So anyway, I took part in Yuletide this year, which is basically a Secret Santa exchange of short stories in little known fan fiction thingummys. My story, an epic based on the ITV series Whitechapel started out as a bit of a disaster as when the big reveal took place on Christmas Day, I didn’t have a story to read as the person writing for me decided to delete theirs at the very last minute and then it looked like my recipient hadn’t received mine due to a balls up when I was uploading it.
However, all’s well that ends well and I ended up with THREE stories based on From Hell, which are all fantastic and my recipient got it in the end and seems to have really liked it.
The three stories that I received are here and well worth a read:
Alleyways by Franzeska, which is brilliant and like a mash up of From Hell and my blog!
A Smothering Hell by Kalypsobean, which is also brilliant and a dream like delve into the mind of Abberline.
Prince of the Land of Stench by kittydesade, which is ALSO brilliant and follows Gull as he commits his final murder. It really gave me the shivers.
Anyway, here is the first half of my story. It’s the first time I’ve attempted fan fiction so I’m not really sure how it turned out. I’m basically just posting it here as an excuse to post more pictures of Rupert Penry-Jones standing moody and pensive in a Whitechapel street.
The Hand That Holds The Knife by me.
DI Chandler stared down at the letter in his hand, put it down on the desk, rubbed his eyes as if trying to make it disappear then picked it up again. His overwhelming feeling was one of dismay, shot through with a ridiculous and childish desire to burst into tears.
‘What’s up with you then?’ As usual, DS Miles had wandered in without knocking and was now standing on the other side of the desk, a concerned look on his tired face. ‘If I didn’t know you better…’
‘It’s nothing.’ Chandler snapped without thinking before wincing and shaking his head. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m just…’ He tossed the letter across the desk, where it landed on top of a neat pile of envelopes and fell to the floor. ‘You’ll see.’
Miles bent down and picked the letter up, wincing as he did so. The wound where he had been stabbed in the liver by the Ripper almost a year earlier still troubled him, although he’d rather have died than admit this to anyone, least of all Chandler. ‘What’s this bollocks then?’ He frowned as he peered down at the letter, struggling to decipher its spidery red writing. ‘Fake blood? Nice touch if a bit melodramatic.’
Chandler coughed into his hand. ‘I… I think it’s real, Ray,’ he murmured, feeling suddenly queasy. Oh God, he’d touched it. He struggled to overcome the sudden desperate need to wash his hands, scrubbing them until they were raw and all the germs had gone.
‘Real blood?’ Miles pulled a face. ‘Waste of time, if you ask me. Why not just use ink. It’s not like anyone really gives a toss, is it?’ He peered again at the letter. ‘Can you make this out?’ he asked eventually. ‘Because I can’t read a bloody word of it.’
Chandler sighed and wearily held out his hand for the letter. ‘It says: Dear Mister Chandler sir, thought you’d seen the last of me? Sorry to disappoint but my work here ain’t done yet. I said I weren’t going to quit until I’d done ripping whores and I still have one bangtail left to do. Yours, Mr Catch Me If You Can.’
Miles was frowning. ‘What does that mean?’ he demanded, running his fingers through his grey hair. ‘I don’t get it, Chandler. Is this some sort of sick joke?’ He took the letter again, smoothing out the crumples with his fingers. ‘We haven’t heard a peep from that bastard all year,’ he said before looking up at his superior. ‘You said that he’d probably killed himself.’
‘And now he’s back,’ Chandler replied. ‘I don’t know if it’s the same guy. It might be another copy cat. It might be a side kick. I just don’t know.’ He ran his hands over his face. ‘But what I do know is that you aren’t getting too attached to that letter as it’s going straight down to forensics.’
Miles sneered. ‘I bet you a tenner that I know what they’ll say about it.’
++++
Dr Llewellyn smiled regretfully as she handed the letter to Chandler, now safely encased in a floppy plastic bag. ‘I’m sorry…’ she began.
‘But it’s contaminated,’ he finished with a grin and a shrug. ‘I know. I was just being optimistic.’
‘No harm in that,’ she replied with an answering smile. ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more help.’ She looked him up and down brightly. It had been a good day for all the women in the department when tall, immaculately suited and charming DI Joseph Chandler first appeared at Whitechapel Station. ‘So what now?’
He looked momentarily confused. Hadn’t she just been checking him out? ‘Now?’ Oh God, she didn’t expect him to ask her out or anything? Surely she was married anyway? He looked at her left hand – yes, there was definitely a ring and hadn’t she just had a baby? Oh God.
Dr Llewellyn laughed and for a brief, unnerving moment he suspected that she had read his mind. ‘Yes, now. The letter hasn’t given us any clues so what’s the next course of action, Joe? I mean, there hasn’t been a murder yet so your hands are a bit tied in certain respects.’
‘Oh yes, that. The case, yes.’ He sighed with audible relief. ‘I don’t know what to do next but I think I know where to find out.’
++++
DS Miles hated going to Buchan’s house. Quite apart from his distaste for the man himself, it really offended him for some undefinable reason that Buchan, a man in his late forties still lived with his mother in a pot pourri scented semi detached house in Shadwell. ‘It ain’t right,’ he muttered to Chandler as they waited on the door step for someone to let them in. ‘Why hasn’t he got his own place. The whole thing gives me the creeps.’
Chandler smiled down at him. ‘I know,’ he said, brushing some droplets of rain from the broad shoulders of his long dark wool coat. ‘And so does he.’
Miles shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less what he knows or thinks.’ He would have gone on but at that moment the green painted door opened and they were face to face with Buchan, who was grinning cheerfully at them both.
‘Well, well, well, and to what do I owe this honour?’ he enquired as he led them into the cluttered little sitting room with its clashing brown, blue and yellow floral carpet, curtains and wallpaper. He gestured to the squashy green velour sofa and obediently, Chandler and Miles perched on its edge as their host busied himself opening biscuit tins and fussing with coasters. ‘This isn’t a social call is it?’ he asked with a sly look over his shoulder as he bustled out in search of tea.
‘No, not exactly,’ Chandler called after him, before turning to face a bemused Miles. ‘What?’
‘Not exactly?’ Miles repeated. ‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m just being polite,’ Chandler replied with an exasperated sigh. ‘You should try it sometime.’
‘Nah, I’ll leave any social niceties to you, if that’s okay.’ Miles replied. ‘How long does it take to make tea for God’s sake? In and out again, you said,’ he muttered reproachfully. ‘You didn’t say anything about staying for bloody tea.’
It wasn’t long before Buchan returned bearing a tray, which he placed on the low table in front of them. ‘Now, what can I do for you both?’ he asked as he poured out tea from a plain brown teapot. ‘Can I take it from your somewhat sour expression, DS Miles, that my professional services are required yet again?’ He chuckled a little to himself. ‘Galling isn’t it?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s galling…’ Miles started, always quick to be irritated by Buchan.
Chandler swiftly put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Yes, we do need help as it happens,’ he said smoothly, his eyes fixed directly on Buchan’s. ‘There’s been a letter.’
‘A letter?’ Buchan’s small eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes? What sort of letter?’ He proffered a plate of biscuits to the other two men, who both shook their heads. ‘Oh well.’ He shrugged and helped himself to a custard cream.
Chandler felt in his pocket then produced the plastic wallet containing the letter. ‘This sort of letter,’ he said with a grim smile as he placed it on the table between them.
‘Oh.’ Buchan put down his half eaten custard cream and almost reverently picked up the plastic envelope. ‘I see.’ He lifted it up and scrutinized it from every angle before looking across at Chandler with one eyebrow raised. ‘May I?’ he enquired almost playfully.
‘Do what you like,’ Chandler said, feeling a bit discomforted by Buchan’s almost flirtatious manner. ‘The forensics team can’t get anything from it anyway.’ He sat back and watched as Buchan slowly opened the wallet then slowly slid the letter out, holding it by his fingertips as he read the contents, his lips moving slowly as he did so.
‘Astonishing,’ he remarked when he had finished. ‘Quite remarkable.’
Chandler leaned forward. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, hardly daring to breathe. ‘Is it just some random crazy?’ he said. ‘Should we just ignore it or is it worth taking seriously?’
Buchan stared at him. ‘Oh, definitely take it seriously,’ he replied, sliding the letter back into its wallet. ‘This person clearly has unfinished business,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget that many Ripperologists agree that there were most likely two murderers in the original case.’
‘Or one murderer and an accomplice like a coach driver or something,’ Chandler supplied with a side long look at Miles. ‘So there were probably two of them all along.’ He took the envelope from Buchan and slid it back inside his jacket. ‘Or this could be the same man as last time?’
Buchan shook his head. ‘I have no doubt that he would have taken his own life so as to keep the legend of the unknown killer going,’ he said very definitely. ‘No, this is someone quite different.’ He leaned forward. ‘My money is on a close accomplice who thinks that he should finish the Ripper’s work.’ He sat back in his chair and regarded them both. ‘It’s my guess that he intends to kill Mary Jane Kelly, or at least an approximation of her in the early hours of the 11th November.’
Chandler shivered. ‘But that gives us…’ he looked at Miles, who was suddenly sitting up very straight. ‘My God, that just gives us a day.’
++++
‘I don’t know where to start,’ Chandler muttered to Miles and DC Kent as they wandered together down the cobbled street of Artillery Lane, leaving behind the sirens and ultra modern architecture of Liverpool Street and entering a whole different world of crowded, gloomy Victorian streets and alleyways. It had taken Chandler a while to get used to this area, to its dark twists and turns, the austere red brick mansions of long dead Spitalfields silk merchants that lined the streets around ominous, Hawksmoor designed Christ Church and the way that the poverty of the council blocks was literally overshadowed by the Gherkin and shiny new buildings of the City.
‘We need to talk to Frances Coles,’ Kent said, pausing to blow into his cupped hands. It was a cold day, even for early November. ‘She was supposed to be the last victim last time around so maybe she’s the target this time too?’
‘Maybe.’ Chandler nodded. He’d already considered this of course but didn’t say so. ‘Get us an address and we’ll go round to see her.’ He cast a sidelong look at Miles, who was silent and radiating grumpiness. ‘What do you think, Ray?’
‘I think I need a drink,’ was the reply.
Chandler and Kent exchanged a wry look, well used by now to Miles’ moods. ‘You’ve still got some contacts among the girls working this area, haven’t you?’ Chandler said with a fastidious shudder. He’d always left that sort of thing to the other men – the way the local prostitutes speculatively looked him over always left him feeling vaguely discomforted for reasons that he had never dared to fathom. ‘You should get the word out that they need to be careful for the next couple of days.’
‘Especially the red haired ones,’ Kent piped up. ‘And tell them to avoid fish and chips too.’
Chandler turned to look at him, a perplexed look on his face. ‘Fish and chips?’
Kent grinned. ‘Don’t you remember, sir? Fish and potatoes! That was Mary Jane’s last meal.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Chandler nodded. ‘Poor old Frances Coles got fed fish pie didn’t she?’
‘How very bourgeois,’ Miles said with a scowl. ‘I always said the Ripper was a toff, didn’t I?’ They’d arrived at a pub, the Ten Bells over the road from Spitalfields Market. ‘Here we go,’ Miles said as he held the door open for his companions. ‘Don’t worry, I’m buying.’
Chandler hesitated for a moment, looking back over his shoulder at the looming sooty white tower of Christ Church, which was just across the road and dominated all of the local streets. Not for the first time he wondered why such a grand and imposing church had been built in an area like this. Had Whitechapel always been so poor, he found himself wondering.
It was on the up now though, as evidenced by the crowds of slim hipped young things with angular, shiny hair cuts and carefully distressed and clearly expensive rags who reclined on the battered leather sofas inside. Kent looked immediately at home and sauntered to the bar without a care in the world, followed by Miles who looked around the small pub with a contemptuous expression as he waited for the pretty barmaid, who had long scarlet dreadlocks that swung down to her waist to serve them. Chandler alone seemed to feel ill at ease and fiddled with his car keys in his coat pocket as he looked nervously around.
‘This used to be a nice place,’ Miles said. ‘I used to come here as a kid for a pint with the traders from the market across the road. It’s changed a lot since then.’
‘I can imagine.’ Chandler turned to his colleague. ‘The whole area seems to be changing.’
Miles shrugged. ‘In some ways.’ He pointed to the glass doors, beyond which they could see busy Commercial Street. ‘Some of the houses on this street go for millions,’ he said. ‘The new owners have a bit of bee in their bonnets about retaining the original features of the area so they go without electricity at night and only use candles and stuff. It’s bloody stupid.’
Chandler nodded, accepting the half pint of bitter that was being handed to him by the barmaid. ‘And only a few doors away there’s an estate where the families can’t afford to pay their electricity bills,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ Miles said, sipping his pint. He looked to the door. ‘Oh, here we go.’
Chandler followed his gaze and slumped a little. Buchan. ‘Did you know he was going to come here?’ he asked.
‘Do you think we’d be here if I’d known that?’ Miles replied with an impatient look.
Buchan appeared not to notice that his appearance was unwelcome and bustled towards them, his round face slightly pink thanks to the cold winds outside. ‘How nice to see you all again!’ he exclaimed. Chandler winced away, thinking for one awful minute that Buchan was going to hug him, so delighted did he appear to be to see him.
‘It’s fortuitous indeed to meet you in here,’ he said in his half flirtatious, half chiding manner that drove Miles half mad with irritation. ‘This was, after all, the favoured drinking place of the original Ripper’s last known victim, Mary Jane Kelly.’ He gestured to the ornate tile decoration on the back wall, which Chandler had hitherto failed to notice. ‘That would have been here when she was a regular. Imagine that.’
‘So you’re back to the line that Kelly was the last one then?’ Miles interrupted with a sour look. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind about that?’
Now it was Buchan’s turn to look impatient. ‘That was just a ploy,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I thought that if I could just convince the murderer that the killings ended with Catherine Eddowes then I might be able to spare some unfortunate young woman’s life.’
‘Didn’t work though, did it?’ Kent interposed. He’d been silent up until that moment, regarding Buchan with amusement from a safe vantage point behind Chandler’s elbow. ‘He still went for that midwife, didn’t he?’
‘Frances Coles, yes,’ Buchan seemed to meditate for a moment. ‘I wonder what became of her?’
++++
The last time Chandler had seen Frances Coles, she’d been pale and trembling, wrapped in a heavy duty grey blanket and drinking sweet tea while hesitantly describing what had happened when she’d had to fight for her life against the Ripper. He still remembered the way that her auburn hair had fallen over her face, momentarily hiding the purple and blue bruises that covered her neck where he’d tried to strangle her, the burst blood vessels around her eyes.
‘I look a right mess,’ she’d said at the time with a shaky laugh. ‘Still, could have been worse.’
Miles, sensitive as ever, had shown her a picture of Mary Jane Kelly and the girl had turned green and pushed it roughly away. ‘Is that what he wanted to do to me?’ she’d said after a moment, breathlessly as though all the life had been knocked out of her. ‘My God.’
Now though, things were different and he had trouble recognizing the healthy, black haired girl who answered the door to them. ‘DI Chandler,’ she said blankly, looking him over. ‘Nice to see you again.’ Her tone was casual but her eyes darted between the three men in panic. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Can we come in?’ Chandler’s manner was gentle. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
Frances held the door open for them and they filed silently into her flat. Chandler admired the brightly coloured turquoise, hot pink and yellow walls, the mixture of Pre-Raphaelite and Klimt prints, the large book collection. It was colourful but also bohemian in a way that he himself was too cautious to emulate.
‘Nice place,’ Miles remarked as he sat without invitation on the large orange velvet sofa. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A couple of months.’ Frances sank down on a fuchsia pink cord armchair and regarded the three policemen calmly. She thought that they couldn’t see the way that her hands trembled in her lap, but Kent at least noticed and was on his guard, determined to interrupt or deflect anything upsetting that the others might say.
‘I’m sorry,’ Chandler began, putting his hand into his pocket to pull out the letter, but then clearly thinking better of this plan because he brought his hand out again. ‘We have had a letter from someone claiming to be planning to finish the Ripper’s work.’
Frances opened her eyes more widely. She’d been expecting this of course. ‘It’ll be a year tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘Is that how long you’ve got? One night?’
Chandler nodded. ‘We don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It could be nothing. It could just be a random mad person, but we have to take it seriously. After last time…’
‘After last time…’ Frances echoed. Three women dead, killed in the most grotesque ways and left on the street for them to find. Three women, almost four. ‘Of course.’ Her voice sounded shaky. ‘And you think he might be coming after me again?’
Miles took over. ‘We’re pretty sure that the killer, whoever he was, committed suicide a year ago. We found a body that matched his profile but it had been in the water for so long that we couldn’t be totally sure that it was him.’
She nodded. ‘I see.’
Kent cleared his throat. ‘Has anything unusual happened recently?’ he asked. ‘Any letters? Phone calls? Strangers hanging about?’
Frances considered this for a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I want to be helpful but there is really nothing to say.’ She looked at each man in turn. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s me this time.’
Part Two to come at some point, or maybe never if people hate this so much that they beg me not to inflict any more on them!
