Time has Past

By GraemeTaylor

There have been many books written about Jack the Ripper, both fictional and ones based on fact. This book takes on the story with an unusual twist. It involves a man who stumbles onto a portal, a gateway to the past. How does he react to such a situation, and how involved will he let himself get? Would that involvement change history and distort the timeline?

Such was Peter Haines’ dilemma. He was a retired Army Sergeant; his life was uneventful until the day he fell into a world he could never have imagined. A world that became an obsession. He found himself in a grim era of English history, a sordid past shrouded in murder and terrible atrocities; it was a world he could not dismiss. The year was 1888 in London’s Victorian past. It was the time and place where the Ripper carried out his horrendous deeds. It led Peter into a series of circumstances beyond his control, circumstances impossible to imagine. It turned into a nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GraemeTaylor
• Release date: Dec 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310601514

Book preview

Graeme Taylor

Time

Has Past

In pursuit of the Ripper

First published in Great Britain as a softback original in 2014

Copyright © Graeme Taylor 2014

The moral right of this author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Published by UK Book Publishing

UK Book Publishing is a trading name of Consilience Media

www.ukbookpublishing.com

Contents

Chapter One – The Discovery

Chapter Two – The Mysterious Girl

Chapter Three – First Steps into the unknown

Chapter Four - Reality Hits

Chapter Five – Annie Chapman

Chapter Six – Mary Foreman

Chapter Seven – Elizabeth Stride & Catherine Eddowes

Chapter Eight – Mary’s Tragedy

Chapter Nine – Reclaiming the Body

Chapter Ten – Mary Jane Kelly

Chapter Eleven – The Search

Chapter Twelve – The Interview

Chapter Thirteen – Escape

Chapter Fourteen – The Unknown Girl

Chapter Fifteen – The Journey Back

Chapter Sixteen – The Confrontation

Chapter One

The Discovery

He put on his jacket to take his daily walk. It was late August and the weather was particularly agreeable. He set off down the street, passed through the large iron-gated entrance to the Bunhill Fields Burial Grounds onto City Road, and carried on down to St Katharine’s Dock. He stopped at the Dickens Inn as usual for a few pints and took in the views around him. St Katharine Docks was a vibrant marina in the heart of London, sitting right next to the Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. This was a great tourist attraction with visitors from around the world. Peter watched the boats arriving through the historic lock bridge; his eyes gazed at the skyline taking in the large range of warehouses converted into office accommodation and private residences. He returned his attention back to the marina and the stunning views of the luxury yachts moored there. He started to feel a bit sorry for himself and was pondering on where life would take him next, imagining that this could be him living in a luxury apartment with a luxury yacht.

He sighed and finished off his pint. He slowly lifted himself from his chair and started to make his way back. He walked along East Smithfield and up Cannon Street; he then crossed over Commercial Road onto New Road then down Whitechapel Road. As usual, he stopped to sit in Altab Ali Park on his favourite park bench just off Whitechapel Road and again looked on and people watched as they went about their daily business. The lunchtime rush had died away, but the street was still vibrant. He was close to Aldgate Station. People were entering and departing the tube station rushing as if they had only minutes to live and a thousand things to do before they died. He was always fascinated by the diversity of people’s dress; he used to think to himself what do these people see when they look in the mirror in the morning, smiling at his thoughts. He pulled himself up and set off for home retracing his outward journey back to his apartment. Another empty evening stretched in front of him, but then suddenly he had an idea. When I get back home, I will have a look in the attic, he thought. He had been meaning to do this for some time and according to Mrs B, his proprietor, it was full of boxes that had been there for decades. He lived in a block of six apartments occupying one on the top floor. The landlady had said that he could have the attic for his own use and she was quite all right with him rummaging through anything that was up there. She was quite old and did not have any interest in the contents. He thought, it is such an exciting life I lead, as he managed a chuckle to himself as he neared his destination.

Peter Haines had taken early retirement from the army after thirty years in military service. He had seen a few campaigns, with service medals from the Gulf War with his regiment the Life Guards and in later years in Bosnia and Iraq as part of the newly formed Household Cavalry Regiment. He was still in his forties, five foot eleven inches tall, his short hair showing signs of grey; his army career was all that he had ever known, man and boy. He was still fit and in good shape, but it seemed like his world had come to a sudden halt after he left the Forces. He never quite managed to settle down into civilian life and had moved from job to job with periods where there was no work at all. Sometimes he regretted the decision of the early retirement; at times, he felt a bit of a misfit, rejected and unwanted. He had become a bit of a loner; the state of his mind, because of his stints abroad certainly had a profound effect on him, and he felt uneasy in civilian life.

His bank balance was decent and a small pension from the army helped to make ends meet. He was a long time divorced – the love of his life could not cope with the Army, and they had grown apart over the years and separated nearly seven years previously. There had been no children in the marriage, which he always regretted, but given the breakdown of his marriage, he now thought it had been for the best.

On arrival back at the apartment there was the usual flutter of the downstairs net curtains; he knew it was Mrs B. Her life must be as empty as mine, he thought. He turned the key to the door of his apartment and changed into his shorts and T-shirt. He then pulled down the ladder and climbed up to the attic. He managed to find the light switch after the third attempt and flicked it on. A dim yellow light from the dust-covered light bulbs flooded the small attic space. There were boxes piled here and there covered in thick dust, cobwebs festooned the corners and the air smelt musty and damp. He could sense a faint smell of mothballs mixed in with the damp. A faint glimmer of light struggled through the skylight, blackened with the dirt of years of neglect. He noticed a pile of dusty wooden boxes stacked to his left, an old hat stand stood in the middle of the attic, a woman’s hat perched on its top, the hat’s large feathers hanging limply down, their stalks broken. A large mirror in a golden gothic-style frame stood up propped against the roof beams; it made him jump as he turned to see his reflection looking back at him. Piles of what seemed like clothes covered the far end of the attic; boxes of varying sizes were untidily stacked to his right. He began sorting through things starting with the pile of cupboard boxes; bit by bit he rummaged through the boxes, neatly stacking them to one side, discarding them and their contents. He seemed to be tidying up the place rather than exploring and the dust was everywhere. His coughing began to get more frequent and steadily worse so he thought it best to cover his mouth and nose. He pulled out a handkerchief, tied it, and carried on. The searching and tidying was not giving him the benefits that he had hoped for as most the items were just junk; his uneducated mind could not decipher what might be of any value. The pile of clothes had proved a bit interesting though – they seemed to span back over several different decades, both men’s and women’s clothing, but none of the men’s clothes would have fitted him – they were too small. He was about to call it a day as he threw back an old sheet that had fallen partly in his path and noticed a very curious object. He lifted the sheet a little more to reveal an old brass shop till. He tried to move it but it was quite a weight. He smiled. It was a beautifully decorated piece of history. He pressed on the ‘Two Shilling’ pedal, the amount popped up on the display box and the drawer sprung open. To his delight there was a handful of coins, mainly pennies and a few florins. He picked one up and examined it closely – minted in 1865 – and he wondered if they were worth anything. He shrugged his shoulders, turned the coin in his hand, flipped it up into the air, caught it and placed it back in the drawer. He looked at his watch; it was getting late, and he was feeling hungry so he climbed out of the attic and went downstairs.

The next day he took his normal walk, taking in the warm sun. He stopped to enjoy a few beers at his favourite spot before continuing his journey. Further on, he stopped and decided to rest for a while as he usually did on his favourite seat in Altab Ali Park, looking at the people hurrying around doing their daily thing. The park was always a good vantage point to look out onto the busy Whitechapel Street. There was always plenty going on with people going in and out of shops and offices, generally going about their daily business, but one particular person caught his eye. The man was dressed in what looked like a Victorian frock coat and was carrying a top hat. Although dressed in this manner he was not getting much attention from the passing public for the simple reason there were so many bizarrely clothed people around he was barely noticeable. He watched the man as he left Whitechapel Street and walked down Alders Street, which was adjacent to the park. The man stopped and lit a cigarette; he stood there smoking and looking around for a moment making sure no one was observing him. He finished his smoke, stamped it out on the pavement and then turned down the narrow passage between two buildings. The passage could not have been more than five to six feet wide, just a small cutting between the two large buildings. On one side, there was a bank and an empty shop on the opposite side. Peter wondered what could possibly be down there. Curiosity got the better of him and he made his way across the road to the entrance. He looked down the narrow passage to find it was a dead end. There was evidence of a slight recess that he could just make out at the far end. He assumed that this was a side entrance into one of the buildings. Without a thought, he started walking down the passageway. The walls looked old and moss was growing where there had been a constant leak from a broken drainpipe. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the pavement and it had a strange smell: a combination of blocked drains and damp earth. He walked down the passage curious to know what was down there. He stopped suddenly as a rat scurried past his feet, and made him jump. He carried on making his way towards the recess but before he reached his destination, he felt a cold rush of air hit him in the face and he found himself in total darkness. He panicked and quickly backed away. He took a few more steps backwards as he looked down the passage, his mouth and eyes wide open. There was nothing there; he had no idea of what had just happened. He rubbed his face then quickly turned and rushed back to the street entrance. He scratched his head as he tried to regain his composure, turning around again looking back down the passage and wondering what it was that had left him feeling un-nerved and shaky.

He rushed down the street and catching sight of the first bar, he headed straight in and ordered a beer. The barman looked at him inquisitively. ‘Are you ok Guv, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?’ Peter looked at him, but did not reply. He turned and walked towards a table and chair in the corner of the room. He took his first gulp of ale, wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand and placed the pint glass on the table. What was that? he thought to himself. He slowly began to relax and regain his composure. I have to go back, he thought, I have to, I have to see for myself what it was – I wouldn’t rest if I didn’t. He sat for a while, momentarily taking another sip of his ale. A new urgency seemed to hit him and the decision was made. He straightened his back, finished his pint and set off to return to the narrow opening. It was not long before he reached the entrance and he stopped for a while and took a deep breath before he entered. His walk was slow and cautious, taking his time with each step. Suddenly his foot disappeared as he stepped forward, and he pulled it back. He took a deep breath and steadied himself again, looking behind him as if to make sure no one was watching and again he stepped forward Then, as before, there was a cold rush of air, followed by complete darkness. His heart thumping he carried on taking another step forward. The pounding in his head was almost unbearable, he could feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His lips became dry, he ran his tongue around them to moisten them and took in a deep breath. There was another cold rush of air, and he gasped for breath as a panic hit him. Suddenly it was daylight again. He found himself facing the opposite direction and looking back out to the entrance to the street, but things seemed, and were indeed, different. There was such a pungent smell in the atmosphere it made him wince and reminded him of horse manure and burning coal. He walked towards the entrance towards Altab Ali Park but then he noticed that the park was no longer there. Instead there was a church placed in the centre of its own grounds. He stood there looking puzzled and froze as he heard the clunk,