I, Ripper

And the rest: the hatred of the Afghan woman, easily generalized. The calmness in the face of the close-by cut to throat and the gush of crimson it produced. It was all there.

“And what have we learned?” asked the colonel.

“Nothing of note,” I lied. “He is indeed a brave man. Do you know much of his background, may I inquire?”

“Welsh-born, Sandhurst grad, third son of a Methodist minister, not much money in the family but a strain, clearly visible in the colonel, of brilliance. Now doing nothing but dictionary work, whereas in a sane world he’d be a cabinet minister.”

I nodded, though tried to hide how disturbed I was by the unassailable logic I had uncovered that the bravest of the brave was indeed Jack the Ripper.

“Now I shall be off, Mr. Jeb. Jeb, what kind of name is that, by the way? It seems I’ve given up some confidential information to a man whose name I do not even know. Come now, sir, at least explain yourself.”

“It’s a journalistic trope,” I said. “I was called as a youth various things, sometimes even Sonny. But I was in the register as a junior, even if my father was a drunkard and I cared not to be known by his name, so to some I went forth by his initials, which were G.B. My sister, a wonderful girl, could not keep the two letters apart, and in her mouth they elided into Jeb. So that is me, and for the record, sir, since you have asked, the moniker would be Shaw, George Bernard Shaw.”

CHAPTER FOURTY-ONE The Diary

Undated

Egress

I slipped out of the court, down the narrow passageway

and took my right to whatever street it was.

I cannot remember

though it was but hours ago. Had a plague come

as I was to work, and had it taken the rest of humanity?

It seemed I walked for days through the gray drift of the inclement,

my eyes squinted against the sting of the dagger-like drops,

a shiver running through my body as it tried to adjust to the cold.

Emptiness and echo everywhere, bits of paper blowing loose and tattered,

a dog with slattern ribs and no hope in its rheumy eyes, the smell

of garbage, shit, piss, and of course blood riding the cold breeze.

But in time, I saw them. One, then two, then three or four,

humans, that is, gradually assembling to face the day and whatever hell that meant.

I saw a teamster drive six mighty steeds down the street to deliver barrels of whatever,

I saw a copper standing vigilant, on duty however ineffectual, I saw a scatter of children,

full of energy and long and fast of leg, perhaps off to school or mischief,

I saw a mum or two, in a hansom carriage I saw a gentleman, maybe that was a Judy off the next block, maybe the small hunched gentleman a barrister or a barrister’s clerk,

a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker, a tinker, a tailor, a beggarman, a thief.

None of them so much as acknowledged me.

And why should they? After all, I was one of them.

CHAPTER FOURTY-TWO Jeb’s Memoir

told Professor Dare about my confirmation that the colonel had shown signs of the dyslexia condition that was the primal clue in his quest and that, as predicted, he had emerged from a morally nourishing humanitarian background.

“For my part,” I said, “I was not checking on you. I just had to know. It is unsettling to put such suspicion against so heroic a man. Something in me finds it unsavory.”

“Would you adjudge that physical bravery trumps deep moral evil? Is that your position?”

“No, of course. That not being so, however, does not make it anything to celebrate.”

“All right. I concur. Let us be sure, then. Have you another mechanism by which he may be tested?”