Hanwell: A Jack the Ripper Mystery

By Julie Lucia

Christopher Finch is a newly-arrived patient of Hanwell Asylum. A man of the Middle Class, he recently took over his father’s successful butcher shop. He was secretly concerned about the duration of his “spells” and the violent scenes that plague his dreams; he checked himself into the asylum after experiencing extended blackouts.

Cassandra (Cassie) Owens is the educated head of psychiatric care at the asylum. She is passionate (to a fault) about working with violent offenders, as her parents were killed by highwaymen when she was young. Recently, her sister became the fifth victim of “Jack the Ripper,” and her death left her devastated and vulnerable.

Finch is admitted under Cassie’s care and immediately feels sorry for him. Cassie is charmed by her associate, Dr. Spencer Brady while growing an attachment to her new patient. Scotland Yard constables, led by the hard-boiled Timothy Parker, on the trail of Jack the Ripper, winds its way to the asylum. Torn between love and logic, Cassie must come to terms with the fact that the humble man she is falling for may be the evilest monster in England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947812512

Book preview

Prologue

Outskirts of Bath, England, July 19, 1868

---

Stop the carriage! hollered Mrs. Owens as she leaned her head out the opened window, making quite sure their coachman could hear.

Her husband took her by the waist side and quickly pulled her inside to safety. No, he argued, don’t stop him. You have heard the conversation concerning highwaymen in this region. This could very well be a ruse.

I don’t care. She is just a little girl.

Mr. Owens reluctantly ignored his wife’s request and hit the carriage forcefully, pounding his fist to get the driver’s attention. Please make haste, he bellowed, go around her if you must. Get us away from here!

The carriage began to pick up its pace. The petite woman stared at her husband, unwilling to accept his decision. What if it was one of our girls outside alone and in need of help?

Clare, we mustn’t do anything foolish to risk our own lives. It is not safe here. If something would happen to us, what would come of our own children?

She would not relent, her golden eyes blazed in defiance to his plea. He would do anything for his wife, but he knew they could very well be in danger. At this time of the evening, travel on these treacherous roads were unfit for any lady, or gentleman, for that matter.

My dear husband, she whispered in his ear, they will be fine and so will we, but right now, this poor little girl…she needs us.

Mr. Owens heard the desperation in his wife’s words. He just hoped he didn’t regret his decision to comply. He took a deep breath and silently prayed he had not made a dreadful error. Stop the carriage!

Thank you, She kissed him quickly on the cheek and began to exit the carriage, not waiting for a complete stop.

Let me go… he tried to say, but she was already out the door heading toward the unkempt little girl crying in the middle of the road, desperately begging for help.

Clare bent down to the little girl’s level and patted the girl’s tears with her handkerchief. Are you hurt my dear?

The little girl was no more than four, her attire was muddied and well-worn, but it was clear she was not a pauper begging in the middle of the deserted road. Her unkempt hair surrounded her gaunt face like a lion’s mane. She whispered, I…am lost.

Mrs. Owens, still kneeling at the girl’s feet, gave her a reassuring smile, Do not be afraid, my dear, we are here to help you. Where is your mother and father?

I have no mother, she whimpered, eyeing Clare with curiosity.

Clare noticed the girl’s focus dart away quickly behind her and then rested back onto her without a change in her demeanor. She knew she should have been more cautious, but the little girl seemed so wretched in her old clothes and tear-stained cheeks. Oh dear, I am sorry to hear that. My mother died too when I was about your age. See here, she showed her the handkerchief with an initial embroidered on, "this is the letter C for my name, ‘Clare.’ My mother gave it to me. It means more to me than this beautiful brooch, she pointed to the red brooch she wore on her lapel, because it came from her. Now, you know my name, please tell me, what is your name my dear?"

The girl shook her head slowly, refusing to give an answer.

You must have a name.

My father calls me Clever, she said, eyeing the handkerchief carefully.

Where is your father?

The little girl lifted her head expressionless and pointed in the direction behind Clare.

A sudden prick of foreboding came over Clare as she noticed the little girl’s lips form a small devilish smirk.

It was with tremendous horror she turned to see what the little girl was pointing at. Near the carriage her husband’s trepidation had been confirmed. Five men had surrounded the carriage. One of the men held her husband by the hair holding a dagger to his throat. Clare cried out in panic and despair.

Her husband was pleading with them. Take all that we have, but please leave my wife alone. She must get back to our children.

The man holding him hostage laughed. Oh, we will take all that you have, but we have another plan.

Just then, one of the other men grabbed Clare by the hair and dragged her next to her husband. She screamed in pain. Her tears prevented her from seeing her husband’s face clearly. Her poor decision had cost them, her heart ached with regret and loss of a life with her family.

Don’t hurt her, gasped Mr. Owens.

You are in no position to give me orders.

Clare— he tried to say, but didn’t have enough time. Husband and wife helplessly watched each other as their throats were slit. Only those left standing watched their bodies slide to the ground.

Papa, did I do good? The little girl came up to her father who was giving out orders to his men to clean up the scene.

He picked her up with a giant smile. Yes, my clever girl, you did wonderfully. And for your help… he pulled the brooch off the dead woman’s dress, I want you to have this.

Oh, it’s beautiful Papa! Thank you! She rubbed her fingers over it. I love the color red.

They are called rubies, my dear. He patted her head with a grin.

The little girl studied the brooch. That lady, she was very nice to me. Is that what a mother does? Wipes away tears?

You don’t need a mother for that. Here, he picked up the bloodstained handkerchief that still lay on the ground at their feet and handed it to her, you can wipe away your own tears.

Sir, they had only twenty pounds on them.

Divide it among the men. That was not our true purpose here today. For their deaths we will be handsomely paid!

Yes, sir.

Chapter 1

October 12, 1888

---

Cate knew she should not be walking in this part of Whitechapel so late in the evening. There were several news articles circulating throughout London about a madman on a killing spree after local harlots. Until recently, everyone had called him Leather Apron, because of reports that he wore a leather apron, now newspapers began to address him as Jack the Ripper. His description was chilling; dark features, about forty years in age, short in stature, expression sinister, and a silent unexpected presence that terrified even the bravest of men. The tittle-tattle that circulated around the district was that he was of Jewish descent. This belief had sent the public into full scale anti-Jewish rioting.

If Cate had not been so desperate to pay for a night in the lodging house, she would have never stepped foot in such a dreadful place, especially since she herself was a walking target. One customer. Only one inebriated sot at the pub would do. She was sure she could rouse him enough for a quick tip. Even a fourpenny knee trembler would make enough for her lodging. She vowed to herself for her safety she would stay away from anyone who fit the description of Leather Apron.

The chill from the afternoon rain clung to the atmosphere nipping at her exposed flesh, which gave her face a blusher tone than the pale skin she bore. She grimaced at the pain that now spiked through her ribs. She shouldn’t have tied her corset extra tight this evening. Now that Cate had lost more weight because her alcohol consumption began to outweigh her eating, she needed all the help she could get to accentuate her breasts. It was the only thing she had left that still made her feel like a proper lady. Her husband had abandoned her long ago. He wasn’t a husband in the true sense. A man of the working-class, he had frequented the neighborhood near the docks trying to obtain any employment he could find. They fell hard for each other, and they married quickly.

The corset harrowed her breathing as she accelerated her steps. Although images of last week’s victims, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, ran through her head, she convinced herself she was not afraid. She had been through this alley dozens of times to get to Commercial Street and the Princess Alice Pub. It wasn’t until one of the gaslight flames burned out, leaving her in darkness, that she realized she wasn’t quite alone in the wretched alleyway. Within seconds her acute sensory perception nudged her into a feeling as if being watched. That feeling overwhelmed her, thrusting her into a panic. Sinister noises intensified, causing the blood to rush to her ears and making them ring.

She shook her head to get rid of the noise. She swore under her breath when she heard someone exhale in the shadows behind her. Her heart pounded rapidly against her chest, her steps accelerating with each beat. The end of the alleyway was fast approaching. She could see the dim glow of the gas lamp ahead.

A rat perhaps looking for some crumbs to feast? she tried to convince herself, although every inch of her felt the presence of evil.

The short hairs on the back of her neck stood in an electrifying stance. She tried to focus on the glow of the lamp lighting the end of the alley just a few meters away, yet it seemed to stretch for an eternity. Her hands pulsed with intensity. She needed to get out in the open where the street was well lit and late-night Londoners were busy hustling toward local pubs for a pint of ale and conversation. Beads of sweat dampened her face although the evening air was quite cool for October.

Thump…Thump…Thump…

Saint ‘eavens wot was that? She cried, startled by the noise, refusing to look behind her.

It sounded as if someone had beaten a stick against the fence directly behind her. She pictured a cane. And then she heard the high-pitched scraping noise. That was not wood beating against the fence. It sounded more metallic-like. A knife perhaps? Was it just her imagination running wild from reading the East London Advertiser? She quickened her pace, although she felt as if she was moving in slow motion. She regretted eating that second helping of pie. The faster she walked, the more the thumping sped up behind her.

Thump…Thump…Thump…Thump…

Bloody Gypsy Nell! Why did ‘ave ter rain today?

The mud in the alleyway stuck to her boots like tar. Each step was a struggle to pick up her feet, but adrenaline can make a woman do impossible things and with it she changed her pace to a flat run.

Chapter 2

Finch, you idiot, wake up!

A harsh-sounding alarm rattled in the young butcher’s ears like a pair of cymbals, as he clumsily jerked to attention.

Cecil stood over him, the bell that hung from the front door’s hook held tightly in his hand. He rang it once more in Finch’s face for humor-sake.

Finch grabbed it out of his hand and threw it across the room. Bloody hell!

Cecil laughed as he sauntered toward the front window. Another late night? Unanswered he turned his attention back to Finch, who had laid his head back upon his pillow, eyes closed.

Finch! Cecil pulled the curtains open and sun burst into the room, laying its ray directly upon Finch’s face. His eyes opened in protest.

Sorry, must’ve dozed off, then, Finch awkwardly replied.

Slept in your apron again, I see.

Finch, disoriented, yawned as he rubbed his tired eyes. He still felt as if he needed to sleep another two days. Suddenly he realized the detriment of the situation. He quickly sat up adjusting to the light that had now peered through the windowpane from the morning sun. Fear turned into relief as he found himself in his own flat. It had been the first time he had awakened from one of his spells at home. He was used to his morning’s waking up on the cold tile floor one story below. Always in the storage room in the back of his butcher shop. So far, he had been fortunate enough to awake before dawn to change and wash before Cecil, his only employee and friend, came in to open the shop for early morning customers. Thus far his blackouts had not aroused any suspicion, although he was beginning to question his own sanity.

Well, you better wash before you head to work, it looks like you’re a bloody murderer.

Finch’s brain took a minute to process what his friend had said. He looked down at his apron with a slight detachment. Oh, I suppose I do.

A late night of slaughtering cows? Cecil asked, noticing that the gruesome stain barely affected his employer and friend.

There were no words to explain this phenomenon and so Finch did not answer. What would he say? He was racking his brain trying to remember what he was doing the night before and how he managed to get home on his own. This had become an increasing occurrence, although this seemed more extreme than the other previous evenings. Still disoriented, he tried to stand, faltering at first, and decided to accept his friend’s offering hand.

Thank you, Cecil.

No cares. Are you well, my friend? He noticed Finch’s face paling.

What are you doing here?

Needed you to open up the shop, I forgot my key at home.

Right, Finch sat down in his only dining chair and rubbed his head.

Cecil scanned the dismal flat Finch called home. It had only a few pieces of furniture. Surprising, since Finch’s entire family had lived here for most of his adolescent years. There was nothing in the place that had any resemblance of a family life. It was a bare bachelor pad as if he had just moved in or was in the process of moving out.

Can I have the key? Customers will be standing outside soon waiting to get in.

Yes, yes. Finch tried to clear his head. It is over there inside the desk drawer.

Cecil frowned, concerned. I will be fine until you clean yourself up, he scanned his friend’s disheveled and bloodied clothes again, take your time.

Finch nodded. Thank you, Cecil. I will be right down. Still a bit dazed about his predicament, he watched as Cecil disappeared out the door of his flat.

Finch searched the room for clues. He needed a bath. His clothes needed washing. Maybe he should throw them out. Burn them. Maybe he should take himself just the way he was, right to Scotland Yard and save them the trouble of searching for him. Could he be the infamous Jack the Ripper? That was what the papers had called him, was it not? Had he unknowingly sent that infamous letter to them? He remembered the fear that gripped his heart and drove him to look for any evidence in his flat. And then the feeling of such relief when he hadn’t found any papers laying around that might imply that he might have penned them. He even searched his shop.

It was time he did something about his blackouts before he hurt someone or before he hurt anyone else. There was only one place he thought might be able to help him. It wasn’t Colney Hatch. It was too big, too connected to Scotland Yard. It was where the criminally insane, the poorest of poor, and the unwanted wives were sent. It was also too close for comfort. He needed a place to go that wouldn’t subject him to horrific experiments and not lock him up as if he were a prisoner. He needed something smaller, something out of the way, but close enough to get back to his everyday work. He needed the help of Hanwell.

Chapter 3

Cate made her way past the alleyway, stepping onto the path toward Princess Alice Pub. To her relief there was light beaming from the gaslights and couples strolling toward their evening destinations. Her pace had not changed as her heart pounded against her chest and her feet were still in a panic. She glanced back quickly to make certain her assailant was not following.

Watch where you’re going!

Cate almost barreled right into a couple. She hadn’t recovered her voice to even apologize and so she scampered toward Princess Alice without even a nod in their direction. The place was always packed full of drunkards and customers. It was always one of her favorite places to be. The clientele usually had more money to spend then the average gentleman. This was also one of the only establishments where she hadn’t been thrown out when working.

She exhaled, giving her body relief from the intensity and adrenaline it had just endured. She sauntered toward the sound of laughter and lights, her steps a bit lighter. That was close, she thought to herself. What shall become of her when she departs for the night? It was best not to think of such things. Maybe it was only her mind running wild anyhow. Her sister had always accused her of having a wild imagination.

Cate quickly recalled the demise of her dear friend, Annie Millwood from Spitalfields, only seven months ago. How dreadful the circumstances, stabbed to death