In preparation for tonight’s exciting event at the Ripper Museum, here is an exclusive extract from Dan’s new book ‘The Importance Of Being Jack.’ None of the following is conjecture, it is all based on meticulous research conducted by Dan. In short, it is 100% fact, and precisely 0% fiction!
Dead of night. A distant clock chimes twelve times. The near-by sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels on cobbles. A young woman hurries through the dark, deserted square. Suddenly, a figure emerges through the unfurling London fog in front of her.
“Lor, guv’nor, you aint ‘alf scared me!” cries the woman.
The figure doffs his top hat.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he says in his lugubrious tones.
The woman’s ears prick up at the obvious wealth and breeding of this stranger as displayed in his elegant accent and diction.
“Cor, you sounds like a likely sort of swell, bet’s you knows how to treat a lady, dontcha?”
The man chuckles. “Oh I do indeed know how to treat a lady, madam!”
“How’s abaht we go somewhere then, guv’nor. I aint cheap, mind, it’ll cost you tuppence ha’penny and nuffink less!”
“Oh, there’s no need to go anywhere, right here will do for what I have in mind. And I do believe I have tuppence ha’penny in my bag.”
“A handbag?” cries the woman in surprise as she sees the gentleman thrust his hand into a large brown leather bag he has been carrying. But he doesn’t retrieve any money from his bag, but instead something shinier than coins!
“Cor, what you gonna do with that, then?” says the woman as the knife glints in the moonlight.
“Why, with this I shall create a work of art,” muses the man, “perhaps my finest work to date. One that shall life forever in the annals of infamy, for there is only one thing worse in life than being talked about, and that is not being talked about!”
And with that he nonchalantly sinks the blade into the woman’s stomach.
“Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others,” quips the man as he opens his capacious bag again and takes out various surgical implements, delicately placing them on the ground.
The woman watches in horror as the man gets to work. “Why?” she croaks.
“Because you are A Woman Of No Importance!”
“And you are Lucifer himself!” she wheezes.
“Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.”
“Me name’s not Gwendolen, it’s…..” but before she can tell him her name, the spirit leaves the body of Polly Nichols.
“Murder is so awfully taxing on one’s wardrobe!” the man mutters to himself, dabbing at his bloodstained clothes with his handkerchief as he disappears into the fog on that cold, dark night, leaving Polly behind him, sleeping her last sweet sleep, the eternal slumber from which she will never again awaken, in her warm bed of blood and entrails…