Jack the Ripper Victims Series: Of Thimble and Threat

By Alan M. Clark

Jack the Ripper Victims Series: Of Thimble and Threat is a novel of historical fiction inspired by the life of Catherine Eddowes, a woman believed to be the fourth victim of Jack the Ripper. The story provides a glimpse into a time when the industrial revolution had created not only prosperity, but also unimaginable suffering in what was the greatest city in the richest country in the world. The impoverished, and especially poor, single, middle-aged women were considered by many to have little worth. The murders of four women in the autumn of 1888 was only a symptom of the social ills in London.
The police report listed over fifty personal items found on Catherine Eddowes at the time of her death. Because she had spent the two nights before her death in the casual ward—an outdoor part of the workhouse system for the transient, the ill, or those known to be criminals to receive temporary, rudimentary shelter—she was likely sleeping with everything she owned on her person.

The story begins when the character, Katie, is thirteen years old, and acquires the first item on that police report list. Each chapter, Katie acquires one or more of the items in the list.
This is not the story of Jack the Ripper. If anything, the Whitechapel Murderer is merely a force of nature within the environment of the tale. It is the compelling story of a human life tragically cut short, one that would have been quickly forgotten if the manner of her death had been anything other than astounding.

“Of Thimble and Threat is a terrifically absorbing read. A mature novel and superbly researched. The image of silver in the blood was woven expertly and made the ending luminous and poignant.”

—Simon Clark, author of Vampyrrhic

“Of Thimble and Threat is the unexpected tale of an ordinary woman, told by an extraordinary writer.”

—Elizabeth Engstrom, author of Lizzie Borden and York’s Moon

“If you think Alan Clark’s art is darkly delightful, just wait until you read his twisted and fantastical tales. I promise it will make weird and wonderful pictures in your head. And isn’t that what we all really want?”

—Ann VanderMeer, editor of Weird Tales

“Alan Clark has one wicked sense of humor.”

—Elizabeth Massie, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Sineater

“We all know Alan Clark is one hell of an artist—in fact, one of the best the imaginative field has ever produced. Turns out he’s one hell of a writer, too. If that’s not a one-two punch that will knock you out I don’t know what is.”

—Al Sarrantonio, editor of 999 and Stories (with Neil Gaiman)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imagination Fully Dilated Publishing
• Release date: Jan 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452484297

Alan M. Clark

Alan M. Clark grew up in Tennessee in a house full of bones and old medical books. He has created illustrations for hundreds of books, including works of fiction of various genres, nonfiction, textbooks, young adult fiction, and children’s books. Awards for his illustration work include the World Fantasy Award and four Chesley Awards. He is the author of 14 books, including eight novels, a lavishly illustrated novella, four collections of fiction, and a nonfiction full-color book of his artwork. His latest novel, SAY ANYTHING BUT YOUR PRAYERS, was released by Lazy Fascist Press in August, 2014. He is an Associate Editor for Broken River Books, a Portland, Oregon publisher of crime fiction. Mr. Clark's company, IFD Publishing, has released 6 traditional books and 25 ebooks by such authors as F. Paul Wilson, Elizabeth Engstrom, and Jeremy Robert Johnson. Alan M. Clark and his wife, Melody, live in Oregon. www.alanmclark.com

Book preview

Introduction

Alan Clark is one of my dearest friends. We first met after he illustrated the cover of one of my books, and it was a friendship destined to last. Over the years we’ve done a variety of collaborative projects together—Alan turns any creative endeavor into a fun and interesting process.

While he is a multi-award-winning illustrator, not many know him as a writer. Over the years as he worked at putting his bizarre ideas into words as well as illustrations, I’ve watched his confidence grow along with his writing skills. His first published short story, Ready or Not, appeared in More Phobias, in 1995. Since then, he has collaborated with such authors as Elizabeth Massie on D.D. Murphry, Secret Policeman, Gary A. Braunbeck on Escaping Purgatory, Jeremy Robert Johnson on Siren Promised, and Stephen C. Merrit and Lorelei Shannon on The Blood of Father Time. He has also written and had published a variety of short stories.

Occasionally, he calls me to go over a paragraph or two wherein he has been asked to describe the processes of his art. This is akin to describing the flavor of a strawberry: it is an endeavor to describe the indescribable, to chart the unchartable waters of creativity. We will inevitably engage in lengthy debate over the definition or use of one particular word upon which the entirety of his argument will hinge. These are fruitful discussions in many ways. A lesser writer might say, Good enough, and ship it off. Not Alan. He wants to be certain that he has used the written language as precisely and completely as possible.

When he told me about this book-length project of historical fiction, I became excited for him, and over the course of his writing it, we spent time on the telephone, seeking to piece together the probable motivations of a character such as Catherine Eddowes, and basking in the unimaginable truthfulness of her life and times. Of all of the fanciful things Alan’s imagination can conceive, the true Catherine Eddowes story hit him hard enough that he was compelled to tell it.

And tell it he has, through a unique device and with an interesting voice.

This is the story of hope and despair, of life and death, of victory and tragedy. This is a tale of sacrifice and addiction, of dreams and longing, all told through the items found on the body of a dead woman, ripped apart by a notorious killer.

But Alan isn’t interested in telling a Ripper story. In this, his first novel-length solo work of fiction, he tells a story that took place in Victorian London, when killer smog took the lives of so many, where rats and parasites were a daily nuisance and poor women were at the mercy of all that and more. This book adds to the body of knowledge of those times. Writers are keepers of the literature and the chroniclers of our times. Without books such as this, there would be no history once events fade from human memory.

This is a compelling tale, well-researched and well-written.

This is the unexpected tale of an ordinary woman, told by an extraordinary writer.

Why would Alan write such a book? You’ll have to ask him what there was about this woman that captured his fertile imagination so completely as to devote all his time and considerable skill to bringing her to life through these pages.

Or maybe, once you read it, you’ll understand.

—Elizabeth Engstrom

Eugene, Oregon

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction inspired by the life of Catherine Eddowes, a woman believed to be the fourth victim of Jack the Ripper. For purposes of storytelling, I have not adhered strictly to her history. I have assigned to my main character emotional characteristics and reactions that seem consistent with her life and circumstances. My goal is to provide a glimpse into a time when the industrial revolution had created not only prosperity, but also unimaginable suffering in what was the greatest city in the richest country in the world. It was a society in which the impoverished, and especially poor, single, middle-aged women were considered by many to have little worth. The murders of four women in the autumn of 1888 were only symptoms of the social ills in London.

Therefore, this is not the story of Jack the Ripper. If anything, the Whitechapel Murderer is merely a force of nature within the environment of the tale. It is the story of a human life tragically cut short, one that would have been quickly forgotten if the manner of her death had been anything other than astounding.

In modern times, information about those who are murdered is readily available. It flows easily and with little in the way of filters from the news. I am most often interested in what I can learn about the motivations of those who kill. For my own emotional protection, I frequently shy away from thinking too much about the personalities, loves and aspirations of those who suffer from violent crimes.

My first real insight into the humanity of Catherine Eddowes came from reading the police report about her murder, particularly the part that listed her articles of clothing and the possessions found on her person at the time of her death. Catherine Eddowes had spent each of the two nights before the night of her death in a different casual ward. The casual wards were part of the workhouse system, a place for the transient, the ill, or those known to be criminals to receive temporary shelter in what was considered at the time to be appalling conditions. Like many of the homeless today, she was wearing many layers of clothing. She carried over fifty personal items. It is likely she had everything she owned on her person.

With a sense of what her time and circumstance were, I found this pitiful list more compelling than anything I’ve read about Jack the Ripper.

—Alan M. Clark

Chapter 1:

A Thimble

Bermondsey, London 1855

Katie took the silver-plated thimble from the sewing kit on the table and palmed it to conceal it from her mother, Catherine. Once it was in the folds of cloth in her lap, she removed the old, dented black thimble from her finger and slipped on the silver one. If she kept her hands busy, Catherine might not notice. The metal, cool to the touch at first, warmed quickly and was smooth and cozy on her finger.

After a lunch of half a potato, Katie’s hunger still nagged. She would say nothing about it to save her mother’s feelings, but her growling stomach said everything. As it became louder, Catherine smiled grimly. You’re a good girl, she said, always so willing to help your mum.

Katie could distract with small talk too. Since Father died you’ve had to work so much harder. If I didn’t help, you’d work your fingers to the bone. She spoke with feigned sternness, tempered with a sweet smile. And...I like having you all to myself.

Spending afternoons and evenings together was pleasant, sitting at the table, talking and mending the clothes Catherine’s employer sent home with her each day; replacing buttons lost in the wash or stitching torn seams.

I work harder, but we’re more comfortable than we were in the attic room, and I don’t have to walk so far.

Five years of walking to Bermondsey from their old room in South Bermondsey had taken its toll on her mother’s feet. Laboring as a scourer, Catherine had been employed in this very room for those years. Visiting the place before it became their home was fun for Katie because of the laundry’s bustling activity and sweet smell of scented soap. A glad day came in the summer when her mother’s employer moved his laundry operations to a new location not far away, and Catherine had been able to get the room for a good price. Autumn had come now, and for all the mold and filth, it still smelled of fresh soap.

I could leave school to help more.

No, we’re lucky to have the charity school. You’ll need your education, and I don’t mind the work.

Her mother’s response was pleasing, for Katie loved school.

Catherine tied off the blue thread she was using and cut it with her crooked, yellow teeth.

If you take good care of yourself and your family, she said with a reflective sigh, there will always be something of beauty in your life, something sterling. She leaned toward Katie and cradled the girl’s chin in her hand. The hand of a scourer, it was rough, but Katie didn’t mind. "I have you," Catherine said with a fragile smile. Her face held deep lines and a permanent look of worry, but it was the most warm and loving face there ever was.

Katie smiled. When her mother said, something sterling, she meant a thing good and pure, but because Katie liked the shine and high worth of silver, she always imagined it was the metal Catherine was talking about. Merely touching the silver of the thimble on her finger brought a thrill.

Perhaps Christopher will bring something home for supper, Catherine said. Katie’s brother and sisters, Christopher, Emma and Margaret, had gone to the West End to work as crossing-sweepers. When their earnings were good, they brought home fish.

Katie pushed the thought away to concentrate on sewing instead of hunger. Although it was foolish to think a silver thimble worked any better than a tin thimble, the silver one definitely made pushing the needle and thread through cloth and buttons easier. She did a better job than before and she was faster. Something about silver spoke of swiftness, but she couldn’t remember what it was. If she had her own silver thimble, what couldn’t she accomplish?

Catherine’s work as a scourer was never enough. She took odd jobs where she found them and Katie helped any way she could. Although Katie was thirteen years old, she knew her contribution to the welfare of the family was what kept her mother going. She was happy to help Catherine, but she also had ideas of her own to improve their situation.

If we took in mending work from Aunt Elizabeth—

You know I won’t, Catherine said, her words bitten off short.

Yes, but I don’t understand why. Katie said it calmly, hoping her mother would soften her tone.

I will have nothing from that man. Clearly Catherine struggled to maintain her composure.

Uncle William? He was usually in his cups, but was harmless.

That’s enough of that, Catherine said. I cannot expect you to understand. The crackling tension in her voice turned into wet coughing and she bent forward. Her hacking spells were at their worst on days like today when the dense, yellow fog, known as London Particular, hung over the city. Alarmed by the duration of the spell, Katie set aside her sewing and hugged her mother.

Finally Catherine sat back and wiped her mouth on a stained handkerchief.

Do you feel better? Katie asked.

Catherine waved away her concern. After a moment, she said, I love my sister, but her husband is not a good man. We’ll leave it at that.

Yes, Mum. I don’t mean to upset you. Katie reached to take her mother’s hand.

No, she’ll see!

She tried to abort the gesture, but it was too late; the bright silver had caught her mother’s attention.

Katie expected her to be angry, but Catherine gently removed the thimble from her finger and returned it to the sewing kit. You know you should use a more sensible one. The tin thimbles work just as well. But if you must have something fancy, use the porcelain one.

Why have it if you don’t use it? Katie’s words came short and fast.

It’s a pretty thing and that’s all, Catherine said, obviously trying to remain calm. You were told not to use the silver thimble and still you took it. Nothing good will come from such dishonesty. It is certainly not ladylike.

Katie balked at the idea. If I were a lady, I’d have plenty of silver thimbles as well as other riches.

You’re not a child anymore. Your temper will only bring trouble, and others will judge you harshly. Take caution from the example of your cousin, Charles. He is too young to be drinking and fighting the way he does. He has spent more than one night in jail. Life is not all cakes and ale. He’ll come to no good.

Katie didn’t like to hear that. Despite Charles’s carousing and his bad reputation, he was her favorite cousin. He was three years older. She’d caught his eye and he hers, but their mothers had kept them apart and she resented it.

Katie frowned, took a tin thimble from the sewing kit and turned her chair so that she faced away from her mother before returning to her work.

Life is hard on pretty girls, Katie. Pretty girls want things and have ways of getting them. Be careful what you do, to get what you want.

Katie didn’t like the wistful tone in Catherine’s voice.

Yes, still a girl, but then you’re also a young woman, Catherine said.

Katie smiled, despite her foul mood, and was glad her