Read Online A Study in Red - The Secret Journal of Jack the Ripper by kindels - Free Book Online
Authors: kindels
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
Ads: Link
respectable, but slightly unstable barrister by the name of Montague John Druitt. A first class sportsman and one time schoolmaster at Mr. Valentine's school, Blackheath, Druitt appeared to have been regularly though not lucratively employed as a barrister while having at some time taken to teaching either to supplement his meagre legal earnings, or for some other, unknown reason. That side of his life seems shrouded in mystery, as is much to do with all of those suspected of being the notorious killer.
There were others, many others, too many to warrant including them here. That is not after all the purpose of my words. I thought as I read and re-read those notes that perhaps in a few hours I would have the answer that had eluded the police of Victorian London, and all the scholars and historians since who had tried to put a name to The Ripper. I still believed it was as simple as that. Turn to the back page, and it'll be there, I told myself, see for yourself, if not in his own hand, then surely great-grandfather would reveal the truth, if he really knew him, and if the journal were genuine. I didn't do it of course, I couldn't, I've already explained that, haven't I? Whatever was waiting for me at the end of my strange journey into the past that was being generated by the journal would have to wait until I'd read every word along the way, felt the pain of the victims as the writer described his horrendous and heinous descent into what I now saw as inevitable madness, finally to discover, I hoped, the fate of Jack the Ripper.
It was now pitch dark outside, and the wind had become a howling gale, so much stronger than before. The dark shadow fingers of the tree continued to dance their dance across the window panes, and occasionally one would brush against the glass, sounding as though someone were gently rapping on the window, pleading to be allowed in, to escape the wind, the dark, the raging storm gathering momentum by the minute.
Knowing I couldn't put it off any longer, I reached out once more to take up the journal, and, making a great effort to steady my hands, and my nerves, I turned the last page I'd read, and watched the words of the next page float up to meet my eyes, as I left behind the raging storm outside the window, and found myself once more caught up in a storm of a very different kind!
Chapter Nine
Metamorphosis?
My first reaction on turning to the next page of the journal was one of shock. It took less than a second for me to realize the handwriting had changed. Whereas the previous pages had been written in a firm hand, almost displaying the rage in the words with the obvious pressure applied to the nib of the pen, and the expansive strokes displayed in certain letters, now suddenly, the writing appeared smaller, upright, and very ordered in its application to the page. Was this a different hand at work? I looked closely at the page, and attempted a comparison with the one I'd recently finished reading.
Close examination revealed that many of the letters, although smaller and seemingly more ordered in construction, displayed the same characteristics. The construction of the letter 'f' for example, and also the flourish applied to the 'y' were quite distinct in their commonality. There were other matches present, all of which confirmed to me that the writer of the two pages was one and the same individual. Of course, it would take a handwriting expert to confirm such a conclusion, but I had no doubts at all.
What had changed? Why had the Ripper's (I know; alleged Ripper's), handwriting suddenly undergone this strange metamorphosis? I guessed I might discover the answer to my question in the words I was about to read.
5 th September 1888
The silence of the world sits heavy upon my weary shoulders. It's so quiet in here, so very quiet. I'm not sure where I am any more, or indeed who I am. This place is dark and cold, life is bright and warm, but I am not. The loneliness that steals me from the
There were others, many others, too many to warrant including them here. That is not after all the purpose of my words. I thought as I read and re-read those notes that perhaps in a few hours I would have the answer that had eluded the police of Victorian London, and all the scholars and historians since who had tried to put a name to The Ripper. I still believed it was as simple as that. Turn to the back page, and it'll be there, I told myself, see for yourself, if not in his own hand, then surely great-grandfather would reveal the truth, if he really knew him, and if the journal were genuine. I didn't do it of course, I couldn't, I've already explained that, haven't I? Whatever was waiting for me at the end of my strange journey into the past that was being generated by the journal would have to wait until I'd read every word along the way, felt the pain of the victims as the writer described his horrendous and heinous descent into what I now saw as inevitable madness, finally to discover, I hoped, the fate of Jack the Ripper.
It was now pitch dark outside, and the wind had become a howling gale, so much stronger than before. The dark shadow fingers of the tree continued to dance their dance across the window panes, and occasionally one would brush against the glass, sounding as though someone were gently rapping on the window, pleading to be allowed in, to escape the wind, the dark, the raging storm gathering momentum by the minute.
Knowing I couldn't put it off any longer, I reached out once more to take up the journal, and, making a great effort to steady my hands, and my nerves, I turned the last page I'd read, and watched the words of the next page float up to meet my eyes, as I left behind the raging storm outside the window, and found myself once more caught up in a storm of a very different kind!
Chapter Nine
Metamorphosis?
My first reaction on turning to the next page of the journal was one of shock. It took less than a second for me to realize the handwriting had changed. Whereas the previous pages had been written in a firm hand, almost displaying the rage in the words with the obvious pressure applied to the nib of the pen, and the expansive strokes displayed in certain letters, now suddenly, the writing appeared smaller, upright, and very ordered in its application to the page. Was this a different hand at work? I looked closely at the page, and attempted a comparison with the one I'd recently finished reading.
Close examination revealed that many of the letters, although smaller and seemingly more ordered in construction, displayed the same characteristics. The construction of the letter 'f' for example, and also the flourish applied to the 'y' were quite distinct in their commonality. There were other matches present, all of which confirmed to me that the writer of the two pages was one and the same individual. Of course, it would take a handwriting expert to confirm such a conclusion, but I had no doubts at all.
What had changed? Why had the Ripper's (I know; alleged Ripper's), handwriting suddenly undergone this strange metamorphosis? I guessed I might discover the answer to my question in the words I was about to read.
5 th September 1888
The silence of the world sits heavy upon my weary shoulders. It's so quiet in here, so very quiet. I'm not sure where I am any more, or indeed who I am. This place is dark and cold, life is bright and warm, but I am not. The loneliness that steals me from the
Similar Books
