DISCLAIMER: The plot is my own and so are most of the characters (excluding, of course, Jack the Ripper). All events and names are purely coincidential. Places you recognise are real (e.g. St Paul's Cathedral). Please do not take any of my creations without my explicit permission or there will be hell to pay.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wonder if anyone will guess what my inspiration for this story was ... I'll give you one hint: it's a movie. I have most of the plot planned out though the ending is still rather hazy. There may be a sequel; I'm still not sure about that because of the "hazy ending". Anyway, when you review, please tell me what you like and/or don't like about this story so I can improve it and make it better for future readers (and you, if you decide to read it again).

WARNINGS: There is a lot of blood and gore in this story because of the murder content. So if you're a squeamish type person then I suggest you proceed with caution. Same to those who love/hate tearjerkers. Also, there will be sexual content later on, so if you're not happy with that then you're going to have to do something about it, aren't you? And there is some mild swearing as well. Not too heavy ... I don't think they used the 'f' word and all its descendents back in the late 19th century. If they did, please tell me and I'll be able to twist a few things. Thank you.

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CHAPTER ONE
Of Death and Rumination
London in the late 19th century was not a very hospitable place to be. This was especially correct if you were not wealthy or respectable or anywhere near the highest scales of the British hierarchy. It was very rare, in those times, to find someone from a low background mingling with the most distinguished of aristocrats.

Unless, of course, they were very adept at masquerading.

During those times there was much enmity between the social classes of the rich and the poor so it was not uncommon to see the people of the streets spitting, shouting curses and throwing mud at lavishly decorated carriages that rolled past them day after day. Nor was it unusual to hear of rich women being attacked by vagrants or of well-off gentlemen leaving brothels with their pockets empty. Even at the market wealthy buyers often found themselves the victims of pickpockets and cheats.

The reasons for these unpleasant doings were mainly because of the differences in the lifestyles of both parties. And matters only became worse for anyone who dared to tell their destitute assailant to seek their fortune in a workhouse, for the poor viewed the workhouses of London as nothing less than a prison and often went to great lengths to avoid such suffering.

So, because of the bitter relations between the different social classes, it did not come as a surprise to the police force of London when Mary Edwards, the eldest daughter of Charles Edwards (senior manager of the Bank of England), was found dead on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral on August 19th, 1897.

Mary's body was discovered at midnight by Police Constable Harold Williams while he was walking his beat. The beam of his lantern spread far enough for him to catch a glimpse of a pale arm outstretched on the steps of St Paul's a couple of metres to his right ... an arm that was still warm and had in its slack grip a bloodied knife ... a knife that had been plunged into the heart of Mary Edwards ... a knife that had also mutilated Mary's formerly pretty face, leaving nothing but ribbons of bloody flesh ...

As soon as he could take his eyes away from the gruesome image before him, Harold called another policeman who summoned a doctor and an ambulance. While his comrade, Constable Henry Davis, waited with the corpse Harold roused the nearby residents in hope of collecting some witnesses.

But this act was in vain for no one admitted to hearing unusual noises or seeing suspicious persons lurking in the area that night.

When Dr Ivar Rutherford arrived on the scene (without notification) and inspected the body of Mary Edwards (after a brief argument with Dr Rees Hartley whom the police had called), he deduced that she had been killed no longer than half an hour before Harold discovered her. Her wrists had been slashed and no less than a dozen twenty centimetre needles were stuck deep into her breasts.

Ivar also noticed that Mary's eyes had been stabbed with needles of the same length that went all the way into her skull, pierced her brain, and came out at the back of her head, staining her golden hair a dark crimson.

Mary's whole appearance could only be likened to that of a broken doll ... a doll not at all loved by its owner ... a doll that gave the owner pleasure to harm ...

And that is what mystified Ivar the most. Mary's mangled body gave every appearance of a murder, and yet she held in her right hand the knife that had presumably been used to commit the crime, and a small purse of the same needles that had been stuck in her body was found in her other hand, needles spilling around the steps she lay on.

If it was indeed a case of murder, why would the culprit want to make it appear as though it was the worst case of suicide instead?

Mary Edwards's funeral took place on August 24th at Highgate Cemetery, where all the wealthy and respectable associates of the Edwards family gathered to properly mourn her death, though they all later gossiped about the real cause of it.

The favourite was, of course, suicide as it was the most plausible explanation for Mary to have been out on her own so late. There was also little inclination for anyone to believe that there was a lunatic murderer on the loose in the city who could just as easily kill their own offspring.

But the question of why Mary Edwards would have killed herself remained and nagged at the minds of all the rich gossipmongers. They could not understand why someone so beautiful, beloved and well-to-do would deliberately take their own life and in such a grisly fashion. After all, Mary Edwards was said to be one of the most stylish young ladies in the whole of London city.

At eleven o'clock at night, the day after Mary Edwards's funeral, Ivar Rutherford's wiry frame was to be found slumped in a wooden chair in the tiny kitchen of Eckles and Peterson Mortuary, his place of occupation. Ivar lived no more than twenty five minutes away from the mortuary but he did not want to go home and fall into bed tonight. At least not yet.

Thousands of curious questions whirled in his mind, teasing and tormenting him till his head ached ... questions that he had no answers for ... questions that he wanted to answer, needed to answer ... questions that would probably remain unanswered for the rest of his life ... unless the killer of Mary Edwards was to strike again ...

For Ivar did not believe that the death of the young woman was caused by suicide. Never mind all the evidence that pointed that way; he knew better.

Ivar knew that there would not have been enough time for Mary to have stuck the needles into her eyes and breasts and carried out the act of slitting her wrists and stabbing herself in the heart in the process. She would simply have stopped functioning the very moment the first needle had been pushed into her brain and out through the back of her head.

Ivar knew what slender, delicate girls like Mary Edwards were capable of, and it would not have included any miracle bursts of strength during their last moments. There was no way Mary Edwards herself could have summoned the energy and brainpower for more.

And yet, the witnesses of Mary's dead body swore that it was suicide, no matter how much scientific proof there was to the contrary.

Ivar sighed in frustration. That's how it always was; science ignored and tucked away while gossip spread far and wide. It was surely disgusting. Yet there were many people who thrived on such stuff, terrible and morbid as it was. Any one of the gossipers could easily have been the murderer the way they carried on.

The sound of a slamming door woke Ivar from his musings. Sharp footsteps echoed around the rooms in the ground floor as Ivar's portly colleague, Dr Simon Eckles, strode into the kitchen devoid of his hat and cloak.

Simon Eckles was a rather short, balding man in his early fifties with a large grey moustache and wispy goatee, and was one of the original owners of the mortuary. He had buried the other, Dr Walter Peterson, when the latter died of pneumonia a little over six years ago.

Ivar had been employed by Simon less than a week after Walter's death, which caused a great cloud of suspicion to arise over Simon and the cause of Walter's death - the gossipmongers of London liked to believe that Walter was actually killed by Simon, who, according to the rumours, wanted to get the reigns of the business for himself and decided to get Walter out of the way.

Yet the gossipers could find no satisfactory explanation for why Simon employed Ivar, because of their previous conclusion. And, because of the suspicion, Eckles and Peterson Mortuary was rarely with a full list of customers though there were deaths aplenty. Hartley Mortuary was their competitor and, with their pristine reputation and high costs, the former flourished very well due to the consistent number of customers it received, most of whom were part of the upper social classes.

And so, Ivar and Simon resorted to performing postmortems, burials and cremations for the lower social classes, which meant rubbing shoulders with the likes of near to penniless paupers, thieves, prostitutes and all sorts of other vagabonds that late nineteenth century London offered.

Of course, Eckles and Peterson Mortuary did not make much profit so Ivar and Simon relied on other sources - Simon on his inheritance from his long deceased relatives, and Ivar on Simon's generosity (having never received a worthful inheritance of his own due to his dead parents's poor state), though he promised daily to repay his benefactor when he got his hands on something of enough value (which wasn't likely to be soon, as Simon reminded him).

Presently, Simon swung open the doors of the pantry, displaying the full condition of their impoverishment.

"We've got no more bread," he sighed despondently.

Ivar raised his head. "I know. You got the last of it this morning."

"So you've been starving yourself the whole day?" exclaimed Simon. "Good grief! You should've pinched some from the baker's! You're thin enough as it is, boy."

"Let's not resort to thieving tactics yet," said Ivar. "We're still well-off enough citizens whether we have a fresh crust of bread everyday or not."

Simon shook his head. "Your decency may well be the death of you, m'lad," he said, lowering himself onto a chair opposite Ivar. "Well-off or not, we need food."

But Ivar did not reply. He sat completely still with his head in his hands, a scowl forming on his face. Simon peered at him, frowning.

"Bee in your bonnet, lad?" he asked.

Ivar started. "What? Oh ... yes indeed."

"Do you know what I asked?"

Ivar looked up at Simon. "I was listening. I'm just a little - "

"A little? A little?" exploded Simon. "Boy, you've been doing nothing but roaming around the streets during the day and bullying your brain in here at night! Even for you this isn't typical behaviour." He sighed. "Tell me, lad, what's got you in such a pickle?"

Ivar ran a hand through his dark hair, noticing that it was still unwashed. It was almost three weeks since he had last had the privilege of washing it and he didn't think there'd be another opportunity any time soon. He groaned and wrung his hands. "I don't know!"

Simon raised a bushy white eyebrow. "You don't know what's got you in a pickle?"

Ivar sighed heavily. He seemed to be doing that a lot in the past few days. "No. I don't know what to make of it."

"Of what?"

"The death of Mary Edwards."

Simon's washed out blue eyes twinkled with merriment. "I thought it was established that it was suicide?"

Ivar raised his wild dark eyes to Simon's. "It was not suicide," he whispered. "She could not have done it all herself. It was murder, Simon. Pure murder."

Simon narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his beard. "All right, so it was murder. My next question, Inspector, is who was the perpetrator?"

"Now that I don't know. But I aim to find out. A murderer is loose on the streets of London and I, for one, will not sleep soundly in my bed until he is put behind bars."

Simon shook his head again. "Eh, you should've become a detective." He leaned forward. "But since you decided to work in a mortuary, I suggest that you don't go poking your nose where it's not asked or you might find yourself being operated on in one! I've told you that before but you didn't listen. I'm telling it to you again now in hope that, this time, you will pay heed to my advice." He paused, considering something. "Not that you'd sleep any sounder in your bed than you do now," he added.

"What if the killer strikes again?" asked Ivar. "What if the killer decides to wipe out the whole female population of London? What if this same killer attacks you while you're innocently walking down the street, like you were tonight?"

Simon was silent for a moment, staring at the old kitchen table. He looked up. "All right," he said grudgingly. "But I want you to promise me that you'll be careful and not go wandering around the streets at night like you did during the Ripper days."

Ivar suddenly raised his head and wide eyes to Simon's. "Jack the Ripper ..."

"What about him?"

"What if this is Jack the Ripper again?" breathed Ivar, leaning forward across the table, his face dark. "For nine years he's lain quiet ... thought there's been enough from the press to make him come out roaring ... and now, close to the anniversary of his first murder, he decides to wake from hibernation ..."

"And terrorise the prostitutes of London again?" asked Simon critically. "Mary Edwards doesn't quite fit the bill of a harlot to me."

Ivar waved his hand impatiently. "Perhaps he's just decided to do something new? Or perhaps ..." His eyes sparkled as he spread his arms in triumph. "Perhaps he's trying to create a diversion! So that everyone will think he's dead and gone, but then when all of London is investigating this recent murder, he'll revert back to his old ways of picking on the women of the street."

Simon frowned. "That's some idea you've got there, lad. But what if it's not Jack the Ripper? What if it's some new villain?"

Ivar ran his hand through his hair again. "Well, that's another reason why this matter ought to be investigated more thoroughly by people who actually care. I am a man of science and a man of truth, and both science and truth are being obscured by those ignorant of both. I won't stand for it!" He slammed his fist upon the table. "And anyway, things could get much worse if no action is taken."

"Well, you know that I'm right behind you if you need me," said Simon gruffly. "Just remember to use your head before you act, all right?" He lifted his large frame from the chair. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd best be getting home. It's late enough as it is and we've got a long day tomorrow. Eliza Simmons wants to submit about three or four people for inspection tomorrow. Apparently there was a bit of a massacre outside her pub last night and she had no idea of it until a constable walked in and asked her about it."

"Wait a minute! What happened to using your head before acting?" asked Ivar. "You told me not to walk the streets at night and here you are, setting a fine example."

"Oh, for goodness sake! I live less than ten minutes from this damned building!" Simon stomped out into the hall and Ivar heard him call, as he put on his coat and hat, "Make sure you get some sleep, boy. Don't you stay up all night, cudgelling your brains, you hear?" And with that, he promptly shut the door behind him as he walked out of the mortuary.

But Ivar did not repeat the same process. Instead, by the flickering light of the oil lamps in the kitchen, he wrote down his turmoiled thoughts in no particular order, just as he had done every night ever since his parents had died when he was ten years old.

When Mr and Mrs Rutherford died, Ivar was sent to a workhouse where he toiled for hours on end, eating nothing more tasteful than gruel and sleeping on nothing more comfortable than a half-broken, scratchy pallet. He finally ran away on the day of his thirteenth birthday and had many little jobs such as a paperboy, a cobbler's and carpenter's apprentice, and a dozen more.

It was only at the age of 27 that he was finally able to work with Simon Eckles in the mortuary. He had seen a lot of death for his age and was used to it, and therefore untroubled by the operations he had to do on the bodies of the dead.

Ivar paused in mid-sentence, trying to remember the faces of his parents. They were so dim and hazy now that it was no mean feat to be able to discern the features. He couldn't recall his younger sister at all. All he remembered of her was her name - Deidre - for she had died of malnutrition before she reached three years of age. Ivar was but two years older.

When he felt he could write no more, Ivar stood and walked across the room to the kitchen hearth which was host to a blazing and crackling fire, munching on the logs. Just as he did every night since his parents's death, he laid the paper in the flames and stood watching the fiery tongues as they licked the inky creations of his mind until they were naught but ashes.

Then, just as he also did every night since his parents's death, he went back to his seat behind the table and continued watching the fire burn, thinking, thinking, thinking, until sleep overcame him entirely and he could contemplate awake no more.