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    Dark Streets of Whitechapel: A Jack The Ripper Mystery
    Dark Streets of Whitechapel: A Jack The Ripper Mystery
    Dark Streets of Whitechapel: A Jack The Ripper Mystery
    Ebook278 pages2 hours

    Dark Streets of Whitechapel: A Jack The Ripper Mystery

    By R. Barri Flowers

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    About this ebook

    Modern day criminologist and Ripperologist and bestselling author R. Barri Flowers delivers a heart-pounding historical thriller in DARK STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL, featuring arguably the most infamous and elusive murderer of them all--19th century serial killer Jack the Ripper.

    In 1888 in New York City, the search for a killer of prostitutes comes to an end with the capture of Doctor Jack Lewiston, a respected surgeon and madman. But before he can go to trial, Jack escapes from custody and flees the country to London, England.

    Brought out of retirement to track him down is ex-NYC homicide detective-criminologist Henry Marboro. In charge of the original investigation into the "Ripper Murders," Henry lost his objectivity when his younger sister was one of Jack's victims. Ultimately his obsession to find the killer cost him his career, his wife, and some time in a hospital for alcohol treatment.

    Now on a renewed mission, Henry must find Jack Lewiston and bring him back to America--dead or alive--hopefully before more prostitutes become the victims of the serial killer.

    In the process, Henry develops an attraction for a mysterious and beautiful American nurse, Loraine Broderick, who lives in London. Unfortunately, Jack also has his sights set on her as a target of his madness in addition to ladies of the night streetwalking in Whitechapel in London's East End.

    REVIEWS OF DARK STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL

    "It gets no better than this! R. Barri Flowers has written another thriller guaranteed to hold onto its readers! It was so gripping that I forgot to breathe a couple of times!" -- Detra Fitch of Huntress Reviews

    "A compelling and powerful account of Jack the Ripper.... Flowers has captured the sights and sounds of New York City and London's East End in 1888.... The action is fast paced; the suspense building to a peak to the finale." -- Barbara Buhrer of MysteryAbout.com

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherR. Barri Flowers
    Release dateJul 24, 2011
    ISBN9781466119611
    Dark Streets of Whitechapel: A Jack The Ripper Mystery
    Author

    R. Barri Flowers

    R. Barri Flowers is the award winning author of romantic suspense, mystery, thriller and crime fiction with thirteen Harlequin titles published to date. Chemistry and conflict between the hero and heroine, attention to detail, and incorporating the very latest advances in criminal investigations, are the cornerstones of his crime and thriller fiction. He enjoys travelling around the country and abroad to scope out intriguing settings for future storylines, books, and miniseries.

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      Book preview

      Dark Streets of Whitechapel - R. Barri Flowers

      PROLOGUE

      Jack watched from a corner of the dingy room. He could see his mother lying on the bed; her legs spread far apart—a man wedged between them like he was stuck there. They were grunting, groaning, and making other strange noises.

      He wanted to shut his eyes to them, but didn’t dare. She would be very angry with him if he didn’t watch her with the man.

      She had told him he had to see how Mamma put food on the table, clothes on his back, a roof—even a leaking one—over their heads.

      What it meant to be a whore.

      He glanced over at the pile of crumpled money on the table the man had put there.

      Eyeing them on the bed again, he winced as the man squeezed his mother’s breasts so hard she cried out in pain. Just as quickly, she began to laugh almost hysterically, her legs wrapped around the man’s buttocks while he pushed himself inside her with determination.

      Come here, Jack! his mother demanded, her thick yellow hair spread haphazardly across the pillow. When he resisted, she shrieked: You heard me, boy! Come here!

      He walked slowly towards the bed. The man was still on top of her, but she ignored this.

      They both reeked of whiskey.

      Reaching out to him, his mother said: Take Mamma’s hand, Jack. I need you—

      The man turned and laughed at him. Yeah, boy, do what your Mamma says. Hold her hand.

      He reluctantly reached for her outstretched fingers. She tightened them around his small hand, nearly cutting off the circulation. He noted her hand was chapped and had brown spots on it and her nails were chipped and discolored.

      She gripped his hand tighter and tighter as the man drove himself into her harder and deeper.

      Finally, the man let out a thunderous wail and his mother’s hand slipped away, as though suddenly lifeless.

      Did you enjoy watching, Jack ole boy? the man asked amusingly, rolling off his mother.

      He didn’t respond.

      I’ll just bet you did at that. He laughed. In fact, Jack, you wouldn’t mind trying her out yourself, would you, boy?

      Jack fixed the man with hatred in his eyes. He looked between his mother’s legs that were still spread as if locked into place. There was a trickle of blood coming from inside her, spilling onto the bed.

      Don’t let that scare you none, Jack, the man snorted. Whores are used to that and a whole lot more. Ain’t that right, Marlene?

      Yeah, we’re used to lots of blood, she responded tonelessly, bringing her legs together.

      Jack looked into his mother’s eyes. They were hazel and stared back at him with a red tint, almost devoid of expression.

      My guess, Marlene, the man said while slipping into his trousers, is that someday Jack here’s gonna make his Mamma proud.

      He’s already made me proud, she declared, flashing a week smile. He’s my little boy. And I ain’t never going to let him forget that. Never! Isn’t that so, Jack?

      He gave a slow, uneasy nod.

      She snapped her head backwards and began to laugh drunkenly.

      CHAPTER ONE

      July 15, 1887

      Dear Detective Marboro and the rest of my would-be captors:

      You will pardon me if I find it hard to suppress my laughter at the so-called leads as to my identity. I can assure you that you are as far away from that as when I claimed my first victim approximately a year ago.

      Indeed can you be so certain that I am not, in fact, one of you in blue?

      I should think that everyone would applaud my ridding the streets of these low life harlots of the night. But apparently even many of you have a vested interest in the survival of this decadent profession—both financially and physically.

      Don’t bother trying to catch me, for I am far too clever.

      Not quite ready to call it quits just yet, I’m afraid. Having too much fun watching these whores squirm and writhe as I slit their throats...and other parts of their anatomies.

      Yours truly,

      Jack the Ripper!

      CHAPTER TWO

      New York City, July 1888

      It was a hot and muggy afternoon in this burgeoning metropolis surrounded by the waters of the Hudson River. Horse-drawn carriages of one type or another negotiated streets fraught with clumps of manure, street vendors, and others trying to make their way to and fro. Men with side whiskers, walking sticks, tailored suits, and top hats conducted their business on the sidewalks and in the many shops and dining establishments lining downtown Manhattan. Women in hooded cloaks, long elegant gowns, petticoats, and stylish hats and boots browsed the stores on the arms of their husbands or alone. Even the growing numbers of homeless, unemployed, and disadvantaged in New York City had reason for optimism.

      It was the dawn of the modern era with the recent invention of the telephone and phonograph and significant improvements in medicine and transportation across the Atlantic. By the turn of the century there would be gas-powered vehicles, mass market phones and photography, and electronically driven passenger elevators.

      With an influx of immigrants, cheap labor, crowded tenements, unionization, corruption, exploitation, and racketeering, a fresh wave of crime and criminals was sweeping the city. It wasn’t uncommon for murderers, street gangs, pickpockets, thieves, rapists, muggers, and prostitutes to perpetrate their offenses at any given moment.

      In the city’s public and private hospitals, many victims of such crimes were treated and released. Others with more serious conditions often faced difficult operations with long and agonizing recoveries.

      Such was the case of a female mugging victim, who suffered multiple fractures and internal injuries. She was rushed by carriage to a private hospital, where the attending surgeon went to work immediately to save her life. It took several painstaking hours before that task was satisfactorily accomplished. Like an artist painting a magnificent landscape, the surgeon was flawless and competent in his execution, taking great pride in his skills with the knife.

      When it was all over, the patient was moved to recovery. The surgeon fully expected her to survive the ordeal.

      He then turned his attention to other weighty thoughts.

      * * *

      In the parlors, dance halls, whorehouses, back streets and alleys of Manhattan’s red light district, prostitutes plied their trade to a steady diet of sex hungry male customers.

      The smell of sulfur tainted the air and gas lamps were little more than props in the dark of the night.

      He waited in the shadows as she stumbled out of the dance hall. He knew she served men drinks and her body. He’d not had her himself, but had watched her tease and flirt with others before taking them to one of the rooms upstairs.

      She staggered down the street, wearing a low-cut red evening dress trimmed with black lace, displaying an ample amount of cleavage. Her blonde hair was in a bouffant with a few tendrils on her forehead. She was somewhat taller and leaner than most of the whores he set his sights on. He imagined her to be in the mid-twenties, though she looked considerably older with a weathered face that he attributed to sun exposure and poor eating habits.

      He followed her as she crossed the street and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his senses more than sight to guide him.

      There did not seem to be reason for suspicion that he could detect.

      She was his for the taking.

      She must have heard him, for she stopped and looked around, alarmed. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to move more briskly than before.

      He picked up his pace behind her, closing the gap with elongated steps. He was practically upon her now, adrenaline pumping blood into his veins like morphine into an addict.

      She stopped and turned abruptly, facing him. Now you wouldn’t be followin’ me, would ya, mista? Her accent had a Scottish tilt.

      He could smell her strong perfume.

      What began with fear seemed to be replaced by anger. Cat’s caught your tongue, has it? I ain’t got all night, you know—

      He studied her for a moment longer, then said calmly: I would like to pay for your services.

      She regarded the man curiously, guessing he was in his mid to late twenties. Tall and sturdy, he had a full head of jet-black hair and thick raven sideburns. His eyes, set slightly apart, were dark and ominous. His nose was long and narrow. A slight grin rested on his wide mouth, suggesting confidence and cunning.

      He was wearing a Cimmerian frock coat, over a like colored waistcoat, and silver-white shirt with an onyx cravat. A gold watch hung on a chain across his dark trousers. In his hand was a black medical bag.

      She recognized him from the dance hall. He had been observing her there, but had been careful to keep his distance.

      She forced a smile on her face and said cheerfully: Well, why didn’t you say so?

      I’m saying so now. He regarded her expressionless.

      So you are, love. Her eyes glistened like diamonds. But not at the dance hall. No reason to share me money. Follow me. My place is just around the corner.

      He had a better idea. No...in there— He pointed to a narrow, dark alleyway.

      She looked at him with uncertainty. You sure? It’d be much more comfortable at my place.

      I’m sure, he said, inclining his head for her to lead the way.

      Whatever suits your fancy. She walked down the alley slowly, feeling him right at her footsteps. A doctor, are ya now?

      Yes. He sensed her hesitancy.

      What type?

      A surgeon.

      What’s yer name, love?

      My friends call me Jack.

      She turned around and flashed him a nervous, but soft smile. May I call you Jack?

      You can. He noted a trash bin at the far end of the alleyway, between a warehouse and a clothing factory. This is far enough.

      She licked her lips and tried to keep her cool. You always carry your bag around when you want to be with a lady?

      Yes.

      What’s in it?

      He smiled disingenuously. Wouldn’t you like to know?

      She could not stop shaking. So what is it you have in mind?

      Nothing unusual, I can assure you.

      He pulled out a few bills and stuffed them into her cleavage, then backed her against the wall of the factory. Setting his bag on the ground, he opened it to an array of surgical knives.

      Before he could remove one, he heard the voice above him shout: If you pull that out, Jack, I’ll have to shoot you!

      He looked up squarely into the barrel of a revolver. The whore was holding it, aimed right between his eyes.

      What do you think you’re doing? he asked as if she hadn’t a clue.

      She rolled her eyes at him. I should think it would be obvious by now, Jack. I’m keeping you at bay till the coppers arrive— She kept the gun leveled at his face, as she glanced nervously down the alleyway and saw policemen rushing towards them, guns drawn. Favoring the doctor more calmly now, she said: Afraid you picked the wrong whore this time, Jack the Ripper!

      He shot to his feet, intent upon disarming her. Instead he was gang tackled by two burly police officers who seemed to come from nowhere. Another was shining a bull’s-eye lamp on them.

      A detective came up from the rear. Good work, Sharon, he said to the prostitute decoy as he gingerly took the gun from her trembling hands. We couldn’t have nabbed the bloody bastard without your help!

      She took an involuntary step back as the suspect glared at her with a wickedness that chilled her very soul.

      Believe you me, it was a real pleasure, she responded. Now maybe working girls won’t have to keep looking over their shoulders ‘round every corner, aye!

      The detective grinned at her lasciviously then narrowed his gaze at the suspect. Get him out of here, he ordered. The sooner we put the mad doctor behind bars, the better—

      CHAPTER THREE

      The headline of the New York Register read: Jack the Ripper Apprehended!

      Below that the text began with: "The man suspected of killing at least five prostitutes over the last two years has been formally identified as twenty-five year old Jack Adam Lewiston, a noted surgeon at Benfield’s Private Hospital. Lewiston, dubbed Jack the Ripper, was apprehended just after eleven last night, while attempting to murder a police decoy posing as a prostitute. Found in his medical bag were an assortment of knives believed to have been used to stab and dismember his victims.

      Outside of his work, Dr. Lewiston appears to be a loner. Unmarried with no children, Jack had no prior criminal record. The suspect is being held in protective custody at the New York City jail.

      I slammed the paper on the bar in anger and disgust, my insides threatening to boil over like a pot left on the stove too long. With one swallow, I poured the contents of a glass of scotch down my throat. It burned like hell and represented my first drink in six months.

      It wouldn’t be my last.

      I ordered a second.

      The bartender’s name was Quidley. He was a bear of a man, bearded, Irish, and a friend when I thought I had none.

      I watched him glance at the newspaper’s headline, then at me.

      You worked on The Ripper case, didn’t you, Henry? he asked in a boisterous voice, pouring scotch in two glasses.

      I did at that...once upon a time.

      Quidley handed me one of the glasses and held the other to his lips. The bastard’s apprehension has gotta give you much satisfaction.

      It didn’t. At least not the type of satisfaction I wanted to feel. All I felt was emptiness and regret. And, I suppose, relief.

      I tasted the scotch, wincing. The sadistic doctor had cost me nothing but pain, grief, regret, and self-doubt.

      I cursed him and finished off the drink.

      * * *

      My name’s Henry Marboro. A year ago I was employed by the New York City Police Department as a criminologist and homicide detective. After obtaining a degree in police science from the State University of New York College at Cortland, I had dutifully followed in the footsteps of my father, Robert Marboro. He was a sergeant with the NYPD when he went off to fight for the Union in the latter stages of the Civil War. He never made it back alive.

      He left behind a young wife and two young children. A year later my mother died of a broken heart.

      At thirty-four, I had been married twice. My first wife died of pneumonia and the second wife left me high and dry for another man. I was still trying to deal with both losses.

      Presently, I was working on a case of an elusive, deranged killer. He had already mutilated and murdered three prostitutes in the city.

      Then came word of a fourth victim.

      The body of the unidentified woman was found near a trash container in Manhattan’s lower east side, not far from where the other Ripper victims were killed.

      The city was already in a panic over the seemingly invincible and psychotic Ripper killer. Another unsolved murder would only make things worse.

      I confronted that thought as I arrived at the scene of the crime in a hansom cab. It was six a.m. and the air was foul and the tension thick as molasses.

      I felt the pressure in making an arrest as much as anyone. Technically in charge of apprehending Jack the Ripper, it was as if my very livelihood hung in the balance as long as he remained on the loose seeking out victims like a wolf after sheep.

      At six feet tall with long, muscular legs, I easily crossed the street in looping strides. Spectators and shopkeepers alike had already taken up residence on the sidewalks, street, and entrance to the alleyway as word quickly spread like wildfire about the latest possible Ripper murder.

      He really did a hatchet job on this one, moaned the officer at the scene, his face twisted with the abhorrence of what he’d seen.

      I wish I could simply take your word for it, I muttered, knowing I had to view the body for my own assessment and identification. It was lying on the ground near the trash bin, covered with a blanket. Blood spilled from underneath it and trickled into a nearby gutter.

      Before I viewed the body, I got an eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was as if I knew instinctively that the victim had not only suffered a great deal before she died, but was someone I was familiar with.

      I gulped heartily, almost afraid to look. Any witnesses come forward? I asked the officer doubtfully, since the previous victims had been murdered under the cover of darkness and isolation from wandering eyes.

      No one saw or heard anything, he said bleakly. Apparently, though, the victim was well known as a prostitute in this area.

      Remove the covering, I ordered the officer. My heart was thumping erratically against my chest as if it was beating for two people.

      He pulled the blanket all the way down the nude body. It was lying in a semi-flat position, with the arms close to the sides and the legs splayed open as if put that way. The head was turned to the side opposite from where I stood. There were bloody indentations on the chest where there had once been breasts. The abdomen had also been ripped open and the entrails removed and clumped into a pile beside the victim. There were deep slashes across her pubic hair and vagina.

      My gaze moved up to the deep gash across the throat. It stretched from ear to ear, slicing through her gullet and windpipe like they weren’t there, right down to the spine. The viciousness of the wound suggested that the killer had actually tried to remove the head from the body.

      I became nauseated as I stepped to the other side of the body to view the victim’s face, though I had already seen enough to make a positive identification. Tears squeezed through my closed eyes and my knees grew weak.

      I gazed at the ashy-white, bloated face, then into the vacant blue eyes of the corpse.

      It was my sister.

      Or what was left of her.

      * * *

      Sarah was twenty-six years old. She had a rebellious streak a mile long. Had probably been born with it. It had gotten worse when our parents died and we were separated, shuffled between relatives, boarding schools, and life on and off the streets.

      I did everything I could to steer her free of the unsavory elements of society, but like a magnet she was

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