The Conan Doyle Notes: The Secret of Jack The Ripper

By Diane Gilbert Madsen

The Conan Doyle Notes: The Secret of Jack the Ripper uncovers clues as to why the dog did not bark in the night... Sherlock Holmes concluded that it was because the intruder was known to the dog. Madsen’s new mystery questions whether the identity of one of the greatest criminals of all time, Jack the Ripper, was deduced by Conan Doyle. Conan Doyle was already famous with his popular Sherlock Holmes stories when Jack the Ripper struck London in October 1888. So why was Conan Doyle silent about this case? This thrilling adventure may well hold the key…

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Jun 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781780926209

Diane Gilbert Madsen

Chicago native Diane Gilbert Madsen (Florida) lived in the Windy City for years and at one time was the Director of Economic Development for the State of Illinois. She has an M.A. in English literature and is an active member of two Robert Burns organizations.

Book preview

everything.

Chapter 1

Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Adventure of the Abbey Grange

Monday afternoon

T.S. Eliot was right – April is the cruelest month, and April in Chicago is even crueler. It isn’t winter, and it isn’t spring. It’s that lousy Chicago in-between weather – damp and windy, offering the promise of warmth but not delivering. I’m Chicago born and raised and should be used to it by now. But like the Cubs, I always expect it to be better every year.

My name is DD McGil. My birth certificate reads Daphne December, but that was a horrible compromise between my mother and my father, so people use it only at their peril. I freely admit to being female, blonde, smart-assed and stubborn. My favorite color is red, and being a Scot, I’m always suspicious of what’s under the surface. I don’t admit to much else ever since the seventh grade when I learned to keep my chin up and never end a sentence with a preposition.

I used to be an assistant professor, happily teaching 17th century English literature, until murder intervened and ended that career. Now I’m an insurance investigator, as far away from academia as I can get. Perhaps most importantly, I’m about to turn 40.

This afternoon I was on a job. I was driving along beautiful Sheridan Road in my green Miata tailing a subject, one Claudine Romani. She’d filed an insurance claim related to severe back injury after a slip-and-fall at one of those big box stores. Fifteen minutes ago she’d left her house, destination unknown. That’s where I come in. United Insurance hired me to make sure she wasn’t scamming. I pulled into traffic far behind her and executed some tricky maneuvers so she wouldn’t tumble to the tail.

In my experience, people are always doing something wrong. It’s an axiom I live by. But so far on this surveillance, Romani hadn’t done anything suspicious – just the usual grocery shopping, drug stores and doctors, and visiting neighbors. I couldn’t read sinister into any of it.

When she changed lanes again, I followed suit. Truth-be-told, I was enjoying this job. Chicago is a magnificent city. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine that a mere twelve thousand years ago the whole of it had been under a glacier – a glacier with ice miles thick that stretched all the way from the North Pole. Right now I was speeding along what had been the terminal moraine of that glacier where mastodons instead of cars would have roamed the wetlands.

I braked suddenly to avoid playing bumper car with the BMW in front of me. We were at one of Sheridan Road’s curves where traffic slows down to 15 mph. That’s when my cell rang. I don’t have caller ID. I never know who’s going to call, and anyway, I like surprises. It was Tom Joyce, my antiquarian bookseller friend. Our friendship goes back to well before he and his bookshop, Joyce and Company Rare Books, became venerable Chicago institutions. He’s helped me out on a few cases, and we enjoy our intellectual sparring bouts.

Hi, DD. What’s today’s word?

This was a standing joke ever since Tom signed me up for the Oxford English Dictionary Word of the Day service for my last birthday. The OED sends me an e-mail every day, and today’s word was propitious. How was I to know it should have been murder?

I’ve got some great news, DD! I’ve been doing an appraisal of the David Joyce Grange library collection. In fact, I’m calling from the Grange estate. I’m just about to head home.

You sound excited, Tom. Was David Joyce Grange some relative of yours? I joked as I spotted a space across from the florist where my subject had stopped.

Unfortunately, no, Tom replied. I only wish he were related.

My front wheel gently contacted the curb as my back bumper just kissed the car behind me – perfect! I know I’ve heard of him, but it was so long ago, I can’t remember any details.

"That’s because he’s been dead for years. He was a lumber tycoon and made a fortune building the City of Chicago. He collected of all kinds of things, especially books. His son inherited the estate, but he died young. The son’s wife, Beatrice – everyone calls her the Dowager – lived on until a year or so ago. She never had old David Joyce Grange’s book collection appraised, and now that they’re selling the property, it has to be done as part of the estate valuation. Everything is going to Leslie Hindman Auctioneers over on Lake Street. They need the appraisal done for their auction catalog."

"And as luck would have it, I see that the best appraisal guru in the Midwest – namely your modest self – got the job," I quipped.

Damn right! It’s fantastic. There’s probably over 5,000 books, many I’ve never seen including some really fine original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle manuscripts as well as a ton of Chicago history and such. It’s a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a collector and his treasures. It’s all pretty exciting.

I turned off the engine. Romani was looking over some yellow roses in a silver bucket outside the shop. So it sounds like you’re in heaven.

I am, DD. I started the job two days ago, but the collection is so massive, I’ll need another 10 days to finish. Listen, what I’m really calling about is even more exciting. I want to stop by and see you. I found something fascinating that’s going to amaze everyone.

I’ve never heard you sound like this. What is it?

I uncovered a small brown leather book today hidden in a secret recess in the desk in the Grange library.

Tom, no one’s going to be excited about an address book of women that the dead lumber tycoon screwed.

No, it’s not that! It’s his diary! I had one hell of a time because that desk had at least three hidden compartments. The third one had really tricky springs, and I almost didn’t find it. It even had some numbers carved in the wood. I’ll tell you all about that adventure later.

So it’s not a black book, it’s a diary. Same difference.

DD, get your mind out of the gutter. This isn’t listed in the estate inventory, and if I’m right, this will be worth more than pure gold. I’ve only skimmed it. Tonight I plan on reading it all.

You mean you’re taking it home with you?

Well, yes. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I’m so excited, I can’t help myself.

That’s what all criminals say, I jibed.

DD, you know me better! Maybe I’m stretching the rules, but it’s not criminal.

So what exactly is this earth shaking bit you read?

Grange personally met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in 1894 when Doyle was in Chicago as part of his tour of the U.S.

Which probably explains why he collected so many Doyle manuscripts, I noted. So what?

"What’s so exciting is that the diary references the original Doyle manuscript of The White Company. Grange purchased it, but that manuscript, like this diary, wasn’t listed on the inventory of the collection either."

"That is interesting, Tom. How could an important manuscript like The White Company be overlooked? If you found the diary hidden in a secret compartment, maybe that explains why it wasn’t cataloged, but The White Company was Doyle’s favorite book. He even killed off Sherlock Holmes to give him time to write it. Have you thought that maybe Grange sold the manuscript before he died?"

"The White Company isn’t the big thing. Tom was breathless. The diary says that Grange found notes tucked inside the manuscript about ‘JTR.’ He figured Doyle didn’t realize they’d been mistakenly included with the manuscript. Grange wrote in the diary that he would never return them to Doyle."

What’s JTR? I asked.

DD, that’s the thing. That’s why I’m so excited. JTR is Jack the Ripper.

Good thing I wasn’t driving, or I’d have hit a tree. What a bombshell. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of world famous super sleuth Sherlock Holmes, had notes about one of the most famous criminals in history. Maybe he’d included the Ripper’s identity. This WAS big. I took a deep breath.

You still there? I heard Tom ask.

Yeah, but don’t ever do that to me again. You took me completely by surprise.

I was surprised too, he admitted. Maybe this answers some questions as to why Doyle never published anything about the Ripper.

Lots of people wondered about that, I agreed. After all, Doyle lived at the time of the Ripper murders plus he worked with Scotland Yard on some real cases, so why was he silent about one of the biggest unsolved investigations of the time?

It’s kind of like the dog that didn’t bark in the night, Tom said.

"If Doyle wrote about knowing who Jack the Ripper was, it’s an unbelievably fantastic find. Maybe the notes weren’t stolen Tom. Didn’t you tell me once that Doyle’s son, Adrian, wrote about how forgetful his father was? Doyle might have forgotten he put them in the manuscript, and since The White Company was Doyle’s favorite book, maybe he figured he’d never sell it," I speculated, still in shock.

This diary and the Conan Doyle notes are the biggest things ever to come to light about the Ripper murders. A lot of people would kill to get their hands on the notes.

Maybe that blog I read on the internet recently knew something – whoever wrote it suggested Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself was the Ripper!

DD you know that’s ridiculous. From what Grange wrote in his diary, the notes do solve the Ripper murders because they prove Doyle knew who the Ripper was.

Wow! Tom, that’s unbelievable! The Ripper murders are still going strong after 125 years. If you can solve that mystery... So tell me, did Grange say in his diary who Doyle fingered? I asked, tingling.

I heard an odd sound, then a loud noise. It sounded like Tom dropped his phone.

Tom? What’s going on?

A thin voice from far away moaned, DD. Help. Someone’s trying to kill me.

Tom... Are you there?

The line went dead.

Chapter 2

As you value your life or your reason, keep away from the moor.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Hound of the Baskervilles

I hung up with 911 and phoned Woodley, my partner on the Romani surveillance job, explained what had happened and asked him to relieve me early.

Check. Already on my way. Should be there in ten, Woodley agreed in his usual clipped patter.

She just parked in front of her house, I reported. Be sure to run a check on any visitors tonight. She bought a huge bouquet of flowers, so my guess is she’s expecting somebody special.

Double check. Good luck with your friend. Give me a holler if you can’t make it tomorrow.

My heart was beating fast as I pulled up the apps for the address of the Grange mansion. The 911 operator had mentioned Woodlawn but no street numbers. It popped up immediately – 4614 Woodlawn, a little north of the University of Chicago in the exclusive Kenwood district. Kenwood is a landmark Chicago area that’s still famous today for its stately mansions and well-known residents such as former President Barack Obama, Lewis Farrakhan, and, in the past, the murderers Loeb and Leopold.

I took off, still in shock. My Auntie Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon, always reminds me that bad things come in threes, so I tried to brace for what was yet to come.

The property at 4614 was indeed a mansion in the middle of a fashionable residential area with well-maintained homes for several blocks in either direction. But the area was an oasis of gentility surrounded by much meaner streets with graffiti, vacant properties and urban blight. In Chicago, like in most big cities, the two lifestyles co-exist within a stone’s throw of each other despite massive urban renewal projects.

Three cop cars and Tom’s Dodge Caravan were parked in the expansive circular front drive. I pulled in next to the Caravan and jumped out. The day was overcast and windy, and the raw wind gusts off Lake Michigan battered me from every direction. A cop stopped me on the verandah. I asked about Tom and explained that I’d made the 911 call.

Oh, that’s different. He quickly took out his notebook and recorded my name, address, phone, and e-mail.

I want to see my friend, I asked impatiently. What happened to him? How is he?

First tell me exactly what you heard on that call, the cop, whose name was Burton, demanded.

I knew I wouldn’t get any information until I told him, so I did – hurriedly. Then Burton said with a sympathetic look, Your friend was found unconscious at the bottom of the staircase. They already transported him to Billings Hospital.

Chapter 3

I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Five Orange Pips

I was filled with adrenaline. I didn’t even look over my shoulder for cops as I sped the short distance to Billings Hospital, a huge complex on 59th Street connected to the University of Chicago Medical School. Like all medical school hospitals, it teemed with students in lab coats, cops, EMTs, security, the occasional medical professional, and the patients. The staff was, however, very organized and duly recorded my lie when I pretended to be Tom’s sister in order to get to see him. Shortly, a young candy-striper with big teeth and long, thin arms took me down a corridor into their treatment area. She pointed to a wall painted institutional green.

You’ll have to wait right here, she said, flashing those white teeth.

I spotted Tom. He was lying on a gurney in the cubicle across the hall. Six medical types surrounded him performing various tasks. One had collected Tom’s clothes, and I caught a glimpse of blood on his shirt and pants as they pulled the curtains around the cubicle. After that, all I could see were pieces of elaborate equipment being wheeled in and out of his cubicle and a lot of activity.

What happened to him? I asked the volunteer.

Oh, I couldn’t tell you that. You’ll have to talk to the doctor. Let’s see. She flipped through some papers on her clipboard. Oh, it’s Dr. Willows on duty this morning. I’ll let her know you’re here.

I was worried. I felt queasy. I couldn’t sit so I paced back and forth. What the hell had happened and how bad was it? It seemed an eternity before an attractive red-haired woman approached.

She removed her wire-rimmed glasses. I’m Dr. Willows. Are you the sister?

Yes. How is Tom?

He’s in a coma, but we’ve gotten him stabilized. Got a concussion, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be any abnormal swelling of the brain. We’re monitoring that.

She put her glasses on and read from his file. Whole left side badly bruised. Dislocated shoulder. Right ankle and wrist sprained. She closed the file and looked at me. Let me put it this way, we don’t know the extent yet of any internal injuries. Falls like this often provoke internal bleeding that doesn’t show up right away, even on X-rays.

A fall? I winced. My knees buckled. I leaned against the sickly green wall for support.

Didn’t you know? We won’t be able to tell for another couple of days if there are any spinal injuries. Overall, he’s a very lucky guy. She touched my arm. Are you okay?

I’ll be all right.

Take a few deep breaths, she suggested as she looked at her watch. We’re giving him a full MRI. Then he’ll be moved to intensive care where he’ll be monitored closely for internal bleeding and spinal involvement.

I kept shaking my head no, alarmed at his condition.

The cops are anxious to interview him as soon as he’s out of sedation, she continued. We’ve put him on some heavy duty pain medication at this stage, so he might not make much sense when he wakes up. Oh, here’s the cops.

While she huddled with them in hushed tones, I tried to get rid of the lump in my throat and digest the scope of Tom’s injuries.

Dr. Willows returned, clutching the paperwork to her chest. They want to talk to you. They’ll be in the waiting room.

Doctor, wait a minute. Are you suggesting that he might have spinal injuries and he could be... paralyzed? I had trouble getting the word out.

What I said, I believe, was that we have to wait at least a day or two before we know anything for sure.

I must have looked as sick as I felt because she smiled sympathetically and said, I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do. My advice – pray.

A balding male nurse with several tattoos and an earring in his left ear approached and handed me a large plastic bag. Here’s the patient’s things.

Chapter 4

It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A Scandal in Bohemia

I clutched the plastic bag stamped with the hospital logo. My knees were trembling as I opened it. Tom’s socks and shoes were piled on top of his bloody pants, shirt and underwear. Underneath those were his glasses, wallet and watch. My eyes teared as I looked at the familiar watch with the brown leather strap and gold-toned case. He’d gotten it recently and boasted that it was water resistant up to 130 feet. We’d shared a good laugh when I’d inquired how he intended to use that particular feature in his bookshop.

At the bottom of the bag was his Graf Von Faber-Castell pen, a present from a grateful client. It was worth over two thousand dollars, and he’d be glad to know it hadn’t been stolen. Lastly, I found his van keys and transferred them along with his wallet to my purse.

Wincing at the bloodstains, I checked his clothing. You never know what you’re going to find in a man’s pockets, but his phone and Grange’s diary were not there. I wondered where they were.

In the waiting room, I approached the cops and asked what had happened to Tom.

There was a long pause during which they both stared at me the way cops do when they’re processing whether you’re on the Most Wanted List. Then one of them checked his notebook and said, Here’s what we know so far. A 911 call came in at 14:55 hours from a person named McGil...

That’s me, I told them.

Okay, you’re McGil. You suspected a Mr. Tom Joyce might be hurt at the David Joyce Grange estate. Phone line went dead. Patrol and ambulance dispatched immediately and arrived in minutes to destination 4600 block of Woodlawn. A white male, Mr. Thomas Joyce, was found unconscious, bleeding, and badly bruised at the second floor landing of a spiral staircase. Police at the scene were unable to get any details. EMTs put him on a stretcher and brought him here. Hasn’t said a word since.

The second cop said, We’re waiting to interview him when he comes to. Meanwhile maybe you, being his sister, could tell us something more about what happened.

Officers, I wish I could. The only thing I know is that on the call, the last thing he said was that someone was trying to kill him.

I’ll put that in my notes, Officer Bob said. Says in the report that the victim was unconscious when they picked up and when they delivered to Billings.

I held up the bag with Tom’s effects. Officers, I looked through his stuff and his cell phone’s not there.

Officer Bob took hold of his lapel and started talking into the clip-on police radio as he moved to another area in the lobby.

We’ll try to get a hold of those EMTs and check out if they picked up a cell phone, Officer Jim said, pursing his lips.

Maybe you can tell us what your brother was doing at the Grange mansion?

He was hired to appraise the Grange book collection.

Who hired him?

I’m not sure. He mentioned the executors of the estate.

Know of any enemies your brother has?

I wondered whether someone else knew about the Grange diary he’d found in the hidden compartment. And I wondered if they knew about the Doyle notes and The White Company manuscript. If I said anything, I’d be getting Tom in deep trouble with his employer. Professionally, it could be ruinous.

No. No enemies I know of, I told them. He’s very well-liked.

But you’re saying he said someone was trying to kill him, right?

Yes. I think he was pushed down those stairs. But I have no idea who might have done it.

Who else is at this place – this Grange estate – where the incident happened?

Tom didn’t tell me. He’s only been there a few days. But it has to be somebody at the mansion who pushed him.

Officer Bob stopped talking into his police radio and walked toward us, shaking his head. Seems those EMT’s are already out on another call. Have to wait until they report back.

Officer Jim clicked his pen a few times. We’d like to contact other members of your family. Maybe they’ll know more about what your brother was doing and possible enemies. We’ll need some names, numbers and addresses.

My mother... I stopped, coughed, and swallowed hard. I’d almost given him my own mother’s name and phone before I realized they wanted Tom’s family, not mine. Of course they thought I was his sister. Another lie was necessary. I desperately tried to think of a way to avoid this question.

I coughed again, trying to stall. I realized I’d put myself in a trap of my own making. I’d have to own up to lying. They were sure to find out sooner or later – specifically sooner. I was positive that even now other cops were at Tom’s apartment, rummaging through his stuff. They’d unearth his address book faster than a teenybopper tracks a bargain at the mall. Then they’d zero in on me instead of whoever did this to Tom. I couldn’t let that happen.

There’s something I should tell you, I said feebly. Technically, I’m not Tom’s sister.

Technically? Officer Bob frowned mightily.

How does that work exactly? Officer Jim’s eyebrows raised.

They said you had to be a relative to get in to see him, I explained.

So... you’re saying you lied?

You’re not the sister?

I’m like a sister to him, I insisted. We’re close friends. And I told you there’s no one else.

Officer Jim put his hands on his hips. So, technically, who the hell are you Miss McGil?

I’m looking her up now, Jim. Officer Bob typed furiously into his small computer. Oh shit! She’s an insurance investigator.

Technically, yes, but that’s not the reason I’m here, I interjected.

They both stared at me. Officer Jim said, We have to inform the staff. You won’t be allowed to see him, you realize.

Please don’t do that. Let me explain.

And if you’re not a relative, we’ll have to take his things from you. One of them snatched the bag from