David Golemon: Ripper

Abberline leaned back as a waiter brought him his kidney pie. Once the waiter had left the inspector placed his napkin in his lap. He stopped short of his fork digging into the crust of the meat pie. He tapped the cooked dough several times with the tip of his fork and then glanced outside and into the thickening fog beyond the large window that looked out onto the street. Its white veil had moved into the city not long after his extended shift had ended. He turned away and looked at his meal one more time and tossed the fork onto the table and then waved the waiter over and handed him his cup and saucer.

“Bring me coffee, please,” he said, and the waiter turned away. Abberline thought quickly and then called out. “Apologies old boy, but would you make that a double scotch?”

“Double scotch, sir,” the waiter said and then moved off.

The inspector grimaced as he took in the hot kidney pie and then slid it as far away from him as his arm could reach.

“Inspector Abberline?” the voice said from his shoulder.

Abberline closed his eyes, angry at the interruption. He knew if he opened his eyes and saw a newspaper man, who was not allowed inside this particular building, he would be tempted to use the butter knife in front of him to stab the man in the heart.

Instead of following through with his imagined murder scenario, he said, “Yes?” as he opened his eyes and saw a rather tall, thin man standing next to him. The well-dressed gentleman was twisting his hat with anxious hands.

“Sir, my name is Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson, perhaps my name is not unfamiliar to you? I wrote you a letter three months ago?”

Abberline looked over the tall man with the brimming moustache. He saw that the man didn’t look well at all as he nervously twisted his hat into ungodly disarray. The words were spoken with a barely disguised Scottish accent. As he saw the man looking down with worry etched into his dark eyes, Abberline gestured to the empty chair across from him.

“Who wouldn’t recognize the great Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson? Sir, please, have a seat.”

Abberline watched as the man hesitated. Stevenson walked the short distance to the chair, but then looked lost as to what to do with his hat.

“We lack the formality of one of the nicer establishments Mr. Stevenson. Just place your hat on the table, it looks as if it could use a rest.”

Stevenson looked flustered as he glanced at the crumpled hat. He grimaced and then placed it on the white table cloth. He half smiled as he pulled the chair out and sat.

“May I offer you some refreshment? I know it’s a little late, but I just ordered scotch for myself.”

Stevenson swallowed and then nodded his head meekly. The chief inspector waved at the waiter standing at the bar and signaled for two drinks instead of the one.

Abberline turned and watched the man sitting before him. He was silent and waited for the famous author to state his piece.

Stevenson looked at the men around him as if he had stepped into a lion’s den.

“If you wrote me a post in advance of this date, I can tell you I have received none.” Abberline then fixed the man with a hard stare. “So, if your lost post was to attempt to get information on … well, on one of my cases, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question.”

“Excuse me?” Stevenson asked, looking bewildered for a moment. “Oh, oh, you think I’m here to ask you about the Ripper case for a possible book? That was not the intent of my letter to you Chief Inspector. And, I not only sent two letters from the States where I was on holiday, I sent three more upon my arrival in London.”

“Isn’t that why a famous author such as you would visit such an establishment as this at one o’clock in the morning, to get a good yarn to write yet another lurid and morbid novel?”

“No, Chief Inspector, I am not here for that. In case you hadn’t noticed I have already done my horror novel and have no intention of ever writing something like that again.”

Abberline raised his brows at the man’s statement. He knew that Stevenson’s foray into the horror genre came with his novella the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde , published two years before to far-above-average sales. He was surprised at the author’s venomous reply to his reference to that particular story.

“So, Mr. Stevenson, what you’re saying is that your letter had nothing to do with the Ripper case? If you weren’t seeking information, then what pray tell prompted the notes?”

Once more Robert Louis Stevenson turned and watched the men of London’s finest as they talked in loud voice and laughed with even more zest. He finally looked satisfied that no one was listening. As he leaned back to face the chief inspector, the waiter returned and placed the two drinks on the table. Stevenson immediately took a sip and then grimaced. He placed the glass back down and then looked at Abberline who ignored his own double scotch as he waited for the writer to answer his question. He himself was aware that he shouldn’t be discussing the Ripper case with anyone from outside his offices.

“I am not here to ask questions of you Mr. Abberline. I wouldn’t do that,” he said as he once more nervously looked around. “I am being followed, have been ever since docking three days ago in East Hampton. I suspected even in San Francisco I had company following my every move.”

“Mysterious indeed, worthy of a novel in and of itself, wouldn’t you say?” Abberline waited for a reaction; he didn’t have to wait long.

“I believe I stated sir that I would never attempt such a literary farce again,” he said with his eyes bulging. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde may have contributed to—”

Abberline watched as the words froze in the throat of one of the most articulate men in the history of literature. After a brief flare of emotion, Stevenson closed his eyes and then shook his head.

“I know who your Jack the Ripper is.”

Abberline froze. His eyes never left those of Stevenson. “I believe you have to explain that rather remarkable statement, Mr. Stevenson.”

“I met him in California during my research for Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He is an American, a professor of chemistry, and … and … something to do with flowers. I’m sorry, but my notes for the book have been misplaced, or stolen, I am not sure which. But I’m sure it had something to do with flowers, which was part of his work he wouldn’t discuss.”

Abberline looked at the man sitting before him and knew that the odds of his notes being misplaced was the better of the two scenarios. He could smell the paranoia coming from the frightened man before him.

“Who is this gentleman?”

With one last look around the crowded eatery, Robert Louis Stevenson related how he had met Professor Lawrence Ambrose and researched material for his upcoming novel, the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde , due to the good professor’s work with aggression and metabolism changes that could possibly occur in the human body. Stevenson spoke for close to an hour.

Abberline listened politely, refraining from making faces or leaning one way or the other in his uncomfortable silence at the fantastic tale being related to him from one of the most influential people in all of the Empire.

Silence hung over the table and the two double scotches sat untouched in front of the two men.

“Mr. Stevenson, you are an educated man, probably far more than myself, so I will be careful when I use the words too fantastic to believe , sir.”

“Which…”

“Everything, Mr. Stevenson, from the science you claim this man has developed to Her Majesty’s government trying to silence you. Take your pick, sir, it all sounds rather far-fetched.” Abberline checked his anger at this obvious waste of time. He reached out, took hold of his glass, and raised it to his lips; with one last shake of his head he downed the double dose of fire without a grimace.