Riptide

twenty

Three more comments were waiting on the Ripperwalk thread when Jennifer got home. The first two were dumb jokes left by idiots. The third was different.

Someone calling himself Abberline, whose avatar was a male face in silhouette, had written a single line.

If you’d like to discuss Mr. Edward Hare, please IM me.

An ICQ contact name was provided.

It could be another joke. If Abberline had anything serious to contribute, why not post it publicly? Still, she was intrigued. And she already had an ICQ account, though she hadn’t used it in a while. She couldn’t even remember her password, but she had it written down in a little spiral-bound notebook she kept in the top drawer of her file cabinet.

She found the notebook and was closing the drawer when she noticed something odd. The folders in the drawer seemed to be out of order.

They were filed alphabetically, or should have been. Now D came before C. She could have misfiled it, of course. She removed the folder and scanned its contents. Old cases for the LAPD and Santa Monica PD. All cleared now, of no interest to anyone.

Nothing of hers would interest anyone, except the diary.

But the word diary began with D, didn’t it? Someone looking for the diary might think to find a clue in this file.

Silly thought. No one had been in here. If anyone had come looking, the house would have been left in a state of disorder.

Unless she wasn’t supposed to know someone had searched.

She riffled through the rest of the folders and found two more out of sequence. R and H.

Ripper.

Hare.

Her archival boxes were stored inside a nearby cabinet. She looked them over and saw that two of the lids had been improperly replaced.

Someone had been here. Had looked through her files and the boxes.

In the pantry she pushed aside the row of household cleansers and found the hidden metal box. The diary was safely inside. The intruder hadn’t thought to look here.

Could it be Richard? He knew the old house, knew its weak points. The side window, the one that could never be properly latched. Or the back door, which lacked a dead bolt. Its latch could be slipped with a credit card or knife.

She checked the door first but saw no sign of tampering. The window was a different matter. It was open a crack, though she knew she’d shut it completely, and there was a scuff mark on the sill, left when the intruder climbed in or out.

She doubted he was still here. Most likely he wouldn’t have closed the window till he left. Even so, she explored the house room by room, turning on all the lights. She even opened the trapdoor and peered into the cellar with a flashlight.

She was alone. But someone had come earlier. It might have happened during the day, while she was visiting Harrison Sirk, but more likely the break-in occurred while she was at the rally, or afterward, when she talked to Sandra Price.

It was a funny feeling, to know someone had been in her home, pawing through her things, looking at the photos on the walls, the clothes in her closet, the books on the shelves. And yet the traces left behind were subtle. She could never prove a B amp;E. A few misplaced files and a dirty windowsill would establish nothing to anybody else.

But she knew.

Richard had come-it had to be Richard-looking for the diary. He knew about it somehow. Knew about the Ripper…and Edward Hare.

She remembered Abberline’s comment. Returning to her office, she logged onto her ICQ account, entered his name into her contact list, and was told he was online. She sent him a message.

What can you tell me re: Edward Hare? — Jeneratrix.

In moments he responded. You’re the first person I’ve encountered who knows that name. How did you come across it?

It came up in an old document, she answered.

A document I’d like to see.

Prefer to keep it to myself for now.

As you wish, Jeneratrix. You’re female, I presume?

Last time I checked.

I might have to double check.:)

Even with the smiley face, this comment struck her as weird. But there were a lot of creeps on the Net.

American? he asked.

Yes.

What part of the States do you hail from?

California.

Rather far from the Ripper’s territory, isn’t it?

His legend is everywhere, she wrote, thinking that California might not be as far from Jack’s turf as Abberline thought.

Yes, it has even reached sunny California. You must have a lovely tan.

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

I hope there are nude beaches in your vicinity, he continued. A tan is never satisfactory unless it covers all of you.

She definitely needed to get the conversation on track. He’d referred to America as “the States.” It sounded like something a Brit would say.

Are you in England? she asked.

London.

There was an eight-hour time difference between London and L.A. She typed, Must be nearly 5 a.m. there.

I’m an early riser. The curse of old age.

Been investigating Jack long?

I’m a veteran Ripperologist. No longer having to earn a livelihood, I pass my days studying archival files. Perhaps you found your document in an archive?

Not exactly.

Where, then?

I came across it by accident.

That is less than informative.

I thought you were the one offering info.

Very well. It would never do to disappoint a lady. Not that I ever have, in any way that counts.

She didn’t like interacting with this man. She could picture him, hunched over his computer, smiling as he squeezed out another sexual innuendo.

Edward Bateman Hare. Born 1860, Bournemouth. No photos extant. An only child. Family of modest means. Mother died in childbirth.

Jennifer thought of Hare’s dreams of blood. His mother must have bled out during delivery. Throughout his life, he would have been obsessed by guilt, which he projected outward, blaming his mother for abandoning him. Blood and birth, sex and rage, and an irrational animus toward women would have coalesced in his mind.

Attended New College, Oxford. Became asst. schoolmaster at Wm. Winton’s boarding school for boys in Blackheath. Lodged at school during term.

William Winton must have been the man known in the diary as Wisp.

Taught Eng. comp. amp; lit. appreciation. Never married. Just possibly descended from Wm. Hare, Burke’s partner.

The body snatcher? Jennifer asked.

And murderer. Wm. Hare, pardoned for testifying against Burke, left Scotland for parts unknown. If he alighted in England, his grandson could have been EH.

She typed, But no proof?

None I’ve found. And believe me, I’ve looked, Jeneratrix. Does Jen stand for Jennifer?

The change of topic took her by surprise. Yes.

A most alluring name. You are young, I imagine. I most enjoy the company of youth.

This seemed to be her day for dealing with dirty old men. First Harrison Sirk, now this.

Her image of Abberline was uncomfortably vivid now. She saw gray stubble on his cheeks, thin pursed lips, glittering magpie eyes. He was all bones and taut skin, a fairy-tale miser, and he lived in a dusty place crowded with worthless flotsam he wouldn’t throw out.

Anything to tie Hare to the Ripper? she typed, resolutely pursuing the conversation.

He vanished shortly after Frances Coles’ murder. Never seen or heard from again.

Still, he wasn't an official suspect, she wrote.

The police couldn’t see a schoolmaster as a killer. EH was protected by his respectability. A real-life Dr. Jekyll-of whom history has found not Hyde nor Hare.

The play on words seemed disturbingly close to the diarist’s style of expression.

Do forgive the dreadful pun, he added.

She typed, Surprised no one else knows about him.

He’s terribly obscure. And by 1891 my namesake had retired, consequently no mention of EH in Insp. Abberline’s memoirs.

How did you find out about him?

It came up in an old document.

She recognized the sardonic echo of her own words. Abberline was no more willing to reveal his sources than she was.

She decided to test him, see how much he knew. Most people say Coles wasn’t a true Ripper murder.

That’s why police didn’t try harder to apprehend EH. They thought at worst he was the butcher of just one prostitute.

Do you have reason to suspect he killed others?

Not yet, but I continue to dig, dig, dig.

She was sure he did.

You’re a dogged investigator-living up to your screen name, she wrote. From skimming the Ripper books, she knew Frederick Abberline was the lead detective in the case.

Thank you. The inspector fascinates me. He was at the center of the Ripper case-yet there are no photos, portraits, likenesses. He is a man without a face.

Like Jack, she offered. And like the cyberspace Abberline’s avatar.

Abberline is Jack’s Doppelganger. Intimately familiar with the East End. Remembered for his activities in autumn ’88. Retired for no clear reason.

Maybe Abberline was the Ripper.;) She added the winking smiley so he would know it was a joke.

I place my money on EH. This is why I persist in looking for clues. Who can say what other documents may turn up? Such as yours.

Mine isn’t very interesting.

I’d prefer to judge for myself. You will not let me see it? I’ll return the favor.

What do you mean?

A trade. Digital pix of my document in exchange for pix of yours.

I’ll think about it.

Our relationship cannot be one-way. I’ve helped you. I deserve assistance in return.

The material I have is difficult to put online.

Anything can be put online, Jeneratrix.

The truth is, the info is of a personal nature.

You have a personal connection to EH?

Possibly.

I really must know the details.

Not now.

You cannot keep it to yourself.

She didn’t like where this was headed. Have to go, she wrote.

You give me Hare’s name but no details. Is this fair?

I made no promises.

You play games, Jeneratrix. You’re nothing but a cocktease.

It was as if he’d hissed the word in her ear. I’m logging off, she typed.

Don’t run away you damn little whore

She signed off.

Whore, he’d called her. The Ripper’s word. Abberline had been spending too much time in the mind of a killer.

She returned to his comment on the Ripperwalk thread. Under his screen name was a running total of his posts, 327 to date. He’d been busy. Obsessive.

She checked the log of their conversation, taking notes on the salient points. Whatever his deficiencies as a pen pal, Abberline had sketched a portrait of Edward Hare. Born in 1860, he would have been twenty-eight when the Ripper went to work. That was late, but not impossibly so, for the onset of schizophrenia.

Richard was twenty-eight now. With traumas of his own in his past. And with a medical degree, as he never tired of reminding her.

And he was gone. The building manager hadn’t seen him. He could be anywhere, doing anything. Recreating the crimes of his ancestor, perhaps as Aldrich before him had done. Like father, like son, a hereditary madness like the blood curse of a Greek tragedy. First the House of Atreus. Now the House of Silence-

The phone rang, startling her. “Hello?”

“Hi, big sister.”

She froze.

“Richard,” she said.