Whispers in the Fogs

Whispers in the Fogs

Whitechapel, London, 1889. The city’s up-and-coming electrical lights have been a guiding hand for many people living in the capital of the Victorian Era. But where there shines a light, darkness is being cast not far. This is a grim tale of a man’s journey through the less favorable streets of London. A tale spun by fate. A tale that went unnoticed in history, for it shed light on a person so obscure to our daily lives, that most see the name and think of nothing more than the poor souls that were lost in the Autumn of Terror 1888. This is the story of Detective Clearburough and his ongoing investigation of Jack the Ripper.

London was still in trance and fear of the previous year’s murders. Scotland Yard and its members are still amidst finding the culprit of the killing of five poor souls… Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. It was not an uncommon thing to hear of beatings over a prostitute, hell some went so far as to murder, but these? Something so obvious as to say they were murdered merely for being of the wrong profession did not sit correctly with the Detective. Since the death of Miss Chapman way back on the 31st of August 1888 was he on the case alongside many other prominent figures of London’s crime-solving team. And yet? No traces of anything. Sure they were suspecting a few people, but without proof, how would one feel satisfied to have found the actual killer amongst the populous?

“Dearest, are you thinking of that case again?” The voice was as sweet as sugar, yet felt so fragile and tender. The Detective shook off his thoughts and looked to his side. Arm in arm, in his safety she was. His darling wife Anne-Liz. He took off his hat and started scratching on his mustache. When it came to looks, both looked as dapper as high royalty, despite their impoverished life. “Ah, you must forgive me, dearest. Here we are going on a stroll to see the new city lights being activated, and all I can muster to think of, is that devil..” Her soft finger quickly placed itself onto his lips and she started giggling. “I’d rather want you to not think of it at least while you are taking the day off from work. I am surprised you even let me go out still, dearest.” The Detective quickly took her finger and placed it on a blue spot next to his nose. “If you are hitting as hard awake as you do in slumber, I reckon not even the devil himself could make you flinch away from a fight.”

Both continued their conversation. Of their life, God, and practically anything they could think of. And yet? The Ripper never truly left Clearburough’s mind that night. It was as if he jumped from nightly streets to worried minds.

Today was to be a special day. London always marked itself as one of the most advanced cities in the entire world. The epitome of modern. That night, February 2nd of 1889, a new step into the future was made. Whitechapel was to get electric lights! It was decided upon after an inventor noted, that it could bring light to the hearts of those in fear. Granted, East End London was the most impoverished part of London, but if beggars were to have light at night, so the inventor thought, rich people might want to invest in more beautiful craftsmanship. Give them electrified Art. Aberdeen O’Malick was an Irishman living in Whitechapel himself. The man, alongside a few interested fellows and with the help of London’s Administration of Development, already have contributed to a more shining future for the denizens of the city, starting with the installation of arc lamps by the Holborn Viaduct and the Thames Embankment in 1878.

Mr. and Mrs. Clearburough’s goal was to attend that very same initiation of new lights for Whitechapel by Mr. O’Malick. Accordingly so, many of the streets in Whitechapel did not even possess any means of illumination. Seeing all these new pillars with a lamp attached looked out of place. As if the poor banded together and stole them from where they once stood. Truly, to see the district become brighter at night gave the Detective a worry less in the world. And even so, it felt as if the Ripper mocked him still. From afar with a wide grin exceeding any person’s normal smile. “You ought to become even more beautiful, shining so brightly by yourself in all this darkened street is already illuminating my worried heart, Darling,” Mr. Clearburough suddenly spoke up and give his wife a kiss. “These lights couldn’t come at a better time, I agree, you old charmer~.” The lady caressed his cheeks as both stopped in front of a large crowd. It felt like half of London has ushered into this smaller street. All Ages and wealth were there and amidst them stood a lanky fellow with a large mutton chop beard and safety goggles. “Ladies and Gentlemen! People of London, I welcome you all to our newest endeavor for the city as a whole! Before you; I stand with the power to give light to those who have been praying for it! Would t not have been without the help of Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, as well as the kind folk from the Whitechapel Board of Works, we’d still have a darkened night ahead of us!” The crowd started cheering. At least the majority of streets were to be put under guiding lights.

“As a representative of London’s Administration of Development, as well as the O’Malick Electric Company, I welcome you all to a new age of light in Whitechapel!” The man in his leathery apron turned around and pulled a lever hoisted high up on a building with the help of a string. To the astonishment of all, each lamp, one after another, started to light up. At first, there was flickering at best, then a beam of light as if the sun itself had come forth, then back to a more acceptable level of brightness.

“It’s as though I can now see every last snowflake in that pile of snow over there,” one old denizen shouted out. “My God, I feel like we have turned night into day,” screamed a woman further back. Cheering and clapping filled the air with sounds that haven’t been heard much of in this usually gloomy world. Children hopped around and began throwing snowballs now that they could see better. Others started outright dancing with their Missus to celebrate the occasion. Commissioner Warren made his way to Mr. Clearburough, followed closely by Mr. O’Malick as he still wanted to ask him something. “Charles! I never thought you had your hands in this!” Both men greeted each other with a handshake, followed soon by a tender bow by Mrs. Clearburough. “You and I both been dreading over this case for a good few months now, Seamus. To see so many people be less inflicted with fear is at least a small token of gratefulness in all that has happened lately.” Finally, Mr. O’Malick caught up with Commissioner Warren and shook his hand as well. The young and ecstatic man could barely hold his eagerness in. So much so, that he could not even talk cohesively. “Ah, m-my apologies for coming so suddenly, but I just had to give you my thanks for setting everything in motion alongside the police force!” It’s then, that the inventor noticed Mr. Clearburough and immediately shook his hand with the same tenacious eagerness just as that of Commissioner Warren. “You are doing a remarkable step towards London’s safety, Mr…O’Malick, was it?” not even a second later, a little piece of paper is pressed into the man’s hand. “Quite so, good sir! The poster I have hung up around the city sadly forgot to check for spelling, but overall I am happy that my home is getting the illumination it so desperately needed!”

Alas, the joy, as quickly as it had come with the light, vanished once more as a woman started screaming. “THE RIPPER! T-Th…HE!...” Dyed in blood, the lady fell onto the ground, bleeding away her innards as her stomach revealed a nasty, open cut to her womb. The light began flickering and their protective illumination blew away like a candle’s light in the wind. Mr. Clearburough, Commissioner Warren, and a few Police Officers present at the event quickly drew their weapons. Not a single sign of panic had come out of anyone’s mouth yet. Heavy breathing…a flock of people cowered together like sheep in a thunderstorm. The ever-so-intrusive fog of London hushed out of the varying streets nearby. “Stay…close to me…very close…Anne…” Detective Clearburough wrapped his left hand tightly around his dearest, pulling her closer to his back and keeping his hand firmly placed at her back.

Still no sign of panic or screaming. Silence and quiet dread overcame the once illustrious singing and dancing. Atop a building, the very same hosting the lever for Whitechapel’s lights, a silhouette began to form amidst the thickening fog. The first lamp that had just illuminated everything around it sprung to life once again, only to break violently right after. Sparks flew away from the lever, causing the thick to partially reveal the silhouette once again. A hat…a coat…a cane and a smile going beyond a normal one. It’s as if Clearburough saw the very thought he been having for the last few months. It was him. The Whitechapel Murderer, Leather Apron…Jack the Ripper

The very sight of his shadow alone made people feel dread and fear deep in their hearts. It could not have been a mere coincidence, that the lights had started to fail when he showed up. What was even more unusual, was the sudden appearance in front of so many people. One could argue, he is still anonymous, but why risk that, especially with the police and a member of Scotland Yard present? Truly, the conundrum only spun deeper into the web of mystery.

“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE, GET HIM!” The doors of the building were run over by the officers. Commissioner Warren and Detective Clearburough rushed after him, keeping Mrs. Clearburough in the safety of Mr. O’Malick. Upon reaching the roof, the silhouette still stood there. One officer ignited his lantern and swung it forth, but was met with a terrible view. Instead of the Ripper, they found the corpse of a once beautiful woman. Slaughtered like an Animal, dressed in an expensive suit, and most gut-wrenching of all, cut at an aorta as she was leaning against a pike with a hook holding her up like a dried trout over a fire. Detective Clearburough and Commissioner Warren enter the scene not so long after and are taken aback by the unfolding view before them. “Oh dear God…that Woman…she is…” Mr. Clearburough looked at Mr. Warren with a confused mind. “You know this woman?! Who is she?” The entire police force around him became silent. The Commissioner took off his hat and placed it upon his heart. “Molly O’Malick…sister to our handshaking enthusiast. What a terrible fate…Get her down from there and put her into some loins!”

The lights sprung back to life once again as the corpses were both being put into cloth to transfer them to Scotland Yard alongside Mr. Clearburough. Nobody felt like celebrating anymore, especially not Mr. O’Malick, who broke down in tears as he saw the hand of his sister peek out of the cloth. Only she had a ring with the initials of her name engraved on it. Even though he did not show it, Detective Clearburough felt an immense dread lurking behind his back. Jack had returned. Not only had he prevented good publicity over the new lights, but they were also shut off again by the O’Malick Electric Company just a day after for ‘maintenance’. London’s people were still in danger. It was time to finally put a stop to this maniac and his killing spree. Whitechapel has been in nigh complete darkness for too long.

And despite this setback and blackout. Neither Technology nor the will to catch evil had been stopped. If anything, it only engulfed Mr. Clearburough in even more thoughts on how to catch him…and perhaps…solving the city’s lack of light in Whitechapel and Spitalfields might be a good start on solving Jack’s nightly terror. What will follow, is a cat-and-mouse game between the murderer and police, as if it wasn’t already. And to you, my good sirs and madams reading this…I welcome you to sit down and watch closely, as one of history’s most notorious killers returns. The Blackout brought forth…Whispering in The Fogs