Michael Prescott - Riptide

Are you in England? she asked.

London .

There was an eight-hour time difference between London and L.A. She typed, Must be nearly 5 a.m. there.

I’m an early riser. The curse of old age.

Been investigating Jack long?

I’m a veteran Ripperologist. No longer having to earn a livelihood, I pass my days studying archival files. Perhaps you found your document in an archive?

Not exactly.

Where, then?

I came across it by accident.

That is less than informative.

I thought you were the one offering info.

Very well. It would never do to disappoint a lady. Not that I ever have, in any way that counts.

She didn’t like interacting with this man. She could picture him, hunched over his computer, smiling as he squeezed out another sexual innuendo.

Edward Bateman Hare. Born 1860, Bournemouth. No photos extant. An only child. Family of modest means. Mother died in childbirth.

Jennifer thought of Hare’s dreams of blood. His mother must have bled out during delivery. Throughout his life, he would have been obsessed by guilt, which he projected outward, blaming his mother for abandoning him. Blood and birth, sex and rage, and an irrational animus toward women would have coalesced in his mind.

Attended New College, Oxford. Became asst. schoolmaster at Wm. Winton’s boarding school for boys in Blackheath. Lodged at school during term.

William Winton must have been the man known in the diary as Wisp.

Taught Eng. comp. amp; lit. appreciation. Never married. Just possibly descended from Wm. Hare, Burke’s partner.

The body snatcher? Jennifer asked.

And murderer. Wm. Hare, pardoned for testifying against Burke, left Scotland for parts unknown. If he alighted in England, his grandson could have been EH.

She typed, But no proof?

None I’ve found. And believe me, I’ve looked, Jeneratrix. Does Jen stand for Jennifer?

The change of topic took her by surprise. Yes.

A most alluring name. You are young, I imagine. I most enjoy the company of youth.

This seemed to be her day for dealing with dirty old men. First Harrison Sirk, now this.

Her image of Abberline was uncomfortably vivid now. She saw gray stubble on his cheeks, thin pursed lips, glittering magpie eyes. He was all bones and taut skin, a fairy-tale miser, and he lived in a dusty place crowded with worthless flotsam he wouldn’t throw out.

Anything to tie Hare to the Ripper? she typed, resolutely pursuing the conversation.

He vanished shortly after Frances Coles’ murder. Never seen or heard from again.

Still, he wasn't an official suspect, she wrote.

The police couldn’t see a schoolmaster as a killer. EH was protected by his respectability. A real-life Dr. Jekyll-of whom history has found not Hyde nor Hare.

The play on words seemed disturbingly close to the diarist’s style of expression.

Do forgive the dreadful pun, he added.

She typed, Surprised no one else knows about him.

He’s terribly obscure. And by 1891 my namesake had retired, consequently no mention of EH in Insp. Abberline’s memoirs.

How did you find out about him?

It came up in an old document.

She recognized the sardonic echo of her own words. Abberline was no more willing to reveal his sources than she was.

She decided to test him, see how much he knew. Most people say Coles wasn’t a true Ripper murder.

That’s why police didn’t try harder to apprehend EH. They thought at worst he was the butcher of just one prostitute.

Do you have reason to suspect he killed others?

Not yet, but I continue to dig, dig, dig.

She was sure he did.

You’re a dogged investigator-living up to your screen name , she wrote. From skimming the Ripper books, she knew Frederick Abberline was the lead detective in the case.

Thank you. The inspector fascinates me. He was at the center of the Ripper case-yet there are no photos, portraits, likenesses. He is a man without a face.

Like Jack , she offered. And like the cyberspace Abberline’s avatar.

Abberline is Jack’s Doppelganger. Intimately familiar with the East End. Remembered for his activities in autumn ’88. Retired for no clear reason.

Maybe Abberline was the Ripper.;) She added the winking smiley so he would know it was a joke.

I place my money on EH. This is why I persist in looking for clues. Who can say what other documents may turn up? Such as yours.

Mine isn’t very interesting.

I’d prefer to judge for myself. You will not let me see it? I’ll return the favor.

What do you mean?

A trade. Digital pix of my document in exchange for pix of yours.

I’ll think about it.

Our relationship cannot be one-way. I’ve helped you. I deserve assistance in return.

The material I have is difficult to put online.

Anything can be put online, Jeneratrix.

The truth is, the info is of a personal nature.

You have a personal connection to EH?

Possibly.

I really must know the details.

Not now.

You cannot keep it to yourself.

She didn’t like where this was headed. Have to go, she wrote.

You give me Hare’s name but no details. Is this fair?

I made no promises.

You play games, Jeneratrix. You’re nothing but a cocktease.

It was as if he’d hissed the word in her ear. I’m logging off , she typed.

Don’t run away you damn little whore

She signed off.

Whore , he’d called her. The Ripper’s word. Abberline had been spending too much time in the mind of a killer.

She returned to his comment on the Ripperwalk thread. Under his screen name was a running total of his posts, 327 to date. He’d been busy. Obsessive.

She checked the log of their conversation, taking notes on the salient points. Whatever his deficiencies as a pen pal, Abberline had sketched a portrait of Edward Hare. Born in 1860, he would have been twenty-eight when the Ripper went to work. That was late, but not impossibly so, for the onset of schizophrenia.

Richard was twenty-eight now. With traumas of his own in his past. And with a medical degree, as he never tired of reminding her.

And he was gone. The building manager hadn’t seen him. He could be anywhere, doing anything. Recreating the crimes of his ancestor, perhaps as Aldrich before him had done. Like father, like son, a hereditary madness like the blood curse of a Greek tragedy. First the House of Atreus. Now the House of Silence-

The phone rang, startling her. “Hello?”

“Hi, big sister.”

She froze.

“Richard,” she said.

Caller ID wasn’t displaying any information. He must have used star-67 to shield his number. He could be calling from anywhere.

“Richard,” she repeated slowly, “it’s really good to hear from you.”

“Save it. I saw you tonight. At the rally.”

“You were there ? I didn’t see you.”

“I was in disguise.” A motorcycle rumbled through the background of the call. She heard voices, the honk of a horn. “Nobody sees me when I don’t want them to. I’m the invisible man.”

The thought struck her that Jack the Ripper must have felt exactly the same way.

“Why did you need a disguise?” she asked.