The Devil in London

She felt the cold against her fingers, the pure angelic white of the falling snow filling her vision. A gentle blanket that covered the streets and erased the dark of the world, if only for just a moment.

She could not remember the world ever being so clean. Tears came and went spilling over the edge, splashing into the snow. She could not tell what brought such sadness, that the innocent snow shone with such beauty in the dawning light, or that this winter’s morn would be the last thing she ever gazed upon. That the cold of the snow would be the last thing she ever felt. Fitting, so it seemed, that the last thing she feel be cold. Her heart had been frozen for many years.

The buildings rose about her while the snow poured down between them, squeezing into the world from above and laying themselves upon her gently. No longer could she feel pain, though she was uncertain when it had left her. Slowly, with great care, she turned her head to the right, her gaze turning from sky to earth.

She dared move nothing but her head, though the pain had stopped, she was very aware of everything else. She could see the end of the alley in which she lay just a few feet away. The pavement subdued by snow, once the softest white, now ran with the deepest red. It brought empty fear to her empty heart.

The chill air caught in her lungs, and with one last act of free will, she raised her eyes toward the sky again. The sun’s first rays crept over the roofs and emblazoned the alley in a rosy glow, bringing warmth where warmth was no longer felt.

“That’s the third girl this week Detective.”

Charles looked up from the young woman lying dead in the alley way. He took a moment to jot something in his notepad and carefully stepped around the body. “Yes, William. I am very aware of the body count, and instead of reminding me of such, perhaps you would like to do your job and look for any evidence.”

“Sorry Sir. Just feel like he’s walking circles around us at this point.” William turned and moved to the right side of the alley checking every crevice visible to the human eye.

“Yes, don’t we all feel it? This one isn’t like the others. She’s been cut more deliberately; he’s taken care to open wounds that won’t kill her instantly. He let her bleed out William... she only died a few hours ago.”

Charles knelt down next to the woman and with gloved fingers lifted her hand from the bloodied snow, “He cut her wrists.”

He stood and moved further along the body. The woman’s skirt was soaked in blood, “And here…” he lifted her skirt to her waist, “he cut along the Femoral artery in both thighs.”

He pulled the long skirt back down and jotted more notes. Slowly he moved about to her other side and took note that her corset had been cut open in the front and that there was bruising along her rib cage.

“It seems he may have beaten her before actually cutting her. This is new as well. He is less afraid now and taking his time with them. William, go to the carriage, tell Cole to send word to the Chief. We must have more men on the case.”

“This moment, Sir?”

“Yes, this moment, then return here and resume looking for evidence.”

William nodded and left the alley with a hurried step. Charles sighed with a heaviness that would sink a ship. She had been a beautiful woman. Like with all of the other victims her face had been left untouched. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes that he imagined had once been like the ocean, so full of life, now they remained still and empty.

He felt his stomach twist up in knots. It never got easier. He’d seen a lot of bodies in his time as a London detective and still the nightmares kept him from restful sleep. With a slight tremble in his legs, he pushed himself up from the bloodied snow and moved to the wall on his left. It was closest to the woman’s body and he wondered if perhaps the murderer had brushed against it, leaving a bit for them to go on. As it stood, there was not one shred of evidence to give a lead. Worse, the body count was growing at an alarming rate.

His white gloves ran along the brick wall, seeing nothing of interest, nor of help. He dared a glance back at the victim and as his eyes moved away, his fingers caught at something. A small hole in the wall. It was just big enough for two fingers to fit and it wasn’t just the wall his fingers had caught on. It was a piece of parchment. A lump caught in his throat and the knots in his stomach strained to bursting. With some struggle and a bit of tugging the parchment came free from its prison. It was small, folded down to the size of his pinky and stained with blood.

He heard the carriage approaching, heard the voices as they stepped out into the cold winter air. It took all he had not to rip the paper as he unfolded it. There was script scrawled across it in neat rows. Ink splotched here and there in the rush of the writing. Charles was sure his shaking was visible now. As his eyes scanned the words, he felt all the color slip from his face. His breakfast pushed at the back of his throat.

“Sir, are you alright?” It was William, come up behind him, the Chief in tow. He had laid a hand on his partners shoulder and could feel his nerves rattling his bones.

Charles looked up, clearly frightened and knowing he was wrong for showing such. For their killer could be watching that very moment. He held out the bit of parchment, which William took in a firm hand. He did as Charles had and read it, only he read it aloud. As he did he too lost his color...

“What is holy, yet full of sin, where bodies lie deep within? In this dark and cavernous place, you may yet find your saving grace.”

William looked quickly to Charles, “My God, he’s making a game of it.”

“And he’s not left the amount of time we’ve to find her.”

Their Chief, O’Maley, finally spoke, his voice grave, “I will allow more men, but keep this quiet, I don’t want the whole of London in a panic.”

Charles gave a brisk nod, took the bit of parchment from William and stuffed it deep into his jacket pocket. It was early yet and not many had gathered, though Charles could tell the word was spreading like a barn fire. He motioned for William and the two men lifted the woman’s body and placed her on a stiff board covering her in a dark cloth. It was off to the hospital for an examination of the body and another very long night for the detectives.

The men pushed past the gathering crowd with the bed held up between them. People murmured, whispered, wondering if it was another murder. A young boy reached out and touched the dead woman’s hand, as it had fallen from the board. He felt the cold of her, saw the cut on her wrists, his eyes widened and the crowd hushed as the boys voice rose up, “It’s the Ripper.”