Chasing Shadows

By Charles L. Deveney

London, in the autumn of 1888, is a city gripped in fear. The infamous Jack The Ripper is prowling the streets, viciously butchering East End prostitutes in a series of crimes that are shocking the world. The Commissioner of Scotland Yard, Sir Charles Warren, responds to the madness by appointing the dashing, self-assured, Donald Swanson to lead the investigation into the horrific crimes. As Swanson wades further and further into the bizarre facts of the case, he slowly discovers that the murders are not the random acts of brutality that they appear, but rather cold and calculated assassinations. As he digs deeper, he slowly uncovers the unbelievable and shocking motives behind the killings.

At the same time that Swanson's investigation is progressing, an American tourist, Jim Daulton, is falling in love with a young, beautiful woman named Mary Davis. Their romance is deep and intense until Jim learns that history has marked her to be the final Ripper victim. As Jim struggles to save Mary from her grim fate, he will unknowingly provide Donald Swanson with the missing facts that he needs to expose the killer's identity as well as the ancient secret brotherhood upon whose orders he is acting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 6, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469733272

Charles L. Deveney

Charles L. Deveney is a graduate of the Pennsylvania State University. He also holds a Master's Degree in History from West Chester University. For the past fifteen years, Mr. Deveney has worked as an instructor of History at several academic institutions. Chasing Shadows is his first novel.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Charles L. Deveney

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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Chasing Shadows is a work of fiction. Although the book is based on some actual historical events, all conclusions are stricktly a product of the writer’s imagination

ISBN: 0-595-18312-3

ISBN: 978-1-4697-3327-2 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

For Linda, Blaise, and Alise...

It’s your love that makes life worth living.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude to Phyllis Guest and Cheri Law for all their editing assistance. Without their participation, this work would not exist.

Chapter 1

August 31,1888

London, the East End

The air, thick with desperation and wrapped in hopelessness, hung heavy over the East End. This was the place where England’s unfortunate children and the world’s lost souls seemed to congregate. Some were casualties of the new industrial age; others were the victims of their own personal demons; still some were just poor immigrants hoping for a better life; but all were the prisoners of these dark, dirty and unforgiving streets. And she was no exception.

It was somewhere near midnight, or at least thereabout, that she began staggering past the smelly, damp tenement houses that lined Thrawl Street. For some reason the walk from the pub seemed much longer to her tonight than it had in the past. Perhaps it was too much cheap gin, or simply the weight of memories long since past. Whatever it was, she was tired. More tired than she had ever been in her life. She needed to sleep. She steadied herself against the stoop in an effort to catch her breath. Then she summoned up what little strength she had and forced her tired legs to start up the steps of number 18.

Before she reached the top step, the door flung open. A large man with a receding hairline and a flabby middle that cascaded over his belt

appeared ln the doorway, blocking any chance of entry. He looked at the woman with disgust in his eyes, and while slowly shaking his head, spoke in a soft but firm voice.

If you don’t got no money Luv, you ain’t sleepin’ ‘ere again.

The woman looked up and a broad smile crossed her face, revealing that her five front teeth were missing.

I had the money, I swears I did. I don’t know what I’s did with it, she said with speech that was slow and slurred.

From the smell of you, I’d say you drank it, the man replied in a voice dripping with contempt.

Well, if you lets me in, I’ll makes it worth your while, Guvnor, she said as she cocked her head to the left, winked, and again flashed her toothless grin. The man slowly shook his head no and smiled slightly. Her expression quickly changed, and anger consumed her face. Her dull gray eyes now blazed with fury as she yelled, You Bastard! What makes you so high and mighty? I’lls have you knows that there are plenty of men who’d fancy my company. Why I’s had three customers tonight already. When I gets me a fourth, I’ll brings back your bloody money.

She turned and started quickly down the steps. It was somewhere about the third step from the bottom when her feet failed her, and her body fell like a brick wall to the pavement. She lay but a few seconds sprawled out at the foot of the stairs, half in the street with her dress bunched up by her waist. She let out a boisterous laugh that was choked in tears, and it was impossible to tell if she was laughing or crying. Then she slowly began to rise like a toddler who is walking for the first time. Once erect, she then gathered herself calmly, smoothed out her dress, and straightened her hat. The anger that had previously filled her eyes was now replaced with false dignity.

Do you like my new bonnet, sir she said in her best attempt at a regal voice, while pointing to the straw hat trimmed in velvet which was now partially crushed as it rested upon her head. Pity now replaced disgust, and the man replied, It’s lovely dear. The woman nodded as if to concur with his judgment. She then raised her chin and slowly started down Thrawl Street.

Drunken whore, he said under his breath as he quietly re-entered the house, closing the door behind him.

Her name was Mary Ann Nichols, but everyone called her Polly. She was a short, stout woman with little education. She had a family, a husband William, and five beautiful children. Well, at least she used to. She had deserted them three years earlier. She was never really sure why she left; she just knew she didn’t want to stay. She had spent time in several different workhouses since then, and each one worse than the last. Now she survived the streets by trading men sexual favors for money. Her life as a prostitute proved less than lucrative, and she spent most of her earnings on cheap gin at the local pub across from the church. To look at Polly Nichols it was clear that the lifestyle had taken its toll. She looked every one of her forty years and felt twice that. Now she was on the street again looking for a customer in order to secure the funds necessary for a night of lodging.

The night air, thick with dust from the refuse of what the politicians called the city’s great industries, hung in a cloud over the dark, deserted streets of White Chapel. As Polly Nichols strolled through this urban nightmare, she began to hum quietly to herself as memories of her children danced through her clouded mind. A slight smile crossed her lips as she focused on the few good times she could recall. Her daydream was shattered by a tap on the shoulder. She turned sharply, startled by the intrusion. Polly was now face-to-face with what she was sure was her ticket to a good night’s sleep.

Do you fancy me, guvnor? Polly said, doing her best to sound seductive.

Yes, the man replied in a hoarse voice deep with lust.

Polly felt a wave of good fortune roll over her. She could tell by his clothes he was a gentleman. Probably a lonely bloke from the West End whose lady’s blood was so blue it caused ice to form ‘tween her legs, she thought, smiling at her private joke. She stepped closer to him to get a better look at his face, which was shrouded by the blackness of the night. At first glance she thought him handsome. His face was strong and well defined. However, her opinion changed when she gazed into his eyes. There was something unusual about his eyes. They seemed cold, hard and filled with unexplainable anger. They seemed to be looking through her into her very soul. She grew increasingly uncomfortable. Her instincts told her to look elsewhere for a client, but her head told her business is business. She turned her back to the stranger as if this would somehow form a wall between them that would magically protect her. Her lighthearted demeanor had vanished. She now spoke in a voice that was combined with fear, desperation, and self-pity.

Come on Luv, Polly’s gots what you need. Follow me. I knows of a quiet place ‘round the corner where we wont’s be disturbed.

She started down Bucks Row with the stranger in tow. Her mind was filled with foreboding. She did her best to convince herself that it was just the booze playing tricks with her senses. She began humming again quietly in an effort to relieve her self-inflicted tension. It didn’t work. Her mind drifted back to the callous, dark eyes. She could now feel them on her back. They were burning her like a hot iron. Relentless. Sharp. Sweat began to form on Polly’s brow despite the chilly August night air. The sound of the gentleman’s heels on the pavement now began to echo in her ears. Louder! Louder! She could now hear nothing except the clicking of those heels. Tears began to slowly stream down her pudgy, wrinkled face. Finally, she could stand it no longer. She stopped, took a deep breath, and wheeled around quickly.

She gasped at the sight of the long, shiny knife blade that the man was now holding in his left hand. From her fear she summoned a scream, but it never reached her lips. The man plunged the knife into Polly’s throat and then proceeded to slice her from ear to ear. The terror in Polly’s eyes slowly surrendered to death as she collapsed in a heap onto the pavement.

The stranger smiled at what he had done and began to whistle quietly as he looked up and down both sides of Bucks Row. Feeling reasonably sure that no one was about, he gingerly lifted Polly’s dress with great care as if he were playing with a fragile china doll. Then ferociously, he plunged the knife into her abdomen, just below her breasts. He then sliced her savagely from that point down to her pelvis, revealing her intestines. Slowly, methodically, he ran his hands through Polly’s insides, gently caressing each of her organs. His eyes glazed over. He seemed lost in a sort of euphoric dimension as his hands danced inside the warmth of the fresh corpse. Returning to work with the knife, he began to remove organs, first the liver, then both kidneys. He placed the three warm organs just above Polly’s right shoulder. He then took Polly’s arms and gently crossed them over her chest. Now finally feeling satisfied, he wiped his hands on Polly’s thick wool gray dress which was now soaked in her own blood. He rose slowly and, looking down almost lovingly at the lifeless body of the aging prostitute, smiled a sad, melancholy smile. Then, tipping his hat with an exaggerated gesture, he turned slowly and disappeared into the darkness of the East End.

Chapter 2

September 8,1988

Havertown, Pennsylvania

He stood motionless as every eye in the room fixed upon him. He scanned the crowd looking like a man searching to gather thoughts he could not find. The anticipation in the room grew. He cleared his throat, paused, and began speaking clearly, softly, and sincerely. Life is not getting what you want; it is wanting what you have. If you can remember this, through the good times and bad, then you will always find comfort in each other’s arms, strength in each other’s will, and happiness in each other’s hearts. Lifting his glass of champagne, he added, May God bless this marriage of my brother Ricky and his lovely bride Sue. Salute!

Everyone drank in unison, and then the room erupted in applause. Ricky, who had been seated during the monologue, now stood up and looked his brother in the eye. He said nothing. He just stared at his brother for an eternal second, then he reached out and embraced him. The crowd’s applause grew even louder, and a tear appeared on the cheek of the angelic bride as she watched the two men. The moment was interrupted by the DJ’s booming voice which rose above the crowd, calling for Ricky and Sue to make their way to the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife.

As the music played, Jim Daulton watched his older brother and new bride dance, satisfied with the speech he had just made. Feeling confident he had done a good job and relieved it was now over, he decided it was time to find the hotel bar and enjoy a cold beer. As he made his way through the crowd, people confirmed his opinion of his toast.

Nice job, Jimmy.

That was beautiful, Jim.

Lovely, Dear.

He acknowledged the warm comments with a polite smile and courteous nod of his head as he continued toward the back bar. He stopped abruptly when he heard that familiar booming voice.

James, James my boy, nice toast, you must take after your Uncle.

Thanks, Uncle Fred, Jim replied.

His uncle was a big man, well over six feet with a large belly to match. His cheeks, which hung low like those of a basset hound, were always beet red. His eyes were bright and cheery and they matched his personality. He was dressed in a black tuxedo that was definitely one size too small, and he was presently carrying two bottles of beer, one in each of his thick, meathook-like hands.

Why the two beers, Uncle Fred? Jim asked, pointing at the sweating bottles his uncle clutched.

A man never knows if or when he shall pass this way again, he said with a wink.

Jim smiled. You couldn’t help but smile when you were in Fred’s company.

When you leaving for London? his uncle asked looking intently into his nephew’s eyes.

Tomorrow, Jim answered. You’re taking us all to the airport, remember? A blank look briefly came over his uncle’s face before he

nodded reassuringly trying to convince his nephew and himself that he hadn’t forgotten. Do you know where you’re staying yet?

Not exactly, but I have some leads.

Ahhh, well you’re a bright boy. You’ll find a place. I don’t need to worry about you. You’re one Daulton who can take care ofhimself. The one I worry about is out there on the dance floor, he said winking again and smiling, while he gestured with his head toward the two newlyweds who were locked in a musical embrace.

Fred had been like a father to Jim and Ricky since their dad was killed in a car accident twenty-two years earlier. Having lost his own father very young, Fred was determined to do his best to fill the void that his brother’s death created in the children’s lives. He had always made it a point to help out the children’s mother by spending as much time as possible with the family. He would volunteer to do things with them, take them places, or provide financial assistance when times were tough. He became like a best friend to both boys as well as to his brother’s widow. They all appreciated and loved him for it.

You know, Jimmy, the family is very proud of you. Ph.D. from Penn. That’s big time.

Well, I haven’t finished my thesis yet.

Oh, you will, and it will be great! You’re a Daulton for Christ’s sake.

Thanks, Uncle Fred, Jim replied, now feeling a bit uncomfortable at the thought of the work which he had been putting off.

A puzzling look crossed Fred’s round face as he asked his nephew, What’s your thesis on again? Jim smiled. He had told Fred at least fifty times over the last two years the topic of dissertation, but his uncle never seemed to remember.

Industrial working conditions for the immigrant laborers in Victorian England.

Fred nodded his head in a way that made him feel like he knew exactly what his nephew was talking about. He didn’t.

Well, it will be great, Fred repeated, unable to think of anything better to say.

Thanks again, Uncle Fred, Jim replied sensing his uncle was becoming uncomfortable.

Well, I better get back, your aunt will think I ran off with one of these here pretty waitresses, he said with a smile, as ifhe really believed it. He started to move past his nephew but paused.

Oh! I almost forgot, he said as he handed Jim the beer he had been holding in his right hand. He plunged his now free hand deep into his front pocket and produced a wad of English pound notes, which he then stuffed into his nephew’s left hand.

These are for you. You’ll need these.

Jim mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide as he stared at crisp bank notes. Shaking his head he said, Uncle Fred, you can’t do this.

Nonsense, my boy, call it a going away present. It’s just to hold you over until you can get yourself situated. Besides, it looks like play money anyway. And with a quick pat on the back, his uncle started to walk away. He stopped abruptly again, spun back around, and plucked his beer from his nephew’s right hand.

Thank you again, Uncle Fred, Jim said still looking at the foreign money.

Fred just raised both beers in a saluting gesture, smiled, and was off. As he watched his uncle disappear into the crowd, Jim thought to himself, what a great guy. He began reminiscing back to those hot summer Sunday afternoons when his uncle would take he and his brother to Veteran Stadium to watch the Phillies play. There Fred would discuss the baseball game as if were a matter of life and death. And to him it probably was.

What can I do you for mate?

Jim was brought out of his daydream by the bartender who was patiently waiting for the young man to order.

Bud, please.

Here you go, said the bartender as he pulled an ice cold bottle of Budweiser beer from the pit of ice, which lay behind him, poured it into a glass, and handed it to Jim.

Thank you.

Do we know each other, mate? the bartender said, while drying his hands on a small white bar rag, his gaze intensely fixed on Jim’s face.

Jim replied by shaking his head no as he sipped the cold beer. His attention now focused to his left on a tall brunette who had been casually but deliberately looking in his direction, while quietly chatting with two older women. The bartender, undaunted, persisted in his attempt to engage Jim in conversation.

I know I knows you, but I can’t think of where.

No, I’m sure you’re mistaken, said Jim, making his best effort to be polite. Will you excuse me?

He started to walk toward the pretty brunette, carefully calculating what his opening line should be, when he heard the bartender’s voice over his shoulder. It froze him in his tracks.

Michael Jack Daulton.

Not sure of what he had just heard, Jim slowly turned to face the man behind the bar. His face now contorted like a man who had just been told a joke he didn’t understand.

What did you just say?

I said Michael Jack Daulton. Not waiting for a response, the man continued, He was a friend of mine and I must say, you bear a striking resemblance to him.

Puzzled, Jim stared at the bartender, and for the first time studied him. He was a small man, about five feet three inches tall with bright white hair that had begun to thin. His face was narrow and his dark brown eyes bore a sadness, as if they had seen too much. He was dressed in a white jacket that looked as if it were made for a man twice his size.

Michael Jack Daulton was my father’s name, Jim finally replied.

The bartender nodded as if he were told something he already knew. Jim stepped closer. Did you know my father? he asked in a voice dripping with uncertainty.

Possibly. Did he fight in the Big One?

My dad was a soldier in World War II, if that’s what you mean.

And was he captured by the Japanese?

Yes, Jim said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. He was in a prisoner of war camp for nearly a year.

I know, I was there too. A broad smile now crossed the barkeep’s

face. I must say, lad, you do look like your old man. How is the old dog?

He’s dead, Jim replied. Died over twenty years ago in a car crash.

Sadness now replaced the broad smile, and the bartender nodded thoughtfully and sincerely.

Clearing his throat, and speaking in his most comforting voice he said, He was a fine man, a fine man, lad. He didn’t wait for Jim to reply. He just continued talking.

I met your dad when we was both sent to an allied POW camp in Thailand. There were British, Americans, Dutch, and Australians in the camp. Everyone talks about the prison camps of the Nazis, but the bloody Japs were just as cruel, he said as the warmth that radiated from his face quickly disappeared. We were in the jungle, forced to work on that damn Thai-Burma railroad. The sun was so hot it felt as if it was burnin’ the skin from your back. It was there they worked us. Tortured us. Killed us. As he talked, he stared past Jim and into space as if he were transporting himself back in time to a place he did not want to be. Sweat now began to bead on his upper lip. Your father and I saw many a good man die. Horrible deaths! They tied live prisoners to bamboo poles and used them for bayonet practice. We would often say that those blokes were the lucky ones. He paused as took a deep and deliberate breath before continuing. The rest of us toiled like slaves from dawn till dusk in pairs, tied to one another at the ankles. That’s how I knows your dad. We was tied together. Malaria, cholera, dysentery, all became our enemies. Huge tropical ulcers ate so deeply into men’s limbs that bones were exposed and rotted. Maggots fed on the victims’ bone marrow until they were so close to death that the Japs figured they’d waste no more time with ‘em. The poor bastards were buried alive.

His eyes opened wide, and his entire body shuddered. This seemed to snap the spell, and he looked at Jim as if he were seeing him for the first time. He cleared his throat and regathered his composure. A smile now returned to his face, and his cheeks grew slightly flushed from embarrassment when he noticed Jim’s eyes filled with concern. Clearing his throat again he spoke softly Yes, I knew your father. I actually knew him quite well. He thought for a second and then added, as well as two people in hell could know each other, that is.

Jim nodded. Uncle Fred had told the boys a little about their father’s service during the war, and about his time in the prisoner of war camp, but he had never gone into great detail. This was because Fred himself knew very little about his brother’s wartime ordeal. Jim’s father rarely spoke on the subject, even to his brother. He had once told Fred that it was a part of his life he’d just as soon forget.

The bartender stretched his hand across the bar toward Jim and said, My name is John, John Fagan, and it’s a pleasure to meet the son of Michael Jack Daulton. Jim clasped his hand firmly, and smiled saying, I’m Jim. John Fagan nodded and a broad smile appeared on his face as he continued shaking Jim’s hand vigorously.

The moment was interrupted by a large man who had been patiently waiting for a drink a few feet away, but his patience was now gone. He said in a loud voice that was thick with anger and filled with sarcasm, Gin and tonic, please! The bartender, realizing he had been neglecting his duties, finally released Jim’s hand and sheepishly turned to the man to his left and quietly said, Gin and tonic, right away, sir. He quickly plucked a glass from the rack behind the bar and ran it threw the ice tray, which lay in front of him. He smoothly snatched up the bottle of gin from behind the bar and poured a generous helping into the glass. Replacing the bottle he grabbed the soda gun and topped the drink with tonic water. Sticking a straw in the glass he handed it to the anxious gentleman, saying, Sorry for the delay. The man, taking his drink, simply snorted with disgust and walked away. The bartender looked at Jim and shrugged his shoulders.

An awkward silence began to grow between the two men. Jim began to feel slightly uncomfortable. He felt he should say something to this man who had shared such an horrific ordeal with his father, but he didn’t know what. His dilemma was resolved when John Fagan spoke.

So what do you do, Jim Daulton?

Jim smiled, relieved the silence had been broken.

I’m finishing up my doctoral degree. I leave tomorrow, as a matter of fact, for London where I am supposed to complete my research.

London, John Fagan said as if it were the first time he had ever heard the word. "Funny