Pierce Ackles and the Leather Apron: The tale of Jack the Ripper

by D.B. Harrop

Overview

A brilliant detective, a crazed killer, a mysterious couple, a handful of prostitutes…

Lives converge and history is altered as an entire city is plunged into an era of panic and terror. A ruthless killer ravages London, seizing its helpless prostitutes; murdering and mutilating their bodies before vanishing, untraced and unpunished.

In a time when lives hang in the balances, when murder is the consequence of failure, when a city teeters upon the brink of pandemonium, it is up to one man to unravel the mystery, to put a face to the myth-like villain; to end the gruesome killing spree.

Delving into the bleakest moments of 1888 when death itself walked the streets of London and blood pierced the denseness of the fog, Detective Pierce Ackles is forced to face his most formidable opponent yet: the illusive Jack the Ripper.

Through meticulous analysis of evidence, an uncanny perception of the darkest elements of human nature, and an unmatched wit, he is set against the world’s most cunning and brutal killers. Driven by a steely commitment and unrelenting desire to see justice prevail, he is the embodiment of every criminal’s most dreaded opponent.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781477204351
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	07/03/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	685 KB

Read an Excerpt

Pierce Ackles and the LEATHER APRON

~ THE TALE OF JACK THE RIPPER ~

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By D.B. HARROP

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 D.B. Harrop
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-0428-3

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Chapter One

One week earlier: Thursday, August 30, 1888

The evening had passed without event. Pierce Ackles did as his customary routine had dictated for as long as he could remember: scribbled snatches of text into his little brown book.

He sat at a large mahogany desk inlaid with maple and ivory. It faced a wide window that provided a sweeping view of the sprawling city below. The day had not been eventless; far from it. As a criminologist and detective investigator whose work had recently brought him to the infamous district of East End, there was no shortage of files to read or case histories to acquaint himself with. It was, after all, no secret that the district amassed more cases within its small borders than any other in London, earning it the reputation as the most vile, dangerous, and dreaded district. Some would go so far as to contend that the staggering counts of violence, crime, theft and debauchery equaled the rest of London combined. But whatever the number, the daunting volume that the district's police—for all their earnestness—were left baffled by, and the resultant stacks of unsolved cases that sat collecting dust in the sublevel room of the Whitechapel police station, necessitated a substantial amount of reading and catch up work for the detective.

Perhaps it was this very trait—his obsession with a challenge—that had prompted him to abandon his country estate in Derbyshire and move to occupy the comparatively humble third-storey apartment in which he now resided. It had been eight days since his relocation to London and he had not looked back.

Now, in his typical meticulous fashion, he browsed the day's entries, pausing at various intervals to insert notations into the columns of the worn leather book he was scarcely seen without.

When at length he completed his work, he set the pages aside to dry, allowing his eyes to wander towards the large window that showcased the bustling city below. It was by far his favorite feature of the modest apartment. For here, high above the clamor and confusion, his mind was afforded quiet, clarity and precision.

Moments passed as he stared languidly through the glass at the faint glimmers of light emanating from the shops and pubs below. Crystal droplets of descending rain caught up the gleaming rays and sent them like a splatter of stars across the night's sky.

He sat in silence some time before his reverie was rudely interrupted by a brilliant bolt of lightning and a jarring crack of thunder. The windows shook violently, as a strong gust of wind forced open one of the smaller ones on the far side of the room.

He was on his feet immediately, bounding towards the now banging window. Latching it securely, he looked down to see the puddle that had formed on the floor.

"Bloody hell!" he cursed. "Blasted rain!"

It had been hours since the first fierce pelts of rain hurled their chilling darts on the inhabitants of London. Dust and litter turned to slosh and mud as the steady torrent forged mercilessly down the side streets and alleyways.

He watched through the tearing glass as in the distance billows of red smoke ascended high into the night sky, suffusing the silver hue of the moon with a bloody crimson. The smoke appeared to originate from the direction of the docks.

What are the odds! he thought wryly. A storm and fire on the same night. Mother nature with her peculiar sense of humor. He chuckled as he returned to his desk.

Back at his desk he placed the quill in its resting place and took up his favorite pipe. Taking a long, slow drawl, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste and aroma.

Sumatran tobacco. Is there anything better? He thought not.

Feeling his muscles relax and the strain go out of him, he leaned back in his large chair and lifted his feet to the desk.

"Ah...." he sighed. "Bliss."

The storm continued to rage, but he was impervious to its fury. After many more inhales on his cherished pipe, he checked to see if the pages of his book were dry. They were. Closing its worn leather case and slipping it into the desk drawer, he extinguished the ivory lamp and rose from his seat.

He stretched. Glancing at his pocket watch he noted the time: three-quarters past nine. Walking to his bed, he sank onto the firm mattress, removed his shoes and made himself comfortable. Then, lifting the book that sat on the nightstand, he cracked it open. With book in one hand, pipe in the other, it wasn't long before the candle died out and his tired body gave way to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

August 31, 1888

The stillness of night was stirred by the sudden faint succession of rapping on the door. The sound was distant in Pierce's ears as the last vestiges of sleep gave way to a consciousness his body protested was sorely premature.

Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and grunted. By God, who comes calling at this time of night?

Blindly feeling for the timepiece on the nightstand, he cracked an eyelid and strained to see the time. 5:45 a.m.

Impudent devils! he fumed as he stumbled out of bed and sauntered to the door.

"Who's there?" he rasped.

An awkward-sounding voice stammered a reply. "It's Foster, sir. Blake Foster."

"What is it you want, boy?"

"I.... I.... Mr. Spratling sent me to summon you, sir. He said it is most urgent."

Pierce groaned as he fumbled with the locks on the door. By now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he was beginning to feel alert.

After a moment the door swung open and a boyish-looking young man stood in the doorframe, lantern in hand. He appeared worn, but his eyes immediately perked up upon seeing Pierce and he straightened to a rigid stand.

Pierce eyed him. He couldn't have been more than nineteen. His damp hair, though vigorously combed and somewhat unceremoniously plastered to his temples, was jaggedly uneven. Both ears jutted out on either side of his oblong head. Wide eyes, too deeply set for his thin-bodied features, and an oversized, knobbly nose, all blended to produce a rather comical look to him. That, together with the crooked smile he flashed as his wiry frame stood expectantly in the doorway, brought a suppressed grin to Pierce's lips.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" the latter barked in feigned irritation. "Come in, lad!"

Blake did as instructed, half walking, half stumbling toward the armchair near the fireplace that Pierce offered him.

Pierce recalled the young man's introduction earlier in the week as the Whitechapel Police Department's newly hired crime scene sketch artist. Blake had a keen interest in detective work, and when it came to a pen or brush, his skill was unequalled. Yet as he sat before him now, Pierce wondered that given his physical characteristics Blake had not opted for a career as a cartoonist or caricaturist.

"I'd offer you some scotch," he said, breaking the silence, "but I'm trying to decide if it's too early or too late for that," he jested as he slipped into the kitchen to put on a kettle and returned with a tray of china in hand. "Some tea, perhaps?"

"Why thank you, sir," Blake stammered. "It is an honor to be invited into the home of a man of your repute."

Pierce eyed him curiously. He himself was barely approaching his thirties, yet somehow the gap in age between the two young men seemed extensively wider. Clearing his throat, he got straight to the point. "So tell me, what the devil possessed you to come calling at this hour of the morning?" he asked.

"Well sir, as I said, I was sent to summon you on a most urgent matter."

"Indeed, and yet you have offered no explanation as to why my presence is required."

"Inspector Spratling said it is of dire importance that you meet him at the mortuary of Old Montague Street. And," he added, lowering his voice, "that I summon you with the utmost discretion."

"I see," Pierce said thoughtfully. "Go on."

"Well sir, there has been a murder. A terrible murder."

"And so there are on a daily basis. What makes this one of special significance?"

"Mr. Spratling did not provide me with particulars of the case, but ..." he hesitated, "I did overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Mann."

"And?"

"Well sir, Mr. Mann was in a dreadful state!"

"He is the mortuary keeper, is he not?" Pierce asked, his brows furrowing.

"Yes sir. That's just it, sir. His work involves the daily tending to of the deceased. And yet ... I have never seen him so affected."

Pierce frowned. "Did he mention the cause of his agitation?"

Blake nodded solemnly. "Well yes, sir. It was the condition of the body ... a woman's body ..." he faltered and his expression was grave.

"Well?" Pierce said shortly. "We haven't all day."

"She was.... she was savagely mutilated!"

* * *

It was less than twenty minutes later that Pierce and Blake reached the mortuary at Old Montague Street. A very tired and fraught-looking middle-aged man with short cropped hair and grey brown eyes met them at the door. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, and wore a crisp grey suit and matching hat.

A few feet to the side of him stood a slightly older man, a man in his fifties Pierce supposed, smaller in stature and of a haggard appearance. He belonged to a lower working class, his clothes indicating him to be a workhouse laborer. A scruffy grey beard covered the majority of his face, and a mass of wiry grey hair that had not met with a good scrub or scissors in some time topped his rounded head.

The middle-aged man whom Pierce recognized as Inspector John Spratling approached him without delay and firmly grasped his hand. "Thank you for coming," he said genuinely. "I apologize for the inconvenience and for the indecent hour."

"Not at all," Pierce countered. "I am glad to be of assistance. What is it you need?"

"It is a rather peculiar case," Inspector Spratling explained. "Prepare yourself, for it is not pretty. Follow me and I will show you." He turned, leading Pierce down a long, dim hall.

The room was a stark white, about fifteen by thirteen feet. It was sparsely furnished, with little other than the solitary table that stood in the center of it. Upon it, a still, white form lay. As Pierce entered, a sickeningly sour smell hit him and he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket to smother his nose and mouth.

Inspector Spratling followed him in, walking to the far side of the room where a small table sat in the corner. On it was a tablet that Pierce supposed contained the description of the deceased, it being customary for the investigating officer to detail the state and particulars of the corpses that were brought in for autopsy.

Blake followed closely behind, his wiry frame sporting a large burlap bag that dangled heavily from his bony shoulder. Setting it on the table, he opened the bag and extracted the items he would need for his sketch.

Directing Pierce towards the lifeless body on the table, Spratling began, "This is the woman who was found this morning. As you can see, her throat has been slit, and it appears likely that this was the fatal wound that caused her death. But that is not why I have called you. When her body was initially discovered, it was first attended to by Doctor Rees Llewellyn. He examined her at the scene and pronounced her dead. His instructions were to have her moved here."

"So you were not the first to see the body, I take it."

"No. Prior to my arrival, at least six men had already seen the deceased. In fact, by the time I arrived, the body had been moved."

"I see," Pierce replied. "Please continue."

"I was at Hackney Road when I first learned of the murder. It was at approximately half past four this morning that I was summoned to Buck's Row on account of the discovery of a woman's body. Upon arrival, I was greeted by Police constable Thain, who informed me that the deceased had already been examined by Police Surgeon Doctor Llewellyn, and thence moved to the mortuary. He pointed out to me the location at which the body was found, and to my great dismay I discovered that overzealous local residents had already begun washing away the evidence of blood and particulars. Naturally, I implored them to stop, but there was by that time little remaining evidence; only small traces of blood between the paving stones on which the woman had lain.

"Obviously, this greatly compromised my investigation of the crime scene. However, there was little that could be done at that point, so after examining what scant elements remained, I departed with the intent of inspecting the body and taking notes on its condition.

"Upon my arrival at the mortuary, I found the deceased still lying in the ambulance outside of the building, with the mortuary securely locked. I waited with the deceased until sometime between 5:00 and 5:20 a.m., at which time Robert Mann arrived with the keys and we moved the body inside.

"It was at this point that I was able to chronicle the injuries sustained by the victim and in so doing made a gruesome discovery. While removing her clothing to examine her body I found her abdomen savagely ripped open."

Inspector Spratling's eyes fell and his voice faltered. "Pardon me. The recent crimes that have occurred here in Whitechapel are all too horrific. Never in my life have I encountered anything of this nature. My mind is at quite a loss." He drew in a deep breath and seemed to collect himself somewhat. "It was upon my discovery that I immediately sent for you, Detective Ackles, and for Doctor Llewellyn. I should imagine he will be here soon.

"I also instructed constable Thain to re-examine the area of the crime scene as well as the surrounding vicinity. He is there now. At the time of the body's discovery, no weapon was found anywhere near the site. It is just possible, however, that a thorough search of the area might produce the murder weapon. Let us hope for the best."

As he concluded, the door opened and Doctor Llewellyn entered. He, too, appeared worn and tired, with dark circles framing his small, hazel eyes. But he greeted the men cordially.

"Inspector Spratling, Detective Ackles, Mr. Blake," he said with a deferential nod. "Shall we begin?"

The latter he directed at Pierce, who assenting, closed the distance between the examination table and himself in several swift strides. As he did, he pulled from his waist coat pocket a small magnifying glass. The doctor readied his implements, and a moment later the two began to examine the body.

The woman appeared to be between thirty and forty years old and aside from her fatal injuries was in excellent health. She was of slight stature, about five feet, two, perhaps three, inches tall. Her facial features were small, delicate; with fine lips and high cheekbones.

Pierce surmised immediately that she was not a high born lady. Her apparel was worn, the fabric quality poor. Garish remnants of poorly applied cosmetics were evident on her blood-stained face.

Her hair, now tinged with blood, was deep brown in color with silvery strands of grey. Her eyes were brown, her complexion dark, and it was clear that it had been some time since she had properly bathed.

Her clothing was nondescript and provided no clues as to her identity. She wore a reddish-brown faded ulster, ornamented with seven sizeable brass buttons fastened at the front. Under this were two petticoats, one made of a woolen grey fabric, the other flannel. Both items belonged to a workhouse and contained the markings "P.R., Princes Road". Only her brown linsey frock appeared to be new. Her chest flannel was white; her stays—which were in moderately good condition, albeit somewhat loose-fitting—were brown, and were fastened with clasps. She wore woolen, black-ribbed stockings and a pair of steel-tipped men's spring boots, the uppers of which were cut. A bonnet was found lying near her. It was of black straw and was trimmed with black velvet.

Traces of blood were evident on the upper part of her dress and ulster. Remarkably, however, in spite of the numerous mutilations to her body and neck, her clothing was fully intact with no cuts or tears. In fact, no signs of a struggle could be detected.

Much like the features of her face and dress, there was little to distinguish her. She had no money; the meager belongings that had been found with her consisted of a white pocket handkerchief, a hair comb and a small looking glass.

Pierce examined her face and noted severe bruising and extensive discoloration of the skin. She had a small scar on her forehead that appeared to have been there for some time—perhaps since childhood. Three missing teeth, one from the front of the upper jaw, the other two from the left side of her lower jaw, were the only other notable physical irregularities. Aside from these, there were no other marks or distinctive characteristics that could assist in making a positive identification of the woman.

As to the nature of her wounds, Inspector Spratling had not exaggerated. Two deep slashes ran along her throat from the left side of her neck to the right. The gullet, windpipe and spinal cord appeared to have been cut through entirely. The result of the deep incisions was that much of her blood had drained from her body.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Pierce Ackles and the LEATHER APRON by D.B. HARROP Copyright © 2012 by D.B. Harrop. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

FROM THE AUTHOR....................vii
PROLOGUE....................ix
CHAPTER 1....................1
CHAPTER 2....................11
CHAPTER 3....................21
CHAPTER 4....................32
CHAPTER 5....................45
CHAPTER 6....................55
CHAPTER 7....................59
CHAPTER 8....................70
CHAPTER 9....................80
CHAPTER 10....................93
CHAPTER 11....................101
CHAPTER 12....................108
CHAPTER 13....................129
CHAPTER 14....................142
CHAPTER 15....................153
CHAPTER 16....................161
CHAPTER 17....................174
CHAPTER 18....................180
CHAPTER 19....................188
CHAPTER 20....................197
CHAPTER 21....................209
CHAPTER 22....................213
CHAPTER 23....................222
CHAPTER 24....................234
CHAPTER 25....................241
CHAPTER 26....................255
CHAPTER 27....................265
CHAPTER 28....................278
CHAPTER 29....................289
CHAPTER 30....................305