men involved in this affair — all those fellows handling the coroners’ inquests. Trebor and Mark and Hume at the hospital, plus the meddlers outside. Forbes Winslow was still at it, claiming he’d received more letters from the Ripper; regular pen-pals they’d become, according to him. And to top it all off he’d rung in another, a Dr. Dutton, to assist him with his infernal handwriting analysis.
But it wasn’t just the bloody sawbones he must consider. Oscar Wilde’s exoneration of the Duke of Clarence might not hold water, and he’d best follow up on his own to make sure. After listening to Matthews he still smelled some sort of cover-up here.
He couldn’t even get a straight answer about Sir Charles Warren. Rumor at the Yard had it that Warren was resigning, but as of today he was still on the job, making preparations for the new Lord Mayor’s inaugural parade and public dinner tomorrow. Fat lot of good that would do — detailing half the force for duty along the route and leaving the East End undermanned.
So much to do and so little time, so little help! Abberline reached for a manila envelope which contained the dossier on Severin Klosowski. Here was another lead to follow and there were a dozen more which seemed equally urgent. Even if none of these fellows proved to be guilty in this case, the Ripper business had flushed a covey of strange birds. Women-haters, cranks muttering threats, maniacs running amok with knives—
“Fred!”
He looked up at the sound of his wife’s voice. “What is it, dear?”
“There’s a gentleman to see you.”
Abberline blinked; he hadn’t heard the doorbell sounding. Now what?
She smiled, anticipating his question. “Says his name is Lees.”
“Robert Lees?”
“That’s right. Do you know him?”
He sighed. “Yes. I know the chap. Where is he?”
“I asked him to wait in the parlor.” Mrs. Abberline hesitated. “I told him you were engaged, but he said it was urgent. Did I do the right thing?”
“Of course. I’ll be with him in a moment.”
She left and Abberline rose slowly. His feet were sore, his stomach burbled, and all he’d asked from life was one peaceful evening here at home. Instead he had Robert Lees with his urgent business.
Abberline sighed again. No telling what the business might be, but just thinking about Lees was enough to rattle his composure.
As he made his way slowly down the hall he sorted out his recollections of the man who awaited him. They went back quite a ways.
Robert James Lees was a spiritualist medium, or so he claimed. As a teen-age youth, way back in ’63, he’d been brought to the Queen after receiving messages from her beloved consort, the late Prince Albert. According to reports he’d arranged a séance at Balmoral Palace. What took place convinced Victoria that Lees’ powers were genuine, and she invited him to remain in her service. Instead he’d continued his private research into the occult, writing books and also conducting experiments at the Spiritualist Center in Peckham.
While working in his study one day, he had a premonition of murder. That night a vision came to him in a dream — a vision of a man and a woman entering a dim courtyard together. There in the darkness, the man cut the woman’s throat.
The impression was so strong that Lees wrote out the details and brought them to Scotland Yard the following day. That’s when Abberline met him. as he told his story to investigators there. But he was only one among the scores of eccentrics and tipsters being interviewed, and what it boiled down to was simple enough: all he had to offer was the report of a dream he claimed to have on the night before an actual murder. Hundreds of people were having nightmares about murders, so why take this one seriously?
It wasn’t until the next day, when the body of Annie Chapman was found in a courtyard, that anyone gave the matter a second thought. By then Lees had learned of the crime and paid a visit to Hanbury Street. The courtyard there was, he reported, the one he’d seen in his dream. Viewing it in reality was such a shock that Lees was seized by a feeling of guilt. It was almost as though his failure to convince the police of his premonition made him an accessory to the crime.
Abberline recalled his own feelings at the time; he’d remembered the medium’s story and wanted to check on it for further details. But when he tried to contact Lees he learned that the spiritualist had taken the advice of a physician and left for a vacation on the Continent with his family.
Since then, of course, there’d been other demands on his attention, and hence the matter had rested.
But tonight there would be no rest.
Abberline sensed it the moment he entered the parlor where Robert James Lees awaited him.
The middle-aged man stood before the fireplace, his gaze fixed on the flames. As he turned, his eyes, deepset in dark-rimmed sockets, seemed to blaze with a fire of their own.
“Inspector!” The voice itself was fiery; it flared and crackled with excitement. “I saw him!”
Abberline blinked. “What—?”
“I saw Jack the Ripper!”
The flames danced and shimmered, like the thoughts flickering through Abberline’s mind. Another I take it. Another dream—
“No!” Lees’ voice blazed forth. “It wasn’t a dream this time. I saw the Ripper, in the flesh! In broad daylight!”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
Abberline’s mouth went dry. How many times had he heard this statement made before, how many crackpots and lunatics swore they’d recognized the killer? But this man was different: he’d dreamed true in the past, and now he read his mind. Did Lees really possess the powers he claimed?