Murder in the Mist: Matthew Stephen (Middle School Prize

written by Matthew Stephen, Year 8

October 4th, 1888 1:44 am Prologue

On a misty Autumn night, in the labyrinthine network of dim-lit streets in the troublesome East-end of London, Constable Edward Watkins was walking his usual beat down Mitre street. It had been an uneventful night compared to most in the district of Whitechapel. Echoes of drunks screaming, “Murder is amidst!”, “The Ripper’s comin’ to get me!” howled through the foul-smelling air. Watkins wandered up the cobblestone streets avoiding eye contact with the destitute ladies searching for the vulnerable and empty-headed men of the night. There was little light in the darkness beside a clunky oil lamp Watkins hoisted around his satchel. Soon he turned right into Mitre square, making sure to check the corner of his eyes for any lurking in his midst. His steps were loud and assertive, alerting any nearby to his presence. As he made his way into the square he smelt something, not the usual sewage-filled aroma, but an unsettling metallic stench.

Still standing at the entrance of the square, Watkins caught sight of something on the ground to his right. He couldn’t quite yet discern what this was, but he certainly had a thought. Watkins carefully approached, shining his lamp around, making sure there weren’t any unwanted pests in his way. Just as he suspected, his worst nightmare was true. There lay a woman on her back lying flat on the ground. Her throat was cut open and her bowels protruded through her ripped-up stomach. Blood dripped from her mouth into the growing red pool she lay in. Watkins had never seen something so vile, something so inhumane.

Fortunately, he knew a night watchman who was on guard in a building on the other end of the square. Quickly he fetched him and showed him the body. He, unlike Watkins, was unphased by the disembodied figure. This however aroused little suspicion in Watkins as the night watchman, George Morrison, was a retired constable who, he had presumed, had seen much worse in his time. George then raced off to Aldgate street, furiously blowing his whistle to alert the authorities of the murder.

Within minutes a crowd of worried bystanders had built up in Mitre square. Men and women shared the same horrified expression, thinking that the murders had finally come to an end. Soon the authorities arrived and turned the once deserted square into a bustling crime scene. Detectives and constables scoured every corner of the square, not leaving a single spot unchecked. However, after hours of an intense and thorough search, not a single atom of evidence was found.

5:13 am The Detective

It has been around 5 hours since the body was discovered in Mitre Square. This is the fifth victim of an unknown serial killer that my fellow detectives say leaves no trace, but I don’t think they are looking in the right places.

The public is outraged and demanding answers that we can’t provide. People are losing trust in the law and are taking the initiative themselves to find the killer. Some would say bravery, I would say idiocy. As much as I make myself believe that we are close, that the answer is on the tip of my tongue, in the end, that’s all it is.

Simply a belief, nothing more, nothing less.

However, the recent events of the Mitre Street murder have resulted in two suspects who both have promising motives and were within the vicinity of the crime.

The first suspect is Francais Tumblety, an eccentric American who has already had a few skirmishes with the police in the last couple of weeks. He was found lounging in a saloon in Goulston Street, a couple of streets up from Mitre Square. Witnesses reportedly said that he was bragging about “an act that would forever torment humanity”.

The other suspect is Constable James Harvey, who has a history of using his power for his own benefit, once caught taking bribes from the Monkey Parade gang. His beat would have taken him through Mitre Square around 1:40 am, merely minutes before the body was found, yet he apparently saw nothing. If there is a god, I pray that no more must people die and that I can put a stop to these hideous acts.

It was now my job to pick truth from deceit, and piece together a puzzle, whose pieces are yet to be found.

6:12 am Suspect #1 - Francais Tumblety

I walked up to the heavy wooden door, adjusting the position of my silver pocket watch held up by the buttons of my navy waistcoat. I pushed the cold door open to reveal a sombre but familiar room with little decoration besides a clunky old lamp hanging from the ceiling and a table with two chairs.

Cuffed to the table was the American doctor, Francais Tumblety, a peculiar-looking man with a long and thick moustache that he had grown well beyond the borders of his face. His eyes were filled with disturbing laughter. He wore a militaristic outfit that demanded so much attention that it was almost humorous. This was not the first time that Tumblety had encountered the English police, even though he had only arrived a couple of months ago.

I pulled the opposing chair out and took a seat, watching Tumblety’s every move.

“So, may we get started? After all, I am positive you would be aware of the procedure by now?” I said to him while he stared off into the distance.

“Well… I suppose we could, however, I see no point in an interrogation that will end in me walking out free of charge,” Tumblety announced confidently.

“Don’t be so quick thinking Tumblety, we have much to discuss, why don’t you start off by telling me what happened tonight? I just love a well-fabricated story,” I stated.

“It’d be my pleasure, detective.” Tumblety’s Perspective

“I was hurrying down Aldgate street at around 1:40 am, setting my eyes on the women and rowdy crowds passing by me. I was looking for new clients interested in my groundbreaking herbal medicines that can cure any conceivable disease. However, it seemed my luck had run dry. I suspected I was being trailed by a patient whose treatment was having the usual side effects as I had received a letter earlier in the day stating ‘I wouldn’t live to see another day’. But she, like so many others, was just another simple-minded fool. I continued to make my way through the frosty air, letting the sub zero wind blast into my eyes. I peered into the shops, examining the various carefully placed items while I meticulously planned my next dubious strategy to market my own product.

Before I could complete my thought, an annoying screeching whistle came barreling towards me. A man, concealing what appeared to be a red handkerchief in his fist, revealed himself out of the luminous dense fog. He shouted, ‘There’s been a murder!’ Swiftly constables from the surrounding areas converged on his whistle while also attracting the attention of many regular folks nearby. Out of pure curiosity, I, along with many others, followed the constables. Turning right into Mitre Street, a previously stagnant area had quickly turned into chaos. Some screamed, “He’s back!” while others hid their emotions in an attempt to look brave and in control of this uncontrollable force of death. All that was on my mind was what a brilliant time it would have been to advertise my herbs, so many people in need of fixing!

Eventually, I managed to squeeze through the crevices in the collection of bystanders to get a decent view of the body. It was beyond anything of my imagination, never would I have thought that such mutilation was even possible outside of the surgical room. Her bowels were drooping from her stomach like a snake about to pounce at any moment. Her clothes were drenched in crimson blood. Those around me were in horror at the sight that beheld them. I slipped back through the crowd swallowing the sight I had just seen. I hustled my way back onto the main road seeking a saloon where I could relax my nerves. Before I knew it I had walked far from Mitre Square, unwilling to think of anything but sustenance.

The empty sky and seemingly endless rows of small gothic apartment complexes were all that comforted me now. To my luck, I saw the light of a teeming saloon on the far end of Goulston street. I stepped into the saloon, greeted by the thick scent of gin and rum and the sounds of men clinking their glasses. I grabbed myself a bottle of gin and joined the delirious.”

“Thank you, Tumblety. Before I depart may I ask, where did the woman you suspected of tailing you go?”

“She must have… got lost in the crowd when I went to look at the… the body,” Tumblety quietly mumbled.

“That will all be, for now, Tumblety,” I declared in a hasty but careful voice.

No matter how hard one may try to deceive, a liar is a liar and Tumblety is no different.

His story is certainly riddled with logical inconsistencies, but rather fascinatingly makes special mention of the man who alerted the police of the murder: George Morrison. Tumblety stated that he was trying to conceal a red handkerchief. Obviously this could all be but a ruse by Tumblety to lead my suspicion elsewhere, however in these circumstances, no lead can go unchecked.

Before I could move on to my next suspect I was greeted by none other than Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, who had been standing opposite my desk for quite some time as I was indulged in my thoughts and had failed to notice his entry. His exploding red face projected anger into all corners of my office, it was an understatement to say he looked uneasy.

“Chief Inspector Abberline, I will be damned if you cannot provide me with a single shred of evidence in hopes of finding this undetectable serial killer! The public wants answers and as you know, it is no longer a matter of finding this murderer, it is a matter of keeping the trust of the public,” he shouted in rage but also in great tribulation.

His face hardened awaiting my response.

“Commissioner Warren, sorry to keep you waiting, but I have two promising suspects I am looking into currently that may lead us to or could even be the murderer. I just need more time…”

“Time! That is a luxury that we do not have. Chief Inspector Abberline I will be expecting, no, demanding that you announce something that is not, ‘we need more time’ to the public tomorrow morning, whether it may be truth or make-believe. Your job, my job, and the security of your friends and colleagues depend on it. Do not let me down.” 4:18 pm Suspect #2 - Constable James Harvey

Once again I placed my trembling hand on the same heavy wooden door as before, confused by my previous exchange with the Commissioner. What was I to do, to forsake the integrity of an investigation simply to give the public half-witted answers? To tell mistrust to gain trust? Before I gave it greater thought, I realised that choice was no longer up to me.

Upon opening the door, a small and unthreatening man sat caressing his curly brown moustache in thought – unaware of my entrance. The constable, James Harvey, was dressed in his midnight blue regulation police uniform, sporting a bewildered appearance. He shot his dreary eyes towards me. I took my seat opposite him.

“Constable, I am sorry for placing you in this position. But as you should know we are in trying times and I cannot leave any lead left to hang.”

“I understand, detective.”

“Could you please explain to me what you were doing prior to and after walking past Mitre Square?”

“I was walking my usual beat down Duke Street around 1:40 am. It was particularly murky and visibility was poor. It had been an uneventful night so far, the regular crowds of drunks and pesky rats were the most I had dealt with. Wandering up the street I glanced into Mitre Square, but I heard not a single sound and could see very little, and my fading lamp was of hardly any assistance. Not suspecting anything, I turned back to set off on my route.

Before getting very far I was promptly interrupted by an old friend of mine and nightwatchman, George Morrison, who seemed to be in quite a huff as he sauntered towards me. I couldn’t make much of his figure but his wine-filled breath could be smelt from a mile away. I asked him why he was out.

He shouted back to me, “I’m coming back from the ale’ouse, an’ also could you be so kind to spare me a ‘andkerchief, I’m feelin’ a bit stuffy,” in a raspy voice.

I dug into my pockets and passed him a clean one, catching sight of his mucky hands which seemed to be smeared with something he claimed to be red wine. Having no reason to suspect him, I wandered off, not thinking much of our recent interaction.”

“Thank you, James. Are you aware that George Morrison was later seen concealing a red handkerchief and was the man that blew the whistle to alert authorities of the death?” I stated, with a slight bit of glee.

James looked at me in shock.

“I find that highly improbable detective, since Morrison appeared to be extremely inebriated when I talked to him, barely being able to pull a sentence together.”

All of a sudden, like a gift from God, the pieces of my puzzle fit together.

“It’s Morrison! It has to be, he must have been acting when he spoke to you and used your handkerchief to clean the red wine stains on his hands.”

I stood up about to dart out the door, believing I had solved the case.

“Detective! Don’t you think we should look further into this, or at least gather some more constables?”

I shot my head towards him and nearly erupted.

“No! There’s no time left. We can tell everyone once we have caught him. Get up constable, you’re coming with me to catch this killer!”

11:35 pm The end

I flew down the stairs in front of the grandiose police building as Constable Harvey trailed not far behind. My overcoat caught the blistering wind and flew out behind me, hitting those II passed. We took a sharp turn onto Houndsditch Street, not letting anything get in our way. I knew we were close to finally putting an end to the devilish acts that had haunted so many. I could almost sense it, the killer was nigh. The people were still unsettled by the acts of last night. They shot their eyes towards us shouting, “God, has there been another one?”. But I knew the killer’s time had finally come to an end.

We had reached Duke Street, the same empty street that Constable Harvey was walking just last night. We were only a couple of yards away from the entrance to Morrison’s house. Carefully we crept forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. His house was small and almost derelict. The paint was flaking off and the glazing on the front door was smashed to bits. Stains that appeared to be new led up the cobbled steps and past the front door. I looked around, making certain no one else was near.

Once we had meticulously climbed our way up the steps, I slowly lifted my quivering hand through the broken glass on the door. After what seemed to be an eternity of shuffling my hand around, I managed to grab hold of the door knob on the other side. I pulled the door open feeling the heat of a fire emanating from a room close by. We stepped into the house, examining the eerie portraits of different faces placed along the walls. Soon the flickering sound of the fire grew, leading me to a room at the end of the hallway. Taking a deep, calming, breath, I stepped into the room.

A man sat on a tall ominous chair, shrouded in the shadow of a cabinet in front of the fireplace.

“Get up, George, there’s nothing you can do. Your time has run out,” I commanded sternly.

He stood up, revealing himself from the shadows.

“Renowned Detective Abberline, known for his attention to detail and ability to see things others do not. I hoped you would find me, I just didn’t believe it would be so easy to get you here. All I had to do was conceal a bloody handkerchief and you came chasing after me like a pathetic child for some candy.” George said in a raspy voice.

“It doesn’t matter Morrison, we’ve got you, there’s nothing you can do,” I barked out in anger.

“We, isn’t that funny. James.”

Small chuckles came out from behind me as my heart skipped a beat.

“Constable…why?” I blurted out desperately.

“Liars are always liars, Abberline. How could you forget that? It’s nothing personal, it is simply a matter of business,” he replied snarkily.

“It’s time, Detective.” Announced George.

“Time for what?” I asked worryingly.

“The end of your investigation,” George replied with a cheeky smile.

Suddenly I felt a cold knife pierce through my back, sending shivers down my body. Warm blood started trickling down my back, with more coming out every breath I took. I fell to the cold ground, each laboured breath granted me little relief as the pain pulsated in me. I could see a black circle, slowly engulfing my vision. I heard the muffled voices of George and James echoing in my head. Soon enough I gasped my last breath, hoping I would wake up, but I never did.

October 5th 1:44 am The Note

On another misty Autumn night in Whitechapel, Constable Watkins was once again walking his beat down Mitre Street. After the events of last night, he was apprehensive about making the right turn into Mitre Square, but after working up some courage, he did it. He shone his clunky oil lamp around the square, certain that nothing would be there. But to his dismay and horror, there lay another body. This time it belonged to a man, with a long waistcoat and a silver pocket watch tied around his waist. Upon further examination, Watkins saw a small folded-up note on his chest, he opened the blood-stained note, and it read: “He had eyes. But could not see.”