The Reaper's Breath Read online

  The Ripper Legacies

  Book One

  The Reaper’s Breath

  By

  Robert Southworth

  Copyright Robert Southworth 2016

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in part or in full without

  the written permission from the author.

  Cover images courtesy of istock images.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Historical Note

  Authors Books

  INTRODUCTION

  The British Empire was a great lumbering, but effective, beast. At its heart lay England, and at the heart of England lay the largest city in Europe: London. Despite being central to the political and economic machinations of the crown for centuries, the old city suddenly found itself experiencing a metamorphosis. In 1801, the city was home to one million people, and yet only one hundred years later that figure would be dwarfed, with several million people now calling London their home. Year upon year the population grew, craving the chance of a better life, a magnet to those within both Britain and the rest of the world. Political and economic upheaval in other lands would see the immigrant population grow further. The sudden arrival of cheap labour forced many indigenous workers into poverty, causing resentment and civil unrest. The class system, at a time of great prosperity for some and great hardship for many others, only added to the tide of ill feeling. The upper classes looked down on the poor as though they were at best second-class citizens and at worst, vermin. The poor looked on the wealthy with envious distrust and loathing. With such animosity coursing through the streets of London, it was inevitable that crime and violence were never far away. The introduction of the Metropolitan Police in 1829 by Robert Peel was designed to be a visual deterrent, though it did little to curb the wave of lawless behaviour. Like the population police numbers grew, including a detective force introduced in the year 1842 to work alongside the uniformed constables. London became a steaming, hissing cauldron filled to the brim with isolated communities, political activists, and the downtrodden masses. The police were too few to deal with the day-to-day crime of the city, and when evil came calling, they were powerless to prevent its rampage. Those most vulnerable were those so poor, they had no choice but to scrabble amongst the filth, facing constant adversity; soon there would come a time when these poor unfortunates would become prey to the evil that was about to descend on the beleaguered city of London.

  Chapter 1

  London September 1873

  The streets of London retained the light smattering of snow that had fallen in the earlier part of the day. The dog picked its way through the darkened alleys of the less refined districts of the city. Small and dishevelled, the natural white of its coat had not been seen for many years; the beast adapting to the colour of the filth-strewn streets. The course and matted brown hair barely covered its skeletal frame. It craved food, like many other inhabitants, whether they were human or beast. Regular meals were scarce and many of the lower orders too frequently went to their beds with the gnawing agony of hunger. The dog was no different, and despite exhaustion at the lack of sustenance, it moved on determinedly. Then, quite abruptly, its short legs stopped, and cocked its head as an unnatural sound collided with his finely tuned hearing. The dog may have lacked height but did not fall short in curiosity and set off, keen to investigate. It moved quickly, avoiding the drunks who lined the streets of the city like some grotesque decoration. Most of the disenfranchised, gin-soaked populace had been cast aside by a nation that measured a man by the weight of his purse. These savage creatures had lost their humanity, and their self-loathing erupted all too often with fury. The dog had learned through brutal experience, it made certain that it gave a wide birth to those it suspected would send an anger-filled boot in his direction. The beast ducked down an alley, which seemed darker, and held an atmosphere of menace far greater than the streets it had travelled thus far.

  Sensing danger, the animal slowed its pace, the natural instinct of survival overcoming its desire to investigate. Reaching the top of a stone flight of steps, and pausing momentarily, the animal cocked its head and listened. The noise was still no more than a whisper, but nonetheless it was constant, originating from somewhere at the foot of the weather-beaten steps. Short legs lurched forward once more, the depth of the steps testing their dexterity. It moved along a narrow walkway that showed signs of neglect and disuse. The dog was not aware of the fact, but it obviously meant that this area was privately owned. It had been left abandoned to the elements. This was an unusual occurrence, because of its close proximity to the Thames, the lifeblood of London. At the walkway’s end stood a door, locked to prevent prying eyes, but the weather had not been kind to it, and a broken plank in the frontage allowed the diminutive hound access. Darkness descended, and the dog’s bravery nearly faltered until it spied a faint flickering light in the distance. Nudging the suspect plank with its nose allowed the dog to hear, more clearly, the sound it recognised as human sobbing. But the noise resonated differently to the frequent times it had experienced previously. Misery in a city such as London ran deep, and tears flowed like the current in the most energetic of rivers. Reaching another door, the animal gently leaned forward until the wood before it moved enough to allow it to peer inside.

  The room was mostly shrouded in darkness, the only light emanating from two small candles that stood upon a solitary table. Next to them, a bound and gagged figure shivered. The dog had found the origin of the unusual sound. The figure sobbed, the gag that was placed over the mouth preventing the cries of discomfort reaching all but the most gifted hearing. Then a figure, so far unnoticed by the dog, stepped forward. The animal felt an inherent fear. Its body trembled, the small canine brain bellowing at it to run, its legs refusing the order. The newly arrived figure was a mere shape in the shadows, only its hands visible in the candlelight. One of those hands brushed a tear from the prone woman’s cheek.

  “Do not cry. You and I have been chosen for a task. You are the first of many - you must welcome your fate.”

  The gag about the victim’s mouth prevented any reply, and the candlelight caught the movement of a blade. The sobs turned to a gurgle as blood poured from the freshly slit throat. The dog watched as the blade went to work. What was once an attractive woman, was mercilessly, turned into mere lumps of flesh. Then, at last, the shadowy figure ceased its butchery and, after carefully wrapping each bloodied remnant of his victim, walked towards the door. The dog shook violently with fear and whimpered. The figure stopped and looked at the wretched beast. A hand delivered two tender pats to the its head.

  “Good dog,” whispered the shadow, and then it walked away.

  The animal remained fixed to the spot until it was quite sure the figure had gone. It moved away from the scene of slaughter but without haste; it feared to see the stranger again. When finally, its body felt the air upon its coat, the animal burst into a run, never to return to the ominous place.

  ***
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  Nine days later, the chief medical examiner for the Metropolitan Police forced his way through a crowd of reporters. He shunned their attempts to obtain the grisly facts for their various employers. An orderly ceased talking to a porter, and upon seeing Dr. Bond’s discomfort helped his superior reach the substantial grounds of the Clapham and Wandsworth union workhouse. London had evolved during the reign of Queen Victoria, and the workhouse had imitated that growth in both size and duties to the city. The original structure had been built in 1732, but this workhouse, with its more dominating crucifix structure, was commissioned later, and work was not completed on the St John’s Hill site until 1840. Despite only being forty years old, the workhouse refused to stagnate, and a much larger infirmary had been added, the workhouse gardens paying the cost of progress. Three stories high, the new infirmary was the destination of the chief medical examiner.

  “Thank you, Tom. It seems that these grounds have attracted more flies than usual.” Dr. Bond made a slight head movement in the direction of those wishing to hear and then report on the grisly news. “In hindsight, it was a mistake to take the morning air.” Bond was a slender man, his moustache trimmed to perfect symmetry and wearing a tailored suit that was both functional and of the highest quality, if not a recent purchase. His life, in many ways, mirrored his career; meticulous attention to every detail and quality placed above the need to bend a knee to the latest fashions.

  “Nothing excites the crowd like a murder, Dr. Bond.” The orderly grinned; his teeth dominated that grin by their almost total absence. He raised a tobacco-stained hand and held a cigarette to his mouth. Bond could not help wonder about the sanitary implications of having this man working amongst the sick.

  “Misery peddlers, the lot of them.” Bond shook his head, wondering why the people of the city delighted so in news of murder and depravity.

  “Yes sir, the remains have been placed in one of the isolation rooms away from prying eyes. I believe they await your arrival before continuing with the examination.”

  “Very well, Tom, lead the way.”

  As they moved through the grounds of the workhouse and then the infirmary, Bond could not help making mental notes of those areas that required improvement. In truth, he was impressed, but to cease striving for perfection only led in time to a decline in standards. Corridor gave way to yet more corridors, and as staff hurried here and there, Bond was aware that the workhouse had insufficient nurses. His observations were brought to an end when eventually Tom came to a stop and turned to face him.

  “The remains are within.” Tom reached down and raised the latch. “I shall continue with my duties.”

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  The orderly nodded and, with the briefest of smiles, turned and walked away.

  The orderly nodded, and Dr Bond watched him slip away with wry smile curling his lips. He had known Tom long enough to know that he felt uneasy when those subordinate to him were overly respectful. Dr Bond had long suspected that it was Tom who was relieving the infirmary of its stock. The rub was, he could not prove it, and so, Tom’s thievery would have to be addressed another day.

  ***

  Dr. Bond entered the isolation room to be greeted by the sight of two men hunched over an examination table. They had been so engrossed in their work that the arrival of their superior had gone unnoticed.

  “Gentlemen, I take it that this is the unfortunate soul who met with a gruesome and untimely end?” The two men were startled by his sudden appearance in the room. The taller of the two regained his composure to splutter an apology. Dr Bond held up his hand to calm the man and show that no offence had been taken. “What have we so far?”

  “It has been twenty-four hours since the last body part was found.” The taller man moved aside to give Bond the opportunity to gaze upon the victim for the first time. “At this time, we have fourteen pieces, each of which was recovered from a different location within the city. Some have suffered more from the elements than others due to the areas in which they were discarded.”

  Bond was a medical man with vast experience. Nonetheless, that experience did little to prepare him for what lay to his front. He struggled to hide his revulsion. “Have we been able to establish actual cause of death?”

  “Hayden,” the taller man nodded towards his colleague, “discovered that the side of the skull had suffered significant trauma. We believe it may well have been enough to cause death, but we cannot say with complete certainty,” he paused, and looked at the victim. “The throat had also been cut. I hope she was dead long before the body was subjected to this carnage.”

  “Indeed,” Bond replied, nodding his agreement. “Do we have any clue as to her identity?”

  “As you can see, the state of the remains will make identification extremely difficult. One part was found wrapped in a black petticoat; it is the only piece of clothing to be left attached to the victim. The style and fabric are commonplace, though, unfortunately, so I doubt it will offer any hint to the identity of its owner. The body was not simply hacked apart, in a sense it was taken apart, piece by piece. It would have taken time, and the killer - or killers - would have needed a safe place to carry out this task undisturbed. It is also clear that a sharp knife and a saw were used to dismember the body, I feel that I must emphasise this was no lunatic, cutting and slashing. There is, at least, a limited skill involved.”

  ‘Thank you, Dr. Kempster. Excellent work. Dr. Hayden, I have been informed that you are not without skill when it comes to reconstruction.”

  “I have experience in these matters, but I have to confess that I am daunted by this challenge. It will be difficult with so many injuries, and the waters of the Thames have added to the breakdown of tissue. Even my best work would only allow those closest to the victim a slim chance of recognising her.” He paused, looking down at the butchery, “I am not sure we will ever know her name.”

  “Nonetheless, we must make every effort. Sew the parts together and try and restore the features as best you can.” He looked down at the wretched creature and could not help feel sadness at the evil in the world. “A whore no doubt, but, whatever her sins before God, this end was not deserved.” It was an assumption on Bond’s part that the victim was a whore, but an understandable assumption, as so many of the prostitutes within London were dragged from the Thames. Dr Bond gave a small nod, then turned and walked briskly towards the door. He was eager to re-join the world of the living and feel the winter air upon his face. Suddenly, he stopped and turned, raising a hand and stroking his beloved moustache. Finally, it was clear he had reached a decision.

  “Gentlemen, this may simply be a gang-related crime or an angered husband. In truth, though, I feel it is something different. The killer has invested time in this slaughter, and we must be prepared to consider that they have, in some way, derived pleasure from the barbarous act. If that is the case, it would be foolish not to expect further victims. Would you agree?”

  “Yes,” replied Hayden.

  “It is unlikely that we will gain any information from the remains that will lead to the arrest of the perpetrator, and I fear you are correct, Dr Bond,” added Kempster.

  “Then I feel this room will become pivotal to the matter, and to further investigations to find those responsible for this crime. I shall speak with the inspector in charge of the case and see if we can keep any future deaths out of the public eye. Our work must be allowed time to reap its rewards, without pressure from the mob. Very well, gentlemen. Keep me informed of your progress and let us hope God finds a way to deliver justice for that poor soul.” Without waiting for a reply, Bond turned once again on his heels; he sought fresh air within his lungs and against his skin. He could not rid himself of the thought that he had witnessed unbridled evil, and he could not help feeling shaken to his very core.

  ***

  Less than a year later, the News of the World told the gruesome story of a dismembered body. The newspaper told its readers that parts of a female ha
d been discovered in the waters of the Thames, in the Putney area. Despite being the lead story, there were, in fact, very few details in the article. Initially, the unfortunate female was taken to the Fulham union workhouse, but after a thorough examination, very little could be ascertained of the victim’s identity or of the person responsible for the crime. Interest in the murder waned, and an open verdict was placed on the incident with only fleeting reference made to a similar crime the previous year.

  Two days after the verdict had been passed, a covered wagon stopped outside the gates of the Clapham and Wandsworth workhouse. It was late, and as Tom approached the wagon with a trolley there were few prying eyes to take an interest. A large sewn bag was placed on the trolley and Tom laid a few coins in the wagon driver’s hand.

  “What’s going on, Tom?” The guard asked sleepily, the snort of the horse rousing him from his slumbering position within the gatehouse.

  “Best not to ask, Bill,’ Tom reached down and took a brown bottle from his coat, and then winked at the guard. “We all need to warm from within from time to time.’

  “Right you are, Tom.” The guard’s hand shot out and retrieved the bottle like a snake grasping at a particularly tasty mouse. He nodded, and then disappeared from view. Tom steered the trolley through the many corridors, bristling with his own self-importance. He delighted in informing those who held higher positions within the workhouse that he was employed on an important task of the utmost secrecy. The trolley even slowed to ensure certain individuals were forced to notice. Eventually, however, Tom exhausted the supply of spectators and approached the door to which he had shown Dr. Bond less than a year earlier. He entered, and at first thought the room empty.

  “Dr. Kempster?” he called.

  A figure emerged from beyond a screen; the face aged quite dramatically over the last few months and showing the ravages of too many hours spent within the workplace.