Prologue
Crime
4:00 AM. Whitechapel.
The streets were thick with smog. It curled through the alleys and along the rooftops of London like smoke from an invisible fire. Streetlamps fought to hold their own against it, casting off weak yellow light only bright enough to see the nearby shops and the next lamp or two.
The City held its breath. Jack hadn’t struck in weeks, and with each passing day the tension grew. The entire police force was out walking their late night routes. It was nearing four in the morning now and they were more alert than usual, hands twitching near their clubs, eyes dancing toward every alleyway. They knew he would kill again. They just didn’t know who it would be or when it would happen.
Then two bobbies on patrol together near Whitechapel heard a guttural scream split the fog.
“IT’S JACK THE RIPPER!!”
They broke into a sprint without exchanging a word. The sound had come from somewhere far ahead, garbled and distant. The voice sounded frantic, like someone afraid of the night. However, the fog swallowed the sound as quickly as it had come. The two kept their pace. After a few minutes two men took shape ahead, keeping to the edge of the road, heads low, walking like laborers heading home from a night shift. Their faces now visible by the yellow flicker of street lamps, and the occasional light of the moon as it pierced through the smog filled sky. The two men were smudged with grime, and their countenance hinted at something neither of the officers liked.
“Oi! You there!” one bobby called. “Was someone yelling? Saying they saw Jack?”
“Heard them running that way!” the taller one said, pointing in the opposite direction they were traveling in. “They were screaming ‘It’s Jack the Ripper.’ We don’t want nothing to do with it.”
The other man said nothing.
The bobbies didn’t trust them, but Jack was known to be a lone killer, and without a better lead what choice did they have? On a night like this, hesitation could mean another victim. So they ran.
Boots pounded against the cobblestone road. Their breath puffing clouds of vapor with each stride. The street seemed to narrow as they turned onto Cartwright. The fog here also seemed to be thicker. The air heavier. Everything smelled of ash and wet earth. Their sprint gradually became a cautious jog. Their jog gradually became a walk. A minute passed. Then another. They both saw her at once.
She was laid out near a gully which separated the road from the sidewalk. Not by any shops or signs of life other than the occasional alley cat or bark of a dog far off in the distance. The nearest shops were a set of brothels a block or two down the road. Her dress seemed to be soaked through and stained red with blood. It painted the ground beneath her in wide, ugly arcs. One of the bobbies knelt down beside her, observing the body to assess if there was anything they could do, or how fresh of an attack this really was. The other scanned the dark for any signs of Jack.
There was no saving her. Her throat had been torn open, but it didn’t stop there. Her chest, her abdomen, every part of her had been ravaged. The blade had found her lungs, her liver, her heart. This was not carried out in a frenzy. This had been surgical.
Thirty-nine wounds. Not random. Not careless. Precise. Ritualistic. Intentional.
The bobby kneeling down rose with a grim certainty, locking eyes with the other officer. The silence in that moment was deafening. The smog. The chill of darkness was ever present. The tension in the air now at least seemed to have loosened its grip.
He has returned.
A long silence stretched between them as the fog seemed to have coiled tighter around their boots like a snake choking its prey. One bobby drew a whistle to his lips, but the sound he let out felt feeble against the vast quiet.
The other studied the ground. No boot prints, no blood trail, nothing but a single pearl lying near her outstretched hand.
He picked it up, turning it between his gloved fingers. Polished. Fine. The kind strung on a wealthy lady’s necklace. Not hers.
“Inspector won’t believe this,” he muttered.
“Not unless he sees it himself.”
They both began to assess the scene further, gathering whatever information they could. This kill was fresh. The faster they worked the better the odds were they’d catch him.
But tonight was cold and damp, the fog so thick a man couldn’t see past two lamp posts.
Suddenly a noise turned both their heads.
Two figures slowly took shape through the fog. It was particularly odd to see anyone out at this time. Especially in these conditions.
The first figure seemed to be a child wrapped in a shawl. The kid had a frail and sickly appearance but could walk fine with the assistance of a crutch. The bobbies couldn’t make out the child’s gender. The other figure was a woman. She wore an alluring dress accompanied by beautiful red lipstick.
“You two shouldn’t be out tonight,” one of the bobbies said. “We got a body here. The Ripper’s out, and with these conditions at this hour it’s clearly no place for the two of you.”
“You need to get home,” the other bobby said.
The woman’s face went pale.
The boy looked up at her calmly, as if he’d already known this.
The two agreed that it was better to return home than continue on. They asked for an escort back. One of the bobbies thought for a moment but reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t safe for them to be alone this late at night with the current circumstances.
One of the bobbies would finish up the investigation of the crime scene while the other would escort them home. After this the bobbies planned to meet back up at headquarters for their official report of the events.
After the newly formed party split ways the hollow whisper of wind drowned out most noise. The fog appeared to grow thicker in the final hours of darkness. The sky darker as clouds began to roll in covering the glow of moonlight.
The cold air bit at them. He was out there. Close. And at least now they knew where to look.
Chapter 1
The Heist
1:00 AM. F. Aldis, Cheapside.
London wore its rot like a second skin. The air reeked of coal and damp brick, smog billowed down alleys, the lamps lining the streets barely kept the dark at bay. It was an October night and the chill came sharp, biting clean through a man’s coat like it wasn’t there. The distant howl of dogs and the occasional scurry of rats made the streets feel empty. Only the desperate or the damned could be found wandering London’s streets past midnight.
The crew crept along the edge of the road as they moved. Close enough to see in front of them, but not close enough to be clearly seen. These weren’t men made for galleries and churches. They were men who belonged to Whitechapel, where the police looked the other way depending on who you were and how much coin you had. But tonight the crew was headed for Cheapside. It had just as many officers about, if not more, but lately every effort was centered round Whitechapel.
At the edge of Cheapside, just past Whitechapel, a jewelry store sat neatly tucked away between a row of shops. The store had just enough reputation to attract a criminal’s eye, but not so much as to warrant serious protection. At this hour, its windows let in scarcely enough light to see inside the shop. The lettering on its windows read “F. Aldis” faintly visible by the flicker of street lamps. Inside, displays were set to catch the eye of anyone with coin to spare, or that of a man wrought with desire for finer things.
Tiny Tim leaned against his crutch, squinting through the fog at the storefront. The iron frame on his legs bit cold, but he made no complaints. Most others even without his conditions would be in a warm bed at this time, but Tiny Tim was cut from a different cloth. Long ago he decided resolutely that the chains of his ailment could hold him no longer. While thoughts of defiance raced through Tiny Tim’s head the others were focused on the task at hand.
Tum stepped forward with a grin, holding up a brick. “Oi, gents. I think we should break the window open with this here brick.”
Lionel didn’t even look at him. “Listen, mate. Not the right move.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a worn lockpick set. “We should pick the lock. Stealthily. I’m very good at it.”
Tiny Tim nodded in agreement. “I don’t think breaking the window would be a good idea.”
Tum opened his mouth to argue, but Lionel was already crouched at the door, tools in hand.
“We are picking the lock,” Lionel stated, his voice firmer now as he worked.
Tum crouched and set the brick quietly against the wall.
They all gave a small nod of agreement as Lionel worked. Tiny Tim leaned closer on his crutch and muttered, “Yeah, that sounds a lot better.”
Tum, still nervous of being caught, looked out into the fog as far as he could see.
There was a brief chorus of low grunts and mumblings as the sound of pins clicked into place.
With a soft final click, the lock gave. Lionel grinned slightly. “All right,” he said. “Pile in.”
The door creaked as it opened, but no alarms rang. Most shops relied on guards over bell wire rigging, and whoever ran this place had gone the same route. The three didn’t question it. They all assumed that the information they were given was correct. Tonight was the best night to pull off this heist.
Inside, the air was warmer, but it didn’t feel safer. The store sat silent almost as if it were made ready for their arrival. Two tall glass cases flanked the entrance, full of polished jewelry meant to lure in the wealthy. Diamond studded necklaces, a deep green emerald brooch, silver rings. All of it displayed with care. Further in, the cases bent into a horseshoe, enclosing a central walkway. A thicker glass island case stood in the middle of the room, where the most valuable pieces shimmered under the faint light.
Tum didn’t waste a second. He stepped toward the closest glass case, pulled out his knife, raised his arm up high, and with a quick TWAK! smashed the pommel end of his knife into the glass case. “Let’s get started,” he muttered.
Glass shattered everywhere.
Tiny Tim looked over sharply. “Hold on. Didn’t she say the safe was supposed to be in the back?”
He scanned the room. There it was. A wooden door sat in the shadows toward the back right corner.
Tum, undeterred, raised the knife again.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Tiny Tim warned. “It’s really loud.”
Tum ignored him as he went to smash the next set of cases. He hit the next case with more force than control. His arm careened into the metal frame that outlined the case as a piece of glass tore cleanly into his skin. A loud splash of glass rang out as shards fell down around his feet. Blood now hit the floor in fast drops.
