An Unholy Trinity of Debauchery and Murder | Maariya Daud

It was deep into the night when they all finally settled down at the tavern. The sun had set that day without celebration, with scarcely a noise. Somber clouds and a red horizon still framed the dusty, sultry streets of Whitechapel. The night was soft as a poem and the company as demanding as one.

A piece of paper, battered, folded, stained, was slammed onto the oak table. “He’s taunting us,” one of the men snarled.

George was the first to reach over. The other men watched as he pried open the letter, seeing it busy with scribbles. “A letter?” He asked indulgently.

The other men shot him looks. He tried not to smile and took a swig of the beer that had sloppily been placed in front of him by a tired waitress. His company’s impatience and desperation leaked from them and he had to resist the urge to bask in it. He began to read aloud. “I know you look for me,” he started, shooting the rest of them another smile. “I work by night and watch as you scour for me by day- My word, whoever wrote this had horrible writing.”

“Can you shut the hell up with your jokes for once and please read?”

“Give it here,” the one next to him grumbled, tearing it from his hands before he could protest. He continued to read it in his gruff monotone.

George had heard the letter countless times. It was cunning and relentless, yet entirely playful. Whoever had written it knew what they were doing, had probably written it with a smile plastered on their face the entire time.

The inn had become busy as the storm outside worsened, its air heavy with drink and laughter and drunken chatter. Alcohol stained the floor, the dim lights casting long, eerie shadows across its walls. Nobody bothered them here, nobody intruded on their business, nobody wanted to know. Everyone in Whitechapel was too busy fulfilling their own dark desires to be involved in anyone else’s. (Let alone George’s. Or Jack’s, Arthur’s, James’.)

The man finally finished reading and put the letter down with a heavy exhale.

“He’s taunting us,” one of the others spat over the sound of rain pummeling the windows. Beer lined his mouth and soaked his facial hair.

“And he’s enjoying it.”

“Oi,” one of them jerked his head to the man that had procured the letter in the first place. “Tell us about the murder scene.”

Oh, God, the murder scene. The murder that had shocked the whole of Whitechapel, not to mention the entire city of London. The murder, the murder, the murder. Whispers darkened every corner, rumours flew, fears were aired day by day. Because this was not the first murder, nor the second. This was the third murder that Whitechapel had been exposed to, and each had been more disgusting than the last.

“I don’t understand what more there is to say,” the man shrugged.

“There’s got to be something we overlooked.”

“Well,” George said airily, “If it’s the same man who wrote that letter, you’d best believe he’s got a plan and is way, way ahead of us.” He watched them over the rim of his tankard as they exchanged glances and cast worrying looks at the letter that lay open in the middle of the table, open like Pandora’s box, open like a curse just waiting to happen. The hasty scratches that lined it suddenly seemed to leak with power. The sentence ‘I know you look for me’ stared them all in the face. Around them, the tavern continued with its rowdy chatter and raucous laughter.

“They found her throat cut,” one of them said quietly, breaking the table’s silence. “Before the mutilations, it seems.”

Mutilations. That was one way of putting it. It was a lot worse than just mutilations, and each of them knew it, had heard the story countless times.

“These women, the three of them, were hardly just raped. They were abused, throats cut, organs removed, taken to God knows where. This isn’t some meaningless murderer we have wandering the streets of London, gentleman.” He swallowed. “This is a psychopath.” “And a clever one,” another man mused.

“They call him The Ripper now. Jack the Ripper.” A shiver ran down their backs. George smiled as he brought the cup to his lips again.

A woman approached one of the men, dressed scantily, neck of her dress cut low, jewels adorning every inch of her exposed skin. With her busy red hair she looked like a servant of the devil. “Not today,” he scowled, and removed her hand where it lounged on his shoulder. The others looked at him, surprised. They were in this den of impropriety of their own choosing. “Not in the mood,” he explained simply, not looking at them. She moved to another of the men.

“What’s this?” She chirped, voice high and breathy, leaning over the table and casting her eye over the letter. “Someone writing love letters to you?” She looked over at George and in her eyes there swam a vision of debauchery and sin. He could scarcely resist glancing over her, her necklace, her dress, before he looked away. It was prostitutes that had enticed Jack the Ripper to Whitechapel and to his victims, that was for sure.

“Not for your eyes,” one of the men snapped, retrieving the letter before she could take it. She huffed lightly and slinked away.

Just at that moment the heavy door to the tavern opened and a whirlwind of hail and thunder seeped into the room. A man, sodden and soaked, his lean form draped with worn clothes, dark hair matted and sticking to his skill, made his way to their table.

“Sorry I’m late boys,” he smiled widely. Albert - he had chosen Albert tonight, as they had agreed on - took his place beside George. The wooden chair leg screamed in protest as he yanked it back across the floor. “You alright?” He asked George. “Never better.”

They exchanged a smile.

“Decoded much of the letter?”

“Only that the writer is not praised for his literacy.”

“Rude,” Albert frowned.

“But not incorrect.”

Albert rolled his eyes, “It’s not as if the past letter was any better.”

Another man coughed. “But they’re all written by the same person anyway,” he noted. “Right you are,” George grinned.

“Right,” Albert muttered.

“We’ve been going over evidence.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Let me guess,” Albert said, sitting back in his chair. “Throat cut, organs removed, the man must be a regular prostitute consumer.”

There were murmurs around the table.

“I come with fresh news,” Albert quipped, and the others could barely help sitting forward eagerly. Like George, he basked in their desperation. George watched him and knew exactly what he was thinking. That they relished fresh news to consume and he relished watching them feast on it. “30th September. Another murder.”

“That was barely two days ago.”

“And the cops are keeping it quiet. Elizabeth Stride, pretty girl-”

“No surprise there,” one of them scoffed.

“Discovered at 1am at Dutfield’s.” There was a collective inhale. Dutfield’s Yard was not even a mile away from them. “They found her with a single incision across her neck-” he drew a line with his finger under his jaw, stopping at the right side- “and no mutilations. Witnesses say they saw her with company, but descriptions differ.”

“What descriptions?”

“Some say a fair man, some say dark, some say dressed well, others say not so much.” He heard George inhale then, but try to suppress it, and his voice caught in his throat. He watched as his friend cast a quick eye over Albert’s shabby clothing and darker skin, then with horror his own well-dressed demeanour and fair complexion. The difference was striking. They quickly turned back to the others. It was fine, everything would be fine. Besides, they were too busy chattering amongst themselves, caught in this new clue.

“He’s too good at this game,” one muttered.

“And he enjoys it. He enjoys the murders and he enjoys watching us chase our tails.” A tankard was slammed onto the table. “How many murders? We’ve already had four.” “Aye, a serial killer and psychopath this makes him.”

“Damn right. God knows he couldn’t get away with this in Mayfair.”

“Mayfair, my arse, they’ve been sending their best police over. This is the case of the century. Four women raped, mutilated, killed, and no one knows who. He’s got every cop in London after him.”

“They’ll never find him,” one of them said, matter-of-factly. “We have the letters.”

“But we’re thick, aren’t we?”

A scowl. “Who’s to say the cops aren’t thicker?”

But George wasn’t listening. His eye had caught on a girl across the room, framed by the roaring fires and the blackened night outside. Dark hair cascaded down her shoulders. With this light, with her plum dress and delicate jewellery, she looked like a Greek goddess, like Artemis herself. He watched as she procured an elegant finger and ran it down the neck of the man beside her, whose entire body looked ready to melt.

She looked over at him then, eyes dark and deep like wine, and smiled.

He smiled back, warmly, but what he was imagining he would never tell. He thought about taking a knife, the knife that was stashed in his belt, the one with the black leather handle, the one already crusted with old blood. He imagined bringing it to her long neck, holding her, slicing at the area just below her jawbone. He had done it before, he would do it again. It was all a game to him.

As if she could see his thoughts unfolding, her eyes grew stony, replaced with a strange sort of determination. She looked away.

He was saved in his misery by the door opening again, this time the entryway framed by a huge form with square shoulders, laden with an old bag. He left the door open wide behind him and barrelled towards them, sitting down with a heavy thump.

“News,” he said gruffly.

George smiled, “Do tell.”

He looked over at them, George and Albert, sitting side by side like a pair of mischievous twins, and his black eyes flashed.

He threw something onto the table with a giant hand.

At first glance was the paper, tanned and creased, scribbled with a hand very similar to the letter they had just analysed a few moments ago. But it was less the paper and more what it was wrapped around that confused the company.

“Go ahead,” the man said.

George - Jack, really - felt something tingle at the back of his neck. He watched as one of the men bravely leaned forward, pinching the letter. It was all in slow motion. The way the paper slid away from the package, the way the hidden treasure rolled beneath it, uncovering its stained underside, and out from underneath tumbled

Pink, slimy, practically pulsating, it was so fresh.

A heart.

George and Albert hardly remembered what happened from then. All they could remember - Jack and Jack, both of them Jack, neither of them Albert nor George nor Edward nor James - was looking over at the man who had gifted them this heart - and he, too, was Jack - what a terrible and powerful triad they made, Jack and Jack and Jack, each of them Jack the Ripper, and nobody knew, a trinity, not holy in the slightest - and watching him flash yellowed teeth at them, lips pulled back into a sneer, and ever so slightly move back his coat, exposing a dagger very similar to the ones in their belts, yet this one was smeared with fresh blood.

Maariya is an author, artist, and Art History student from England. Her works are mostly historical fiction or centred around mythology, where she creates with their inspiration. She is currently working on her second novel, while Kleos, her first, set in the Renaissance, is being edited. She regularly posts about her projects on her Instagram, @sincerely.maariya