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The Phantom Of The American Ripper
The Phantom Of The American Ripper

The Phantom Of The American Ripper

Franc68Lorient Montaner

There are numerous cases and investigations shrouded in latent mystery, often accompanied by the sudden and palpable truth that eludes the perception of the public. Unfortunately, this is a common tendency, especially when murders occur daily, and the innate clairvoyance to discern them remains elusive.

What should truly occupy our grave concerns, however, are those murderers who are perpetually duplicitous, operating within our modern society of conspicuousness. There are irrevocable criminals whose notorious names have sunk into the profound abyss of time, only to resurface in the undetermined intervals of history, exposing their deeds irreversibly. They are forgotten with undoubted impunity but remembered when their names are evoked, and their presence is revealed, alongside their irremissible actions.

Murder can be a surreal or tangible implication, manifesting itself in such a Mephistophelian manner that we fail completely to discern its facile nature. My inquisitive question is this: what do we call an impenitent murderer, presumed dead, but still alive in the eyes of those who magnify them through an allegorical admiration?

Is the apparition of an individual presumed dead truly so dreadful and haunting to the world? What if this seemingly spectral entity is not a supernatural being, but a living representation of an extrinsic evil on Earth? This was the unimaginative presupposition that emerged from the illustrious case known as ‘The Phantom of the American Ripper.’

The year was 1898 when I was at 23 Whitehall Place in London. A certain gentleman entered the building through the front door and introduced himself as an agent from America, representing the Pinkerton Detective Agency. His name was Clarence Livingston, a stout man of average height, his demeanour proud and reflective of his occupation.

After the cordial introductions, he promptly explained the serious nature of his visit. From the look in his circumspect eyes, I could tell that the matter was of considerable importance. I was well aware of Pinkerton’s distinguished reputation throughout America, which had earned it renown for its involvement in investigations of infamous western outlaws such as Jesse James, the Reno Gang, and the Wild Bunch, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The most notorious criminal, however, was being pursued by the Pinkerton Agency, and he was supposedly hiding here in England.

That was not the most unexpected element of his disclosure. The renowned name of the criminal was Dr Herman Webster Mudgett—more commonly known as H H Holmes, the murderer. I admitted that I knew little about the man, but from what I had heard, he was presumed dead, executed in a Pennsylvania prison two years prior, in 1896. I had no photograph of him to know much about his appearance.

Agent Livingston explained that although there was sufficient evidence to confirm Holmes’ execution, credible witnesses had reported seeing him alive, with one stating that he had been spotted in New York City before boarding a boat across the Atlantic Ocean. This wasn’t the end of it—an informant had told Pinkerton that Holmes was likely in England.

The informant claimed that Holmes had made contact with an English banker, someone known to him. While I generally refrained from putting full trust in the testimony of others, even competent informants, I recognised that this declaration had to be factual. It seemed illogical and impractical for Agent Livingston to have come all the way from America with such a senseless theory.

He presented other facts, but they were still inconclusive and open to dispute. I was uncertain where to begin this investigation, but I now had a probable starting point. As we conversed, a telegraph arrived from Manchester, informing me that a brutal murder had occurred there the previous night.

The Manchester City Police reported that the murder took place on Corporation Street, one of the main thoroughfares in the city centre. Upon reviewing the telegram, I saw no particularly unusual elements to the murder, aside from one significant detail that might suggest a link to Holmes: a witness had claimed to have seen a mysterious man with an American accent fleeing the scene.

‘Agent Livingston, I’ve just been informed by the Manchester City Police that a murder took place in that city, and an unidentified American was seen leaving the scene. Surely, you can see that this detail doesn’t necessarily prove that the killer was American, or that it was, in particular, Mr Holmes’, I said to him.

‘I’m fully aware of that, Inspector Cauvain’, Livingston replied. ‘Naturally, I understand your reasoning. However, until we investigate the murder and speak to the witness, I cannot return to the United States. The case must be thoroughly examined'.

‘Of course, I understand’, I responded. ‘We will assist you in any way necessary to determine whether Mr Holmes is indeed in this country, Agent Livingston’.

‘I am grateful for your assistance’, he replied. ‘I hope that we can resolve this case quickly, so I can return to America and put to rest the rumors of Holmes being alive’.

The next afternoon, we departed for Manchester. Upon arrival, we were greeted by one of the officers, who informed us that Captain Charlesworth would be awaiting us at the crime scene on Corporation Street.

We took a hansom cab to the location and were met by Captain Charlesworth, who briefed us on the murder. The victim, a young woman named Victoria Bounsall, had been found in a building’s corner near the street by a waggoner. Although he had been questioned by the police, he had been unable to offer any significant information regarding the crime or the perpetrator.

I was handed the full report. The murder was so gruesome that it brought back memories of the Whitechapel Murders from ten years ago, when I was part of the Metropolitan Police. The victim’s entrails were eviscerated, and her body was dissected, leaving a vivid impression on my mind.

Captain Charlesworth explained that there were few clues available. When I asked if any witnesses had seen the perpetrator or a stranger fleeing the scene, he informed me that there was one witness who had spoken briefly to an American man just before the murder.

When I had pressed him on the specifics, he revealed to me that this same witness had seen him afterwards fleeing the crime scene quickly. Verily, that was not abnormal to descry in a sequence that would ensue of that magnitude, but Captain Charlesworth was strongly convinced that the stranger who was apparently American was either the murderer, or he was most definitely at least, a feasible witness to the crime.

It was highly important that we spoke therewith to this witness, who had made that precise accusation before. The tenable preconception of this murder had to follow a natural and apposite pattern of logic and credibility, or we would be dealing with mere arbitrary suppositions totally unfounded.

'The witness Captain Charlesworth, where is that person at, and what is the name of this witness?' I had queried.

'I believe the individual is a woman by the name of Nancy Pollock, and from what she had informed me, she is a young governess by occupation who commutes from her home to the city. She is presently travelling from her home in Salford to Manchester I imagine. I have spoken to her already inspector', Captain Charlesworth replied.

'And what else did she mention about this mysterious American chap?'

'Not much, but perhaps it would be better, if you spoke to her in person and see if she has recalled any more relevant details about the murder'.

'I shall, but I want you to head to the train stations now and locate the young woman and bring her to the Police Station as soon as possible'.

'I shall go to the train station of Manchester Oxford Road located in the centre of the city, whilst I shall have my officers go to the other train stations, such as Manchester London Road and Manchester Victoria'.

'Good Charlesworth! In the meantime I shall remain here, with Agent Livingston to search for more notable clues'.

We had begun to examine more the crime scene, for any other crucial intimations of the composition of the murder, when Agent Livingston stated, 'Maybe I am incorrect in my presumption inspector, but from reading the report, the manner in which this young lady was killed brings suddenly, an eerie reminder of a phlegmatic maniac who could be H H Holmes. What we need to confirm from the witness is the description of this murderer. If she can describe to us his appearance, then I can know whether or not Holmes is alive or not'.

'I concur with that thoughtful analogy Agent Livingston, but since we are here what I must speedily know is the essential nature of this horrible murder committed. Until we speak to the forensic pathologist of the autopsy and observe the body, we shall not be truly cognisant of the ghastly dismemberment. We must proceed regardfully, from that importance'.

'Do you think we will find something relevant in that report?' Agent Livingston asked.

'Yes!' I replied.

He paused and had continued, 'It appears to me that the murderer had a reasonable route of escape, if you look at the composition of these narrow streets that I am not acquainted with, and the structures of these buildings'.

'Indeed my good fellow and the junction provided of Whitworth Street West and Oxford Street allows that plausible escape. The street also runs from Dantzic Street to the junction of Cross Street and Market Street. Therefore, the criminal in his haste had scurried through these streets, but we are not positively certain that the criminal escaped on foot nor escaped on carriage'.

'Do you believe he had assistance?'

'It is too premature to make that analysis, but I somewhat doubt that, because as you alluded to before in the composition of these streets and buildings, he could have easily disappeared without much of a trace. In my ample experience in dealing with the criminal mind, I have often discovered that the criminal is very meticulous in his crime'.

'I must agree with you, and from my experience tracking down dishonorable crooks they are only tenuous in their first murder. If our criminal results to be Holmes, then we are confronting a categorical masterful swindler!'

After examining the crime scene more, Captain Charlesworth had returned with the young governess Miss Pollock, who had arrived to the city. She was a charming young woman, but she was obviously still discomposed by the terrible murder and its circumstance.

When I spoke to her, she was candid in her affirmation that the stranger fleeing was indeed American. Agent Livingston was insistent in his interrogation of the witness, and had asked her to describe the potential assailant. The young governess proceeded to respond to his enquiry, and what she had recounted of this individual was troubling to Agent Livingston and me.

Hence, her description was the following; the man was of average height 5 feet 7, and was of a slender built. He appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties, and he had a thick moustache and a slight beard. His clothing was that of a dapper gent, but the one thing that was the most distinguishable was his alluring eyes that had exuded a conspicuous hauteur.

Fortunately, Agent Livingston had brought a photograph of H H Holmes with him to England, and the governess paused for a brief moment, before she confirmed that the stranger she had seen that night was no other than H H Holmes. Agent Livingston’s expression was of utter disbelief and amazement, as he listened to the exact words of the governess. He had asked her if she was absolutely definite in her averment.

'Yes, I assure you inspector, that he is the same man I saw the night before!' The governess replied.

'Once more, Miss Pollock, at what hour did you see this stranger last night?' I asked her.

'I believe it was close to ten o’clock, because I was heading towards the train station to catch my train to Salford', the governess had expressed.

'That is all for now Miss Pollock, you may go. If we need more information, then we shall contact you'.

In spite of the substantiation of the culprit’s similar appearance to H H Holmes, we were not totally prepared to acknowledge that the murderer was him, based on the mere testimony of one witness. It would require more circumspect exploration of the area, and more importantly determining, where Mr Holmes was at within the city, if in the end he was in Manchester.

The incredible implication of the involvement of Mr Holmes was only circumstantial evidence that had an interesting dynamic, but the process of effectuating that task would be determined, by coherent analysis of that evolution. We had to decipher the succession of the events, with conscientious observation, not allowing our minds to be distracted so easily, within the minutiae of every witness account. Even though the murder was heinous in the manner it was perpetuated, our clues were not sufficient enough to construct a viable antecedent to base, an a posteriori foundation of sound facts to conclude nor preclude anything.

Therefore, I had instructed Captain Charlesworth to have the centre and its circumjacent areas patrolled, but I was reluctant to the idea of enforcing a curfew upon the residents of the city. My main priority was the safety of the public, and the ultimate capture of the criminal, who was at large. When Agent Livingston had asked me, why I did not make the decision to impose a curfew I answered straightaway.

'I have seen many murders and murderers come and go in England. Ever since the Whitechapel murders in London, there have been several copycat murderers, who have claimed to be Jack the Ripper. I must be cautious and not permit the newspapers to dictate to the public the details of the investigation, when it would only stir the public into a wild panic. There is no need for a curfew'.

'I duly respect your concern, but if this killer is indeed H H Holmes, then what this city will be facing will be something much more epidemic than the supposed return of a nightmarish criminal'.

'I am fully aware of that, and I would hope for the sake of this metropolitan city that neither of us shall have to attest, to the return of either one of these bloody villains!'

That night, I had slept in one of the chambers of the Arora Hotel on Turner Street, troubled by the gruesome chance that an anonymous or an international madman was loose, and murdering innocent persons at will. This murder had occupied my mind, and the Whitechapel murders were ever present in the recollection of my thoughts.

I had ruminated with absolute resolution, the eventuality of the murder being associated to Mr Holmes. If the murderer was indeed this Mr Holmes, then the contemplation of that contingency would present a dramatic consequence. For the next two days and nights, there were no murders to be reported that were of the identical pattern of the murderer; although it was common for brutal murders to occur in large metropolitan cities, such as Manchester.

We had continued to patrol the area thinking that perhaps this was an isolated murder, but we did not believe that was the case. Agent Livingston was what they called a maverick detective in America, and a very perseverant fellow. He was perceptive and percipient also, and the reputation of Pinkerton Agency I had perceived was the prime determinant in coming to England.

We had returned to headquarters, where the pathologist Dr Weston was waiting for us there. I had instructed Captain Charlesworth to send one of the officers to speak to him, concerning the recent murder of Victoria Bounsall. Once there, Dr Weston had informed us that the likely weapon utilised was a scalpel that was sharp enough, to slice into human flesh and bones. It was foreseeable that the weapon that had caused the mutilation of the body was either a scalpel or a whetted blade, but what interested my good American compeer was the approximation of the time of death.

This was of an exigent interest of mine as well. Dr Weston had notified us that the probable time of death was close to 9.45 p.m. at night. This was in accordance with what the young governess Miss Pollock had reported seeing afterwards. This presented a factible approximation of the profile of our murder. After another day had elapsed, the murderer had killed again. Unlike the previous murder, the victim was not mutilated, instead, she was burnt to death. The body was badly burnt that it was beyond any visible recognition.

The murder had taken place approximately three miles northeast of the city centre, outside the Bank of England on King Street. The victim was another poor woman, discovered by the conductor of a horse-drawn tram travelling from Rochdale Road.

I had instructed Captain Charlesworth to take the burnt corpse immediately to the pathologist, who carried out the postmortem examination. I had tried to avoid causing undue alarm and consternation amongst the public, but this death was impossible to conceal. The newspapers had already been informed and had spoken with the conductor, a Mr. Cropley.

As I explained to Agent Livingston, I had hoped to prevent public outcry, but evidently, I was unsuccessful in that endeavour. News of the murder would soon be published in all the major Manchester newspapers, and reporters were already gathering outside the Metropolitan Police Station. This did not bode well for us, but we could not allow ourselves to be swayed by the impetuous press.

I knew I needed to speak with Mr. Cropley at once. When he was located, we questioned him about the incident and any description he could provide of the culprit. His account was detailed and, like the young governess Miss Pollock, he reported seeing a stranger fleeing the scene.

His description closely matched that of the governess, and when Agent Livingston showed him a photograph of Mr Holmes, Mr Cropley nodded in affirmation. We now had a tangible lead to pursue—another credible witness who identified the suspect as Mr Holmes. I had hoped this was merely coincidence, but with two independent witnesses providing similar descriptions, it was difficult to dismiss.

Another crucial piece of evidence was discovered near the crime scene: a matchbox found by one of the officers. This matchbox bore a brand not made in Britain—it was manufactured in the United States. Captain Charlesworth showed it to me, and I read the label: The Gamblers' Mirror, Made in Chicago, Illinois, USA. The only missing detail was the year of manufacture.

Agent Livingston, familiar with Mr Holmes's methods, noted that his typical modus operandi involved killing by burning, dismemberment, or poisoning. Two of the recent murders directly fit this pattern, reinforcing our belief that we were indeed dealing with Mr. Holmes.

According to Frank Geyer, the detective who had arrested H. H. Holmes in Chicago in 1893, Holmes was believed to have killed between twenty and two hundred victims. He operated under various aliases, including Henry Gordon and Alexander Bond. The Pinkerton Agency, renowned for foiling the plot to assassinate then president-elect Abraham Lincoln, had also tracked Holmes.

The key to solving this case lay in understanding Holmes's criminal mind. If we could decipher his patterns and motives, we might anticipate his next move and unmask his twisted intentions. I pondered the possible reasons he chose these particular women as his victims and whether there was any tangible similarity between them.

I asked Agent Livingston about this, and he mentioned that Holmes had been married three times—unusual in Victorian England.

'If you're suggesting Holmes targeted these women because they resembled one of his former wives, then you might be onto something', Agent Livingston paused then continued.

'Looking at the photographs of the two victims, they do bear a resemblance to his first known victim, his mistress Julia Smythe. Holmes was undoubtedly a charlatan, a bigamist, and a masterful deceiver'.

'In the brief time since these murders occurred', I replied, 'I've concluded that the murderer follows a logical pattern. It seems likely that his victims share certain characteristics. We must thoroughly investigate whether these women indeed resembled his earlier victims, particularly his mistress. It could provide the motive we need to understand his killings'.

'But where do we start?' Agent Livingston asked.

'Where his crimes were committed', I replied. "There, amidst the bustle of the streets, we may find more witnesses who saw this stranger. We'll begin with the main streets—Princess Street, Cross Street, eastward to Mosley Street, Portland Street, and Whitworth Street, continuing on to Brook Street'.

'That seems a reasonable and rational plan', Agent Livingston agreed.

We headed into the heart of the city to canvass the streets, hoping to find, among the many residents of Manchester, a witness who could provide a decisive clue about the elusive killer. My instincts told me that we were close, and we divided the officers into teams to cover the streets we had listed.

It seemed a fair assumption that we might find one crucial witness—and after hours of searching, we did.

The witness was Mr Millard, a banker from the Bank of England on King Street—right where the latest victim was found. Mr Millard had come into the city to meet with a colleague when he happened to stop and speak with one of our officers.

He gave us the most compelling lead yet: a strange American had recently deposited a large sum of money into his bank two days prior and returned on the day Miss Victoria Bounsall was murdered. Mr Millard recalled that the man had mentioned he would return to the bank later that evening. Around nine o’clock—Mr Millard was precise in his timing—he encountered the American outside the bank.

I questioned him thoroughly, but Mr Millard, a banker by profession and a punctual man by habit, seemed reliable in his recounting. He described the American as skittish and anxious, as though he were wary of being followed.

Their conversation lasted only five minutes before they parted ways. Though the American said he’d return the next day, he never reappeared. Mr Millard said the man identified himself as Mr Gordon. Agent Livingston pointed out that Henry Gordon was one of Holmes's known aliases.

Mr Millard also provided another valuable detail: the man’s accent was distinctly Northeastern—possibly from New York or Boston, though Mr Millard wasn’t certain. Intriguingly, a young woman arrived at the bank the next day and deposited £500. Mr Millard described her as young, refined, and well-educated, giving her name as Mrs Webster. He believed she was British based on her accent.

Before we concluded, Mr Millard recalled one last detail: the American had entered a local pub on Rochdale Road that same night.

This information began to clarify the sequence of events surrounding Victoria Bounsall’s murder. We knew we had to locate that pub and question everyone who had been there that night.

The pub, called the Farm Yard, stood at the corner of Rochdale Road. We visited at once and spoke to the proprietor, Mr Denton, who seemed surprised to see us. After I identified myself, I asked him if he had seen a man resembling Mr Holmes. When we showed him a photograph, Mr Denton confirmed that a man matching Holmes’s description had indeed been at the pub that night. He also confirmed that the man was American.

The length and depth of my questioning yielded an important confirmation: whether or not this was truly Mr Holmes, the murderer had been at the pub on the night of the killing.

When I asked him if he was certain that the man was definitely American, he mentioned the stranger’s accent. Like Mr Millard, he too distinctly noted a Northeastern American accent. The concurrence of that admission was more than a mere coincidence—it strongly suggested the truth.

We knew at least that the stranger had been identified as an American and that he was debonair in his propriety. Until we saw the confirmed stranger ourselves, we were left with lingering doubts. The uncertainty began to engross my curiosity by the minute, and Agent Pinkerton suggested that if the killer was indeed the renowned Mr Holmes, it was incumbent upon us to prevent his next vile act of murder at any cost.

We then departed the pub and returned to headquarters, where we finally received absolute confirmation of the identity of the burnt victim, who had been killed mercilessly. The victim was a young woman named Suzanne Arscott, who, like the other victims, was from Manchester. The dreadful manner in which she was ruthlessly killed remained fresh in my mind, and now, having her identity confirmed, my resolve to solve the case was emboldened. I insisted that Captain Charlesworth not impose a curfew on the residents of the city and its boroughs, and he acquiesced, though with slight reservation.

That night, we patrolled the streets of Manchester, while the pressure from the newspapers steadily increased. Another murder of a young woman would have caused complete pandemonium in the city. At around ten o’clock, a horrendous scream was heard coming from behind one of the red brick Victorian buildings on Brook Street. The nearest officer in the neighbourhood scurried to assist the woman, who had been terribly frightened.

Unfortunately, by the time the officer arrived, the woman was found dead, lying on the ground. It was clear she had been murdered, her throat slashed. A transparent clue had been left behind by the murderer: a black stiff felt bowler hat, instantly recognisable to Mr Holmes. To Agent Livingston, it was a clear reference to the typical hat that Holmes himself wore on several occasions. It was becoming increasingly difficult to dismiss the possibility of Mr Holmes’s involvement in these murders.

‘I am afraid it appears that either the murderer wants us to believe it is Holmes behind these abhorrent murders, or it is Holmes himself, masterminding this sickening game of cat and mouse', I said to Agent Livingston.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘It is very simple. The murderer is undoubtedly killing individuals, but he is also attempting to distract us from the true motive, which, I believe, is to achieve some financial gain or profit. Of course, there is always the baser motive of fame. However, after reading all the information you have given me, and having perused what I could about Mr Holmes, I am convinced he is not the sort of madman one might suspect. Rather, he is a cunning man of intellect. A killer of his nature would not be worthy of any sublime edification or commendation'.

‘Holmes was a gambler, and as a gambler, he was always synonymous with taking risks and taunting his foes, with that devilish smirk only he possessed, inspector', Agent Livingston responded.

‘The pattern of the murders seems to contradict what I would expect perceptively when I assess the situation at hand’, I conveyed.

‘You are speaking in layman’s terms of a lingering doubt, contradictory to the principles we are taught as men of the law to always adhere to', Agent Livingston remarked.

‘Exactly. You see, we are not so vastly different in our process of apprehending a criminal. We only differ in the fundamental application of our approach. I am more analytical, and you are more direct in your method, but that does not mean we are biased partisans prone to doubting authority’.

He agreed, offering a small, genial nod, and said, ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Inspector. And let me reciprocate by saying, I have worked with countless men of the law, and you are one of the finest detectives I have encountered'.

‘And you, my good American chap, are a prime example of a skilled detective'.

Whilst the officers examined the area for any relevant sign of the killer, we checked the building where the victim was located. I noticed an extrusion that protruded over the substrate of the chromatic brick building. I surmised that the stealthy murderer had most likely been hiding behind this brick edifice, lurking until he encountered the unfortunate victim, Miss Arscott.

It was evident that the criminal was driven by malice and by a passionate obsession with dark-haired women, who resembled the description of his former mistress. The killer was roaming the city of Manchester freely, causing immeasurable terror among its citizens. According to Agent Livingston, who was not prone to conjecture, Mr Holmes was a coxcomb who had so far evaded admissible guilt amid the outbreak of murders.

The dismemberment of the torso was the first method employed, a manifestation of an indomitable urge to kill. It was an unthinking boldness, rooted in his delusions, but we were confronting a man who would circumvent any form of challenge presented to him. Inductive reasoning—and at the very least, cautious deliberation—was essential to secure his eventual capture.

Regrettably, the officers who had scoured the area in search of the culprit did not locate him or recover any substantial clues to form a productive basis for contemplation. We were forced to confront our limited options with a meditative precision and proficiency that exceeded our normal efficiency.

‘I believe we have done all we can do here, Agent Livingston. Perhaps it would be better if we left the area and allowed the officers to complete their tasks of recovering more clues and controlling the growing crowd;, I said.

‘Where shall we go next, Inspector?’ Agent Livingston asked.

‘To the police station. Tomorrow, we shall visit the Bank of England on King Street to pay Mr Millard a visit'.

‘Why?’

‘We must speak to Mr Millard about the inexplicable stranger—or woman'.

We headed to the bank the next morning to speak with Mr. Millard, thinking perhaps the surreptitious man or woman might reappear. Upon our arrival, we noticed a sign on the front door that read 'Closed'. This struck me as odd, since it was not a public holiday. I was baffled to understand why the bank would be shut. Perhaps there was an internal audit taking place, or for some unknown reason, the bank might open later in the day.

We waited several minutes before one of the employees arrived and unlocked the front door. He was a young man who seemed flummoxed upon seeing us standing outside with the 'Closed' sign still displayed. Once we entered the building, we made a grim discovery: poor Mr. Millard was dead inside the soundproof bank vault.

It appeared he had been locked in and suffocated—but how? All indications suggested that the banker had been coerced into his death. A note was found in one of his trouser pockets, referring to a deed and the purchase of a property on Sion Street in Radcliffe, a borough of Manchester. We were fortunate to recover the counterfoil of the cheque related to this transaction as well. I examined it closely, noting the date and details.

Whilst we were not entirely persuaded that this clue was central to our investigation, it was certainly evidence worth pursuing. For the first time, I sensed through my empirical observation that the criminal and his accomplice might have committed their first significant blunder.

We decided to explore this lead and made our way to the nearest train station, catching the next train to Radcliffe. During the journey, I noticed Agent Livingston seemed unusually restless. When I inquired about his concern, he admitted candidly that he was apprehensive about what lay ahead—whether we were indeed on the trail of the notorious H. H. Holmes, alive and at large, as some in America feared.

'You seem deep in thought, Agent Livingston. What is troubling you?' I asked.

'To be frank, Inspector, there is much at risk. I’m sure you understand the magnitude of what it would mean—not only to your countrymen but to mine as well—if we were to trap that scoundrel, and it truly is Holmes in person', he reflected somberly.

'I am fully aware of the peril we face', I replied, pausing briefly. 'This Mr. Holmes—if it is indeed he—is a vulpine fellow with remarkable hardihood. But we possess even greater determination than this fiend'.

'There’s an expression in my country', he added, 'I was not born in the woods to be scared by an owl'.

'You are indeed a regular brick', I said with a smile. 'As they say in London, that means you’re the best of good fellows'.

Upon arriving in Radcliffe, we found the street near an old mill and soon located Sion Street. The poverty of the area was evident. Radcliffe, once known for its paper industry and cotton mills, had clearly suffered a decline in productivity and prosperity.

The address on the note led us to a dilapidated manor, seemingly undergoing some form of restoration. Furniture was being brought in, but the question remained: who was behind all this, and who was the mysterious accomplice?

We stationed several constables from the local constabulary to keep watch over the manor and monitor anyone entering. Meanwhile, we returned to central Manchester to continue questioning witnesses who might have relevant information. The newspapers followed every move we made, tailing our officers and us from place to place.

That night, for the first time, a curfew was imposed on the residents. We deployed officers across key locations: from the Athenaeum art gallery on the north side to the Central House on the south, and the Portico Library on Mosley Street’s corner. Officers also patrolled Albert Square, with its Gothic grandeur and Victorian buildings, including the Town Hall, Memorial Hall, and the Opera House, as well as the Palace Theatre on Oxford Street. We ensured every junction and access road along the railway line—from Collyhurst to Hunts Bank—was under surveillance.

As we prepared for the possibility of another horrific murder, a report came in from a constable in Gorton, south of Manchester: another murder had been committed in a small terraced house off a main road. The suspect, who fit the description of our killer, had been arrested.

I left the city for Gorton, whilst Agent Livingston stayed behind. Upon arrival, I found a mob had already beaten the suspect. According to the constable, the man had been seized by members of the Scuttlers—youth gangs notorious in the slums of Manchester’s eastern and western townships. Although the crime was heinous, its modus operandi did not match that of our killer.

The murdered woman had been killed over a personal matter—infidelity—raising immediate doubts. We managed to extract the suspect and transported him to Burnage for the night, pending transfer to Manchester the next day. There, I interrogated him and quickly dismissed him as a suspect when I realised he was not American but Canadian. Yet, as my questioning continued, new and disturbing tidings arrived: another murder had been committed.

This time, it was in the Angel Meadows slum, beyond Rochdale Road. The victim was Miss Pollock, a young governess. I was shaken by the news and pondered the connection between this murder and the previous ones as I made my way to the scene.

Arriving at Angel Meadows as evening approached, I was struck by the stench of the River Irk and River Irwell, mingled with the industrial aromas of the local tannery, iron foundry, and brewery. The street gaslights cast a grim pall over the destitute men, women, and children populating the area.

Upon arrival, a constable informed me that the victim had been burnt to death, and the fire had caused significant damage to the home. The brutality of this crime galvanised our efforts to stop the murderer and bring him to justice without further delay.

The only means by which we were able to identify the young governess were her accessories and the items found in her home. It was evident she had been living in that cottage, but the question remained: with whom? That night, we discovered that Miss Pollock was indeed the same woman who had entered Mr Millard’s bank under the name Mrs Webster. It was later proven that she was both the murderer’s accomplice and his mistress.

As I stood outside, observing the charred remains of the house, I began to ponder the sequence of events and every minor detail that might distinguish the killer. Near the burnt ashes of the home, I found another familiar matchbox—this one bearing a different name.

I was then handed a photograph of Mr Holmes by one of the constables, who had received it from Scotland Yard. The photograph had been sent by the Pinkerton Agency, at my request. With that revelation, I quickly deduced who the killer’s next victim would be.

Without delay, I returned hastily to the city center. Upon my arrival, I was met by one of the Metropolitan Manchester Police officers, who regarded me with a singularly grave expression. His reaction was quick and uneasy.

Where is Agent Livingston?' I asked.

'I believe he’s at the train station, inspector. He mentioned receiving urgent news about a possible murder in Radcliffe', the officer replied.

'Good God, we must go at once!' I exclaimed.

'Go where?'

'To Radcliffe!'

I departed immediately and returned to Radcliffe. It was nightfall, and I was certain the murderer was neither a stationary figure nor a mere figment of my imagination. The pursuit had begun. Upon my arrival at the old manor, the constables informed me there was a man inside who matched the description of the murderer. He was surrounded, his escape impossible.

The lights were extinguished, plunging the manor into darkness, as we called for the culprit to come out. When he did not, we entered, armed and prepared for confrontation. Inside, a sudden gunshot rang out, and we discovered that the wounded man was none other than Agent Livingston. The individual previously spotted by the officers inside the manor’s main hall—the true killer—had escaped. Agent Livingston, unseen by the officers, had been lured there by the murderer’s trap.

Despite his pain, Agent Livingston uttered the name 'H H Holmes' before falling unconscious. He was rushed to the local hospital so his gaping wound could be tended. Indeed, Agent Livingston had been marked as the killer’s next victim. Although it seemed the murderer had escaped justice once more, he was ultimately apprehended in Portsmouth as he attempted to flee England via the harbor. Naturally, I was there to make the arrest.

The port was eerily quiet, the only sounds the distant lapping of the waves against the docked ships and the occasional creak of wood. The fog had rolled in from the sea, thick and impenetrable, turning the world into a shadowed blur. The torches lining the walkways flickered weakly, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked stone.

I stepped lightly, trying to maintain silence as I moved through the mist. The wind tugged at my coat, but I paid it no mind. The killer had to be here—somewhere. The man we had been chasing for weeks, the one who wore Holmes’ face, had made his way to the port under cover of night. The question was why.

'Inspector', a voice whispered from behind. It was one of the constables, his face obscured by the fog. 'We’ve checked the area, but there’s no sign of him yet'.

I nodded, my gaze scanning the dimly lit docks. The ships were abandoned for the night, their sails furled and ropes secured. Yet something about this place felt wrong. There was an unnatural stillness to it, as if the port was holding its breath.

'We stay close. He’ll come to us', I replied, my voice low but steady.

The fog parted momentarily, revealing the silhouette of a large ship—a schooner—moored at the far end of the pier. The name of the vessel, 'The Raven's Cry', was barely visible under layers of grime, but it stuck out to me. Something about it felt deliberate, like the final clue in a long trail of breadcrumbs.

'Captain’s quarters, perhaps', I muttered, making my way towards the gangplank.

I wasn’t sure what I expected to find, but the closer I got, the more my senses heightened. The usual signs of a bustling port were missing. There was no sound of shouting merchants, no sign of hurried activity. Just an oppressive silence.

Then I saw it—a figure at the top of the gangplank, standing still, almost as if waiting for me.

'Inspector', a cold voice called out from the shadows. 'You’re persistent, I’ll give you that'.

I froze. It was him. The man who had stolen Holmes’ identity, the man whose face was now twisted with a mix of amusement and disdain.

Mr Sommerville.

His figure was cloaked in the shadows, but I could see the glint of his eyes through the mist. He was dressed in a fine coat, looking every bit the part of the man he had tried so desperately to impersonate. He even had Holmes’ signature steely expression. But beneath the surface, there was something far more dangerous in him—something wild, unpredictable.

'I knew you’d come', he continued, a twisted smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You’ve been too slow, inspector. By now, you should have realized you’re playing a game that you can’t win'.

I clenched my fists, trying to keep my composure. 'This is over, Somerville. Surrender now, and we can end this without any more bloodshed'.

He laughed, the sound echoing through the empty port like the caw of a raven. 'End it? No, inspector. This is just the beginning. You think you understand what I’ve been doing, but you don’t. You’ll never understand'.

The fog seemed to thicken, swallowing the light and obscuring our surroundings even more. My instincts screamed at me to move, but I held my ground, not willing to give him the upper hand.

'Why the charade?' I asked, keeping my voice steady. 'Why imitate Holmes? What was the point of all of this?'

Somerville’s eyes flashed with something darker. 'The point, inspector, is simple. It’s about becoming something greater. I don’t just want to be a man; I want to be a legend. Holmes was nothing but a tool—he didn’t deserve the fame he had. But me, I’ll be remembered for eternity'.

He reached into his coat, and I instantly tensed, ready for any sudden movement. His hand emerged with a small object, something gleaming in the dim light.

The matchbox.

I didn’t need to ask. I knew what it was. 'You’ve been playing this game for years, haven’t you?" I said, taking a step forward. 'Everything—the murders, the trail of blood, the smoke screen—it was all to create your own legacy'.

Somerville’s smile widened. 'Exactly. A legacy far greater than Holmes’. And now, you’re too late to stop it'.

Before I could react, he turned swiftly, heading toward the ship. 'The Raven’s Cry' was about to leave the dock.

I sprang into action. 'Stop right there!'

He didn’t look back, but I could hear the subtle click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back. I ran faster, my footsteps echoing on the dock as I closed the distance between us. The ship creaked as it began to pull away from the pier, the sails unfurling slowly in the night wind.

I was almost there.

I lunged, grabbing on to the edge of the gangplank just as Somerville disappeared behind the door leading into the captain’s quarters. My heart pounded in my chest as I pulled myself up, scrambling on to the ship.

The pursuit was far from over, but this was the moment that would define it. Somerville had nowhere left to run. He had made a mistake in underestimating me, just as Holmes had once done. Now it was my turn to make sure he never saw the light of day again.

The fog had not yet lifted from the port, and the morning sky was painted in dull, gray hues. The night had been long, and the pursuit had taken its toll on me, but now, as I stood at the edge of the dock, watching the "Raven's Cry" drift into the distance, I could finally breathe a bit easier.

Somerville was gone, arrested aboard the ship after a brief but brutal confrontation. His plans had been thwarted, his identity exposed, and the dark legend he had tried to craft had crumbled into dust.

'Inspector, it’s over', said the constable beside me, his voice low, almost reverent. 'The case is closed'.

I nodded, though the weight of the investigation still hung heavily in my chest. The mystery had been solved, but something inside me knew the ripples of what had happened would linger for much longer. A man who lived in the shadows, assuming the name of another—this was no mere criminal. He was a mirror, reflecting all the darkness and obsession that could consume a soul.

'Yes', I muttered, though I wasn’t sure if I was speaking to him or to the silence that surrounded us. 'But not all stories end so cleanly'.

The constable said nothing, but I could feel his gaze on me, understanding that the case, though concluded, had left its mark on us all. For now, the city of Manchester could rest, its people unaware of the true horror that had almost escaped their grasp.

As the ship vanished into the horizon, I thought of Agent Livingston. The fog began to lift, revealing the first glimmers of dawn. A new day had arrived, but the shadows, as I knew all too well, never fully receded.

And so, I walked away from the port, leaving behind the past, but carrying the weight of the truth with me. Always forward. Always vigilant.

You see, the murderer was not H H Holmes, but a man impersonating him. His disguise was so perfect that few noticed any discrepancy. The earlier photograph of Mr. Holmes had been vague, and the killer exploited our oversight. Upon my return to Manchester, one of the officers handed me a correspondence indicating that this individual had been spotted in Scotland, Wales, and Ireland.

Apparently, this American murderer had posed as H H Holmes, altering his appearance to make people believe Holmes had survived his execution in Philadelphia on May 7, 1896.

Miss Pollock had willingly aided him in his crimes and schemes—until she, too, was betrayed and murdered by him. His obsession with particular women had consumed his daily existence, driven by destructiveness and cruelty. The murderer was eventually identified as Mr Somerville, who had escaped the same prison where Holmes had been confined. As Holmes’s cellmate, he had befriended him and listened to every sordid confession and rambling indiscretion.

After escaping, Mr Somerville employed masterful deception, travelling to England to continue Holmes’s legacy of horror and fuel sensational headlines in both America and England. With embezzled funds, he purchased a manor in Radcliffe and sought to swindle banks and other key institutions across Great Britain. He nearly succeeded in his deception and schemes—until his critical mistake: the matchbox.

I traced the trade name on the matchbox and discovered that although it was from Chicago, it had been manufactured in 1897—one year after Holmes’s death. I remained skeptical until I learnt about the man who had killed Holmes: Frank Geyer.

A crucial detail, previously overlooked in England’s accounts, came to light. Detective Geyer had discovered the body of Nellie Pitezel—missing her feet—some time after Holmes’s death. This fact, relayed in a letter from Agent Livingston after his arrival, revealed that Nellie had a clubfoot. Detective Geyer theorized that Holmes had removed it to prevent identification, knowing it was a distinguishing feature.

Thus, the case of 'The Phantom of the American Ripper' was finally solved, and calm returned to Manchester. The newspapers dismissed the murderer’s true identity as a hoax or police cover-up; however, it was later confirmed that the killer was indeed a madman.

Agent Livingston congratulated me on solving the case, and I returned his noble gesture by expressing my gratitude for his crucial role in capturing the criminal. We shook hands at the port before he returned to the Pinkerton Agency in America, where he continued to pursue elusive criminals.

And yet, perhaps one insoluble mystery remains: did H H Holmes truly meet his end on that memorable day in Philadelphia, May 7, 1896?

As I walked back to my temporary office, the stillness of the night hung heavy over the city. The burnt remains of the cottage, Miss Pollock's connection to the crime, and the trail that seemed to lead nowhere—all of it stayed in my mind. I needed clarity. The key to this enigma lay in the details, the seemingly inconsequential things that others would overlook.

I sat down at the desk and poured over the evidence we had gathered. The matchbox was the first thing that caught my eye again. The name on the box had lingered in my thoughts, and now, with a more focused mind, I began to consider its implications. The year 1897. One year after Holmes' execution. Could it be a mere coincidence, or was this a deliberate act of misdirection?

There was a map of the areas Mr Holmes—or the man pretending to be him—had been seen in. From Scotland to Ireland, and now in Manchester, the trail was more international than I'd originally anticipated. Why travel so far, unless he had something larger in mind? I pondered the motives, the risks involved. Holmes’ escape from death would surely be a matter of pride for this man, who had spent his life in Holmes' shadow. He wasn’t just imitating him; he had become obsessed.

As the firelight flickered in the corner of the room, I traced the lines on the map with my finger. A name echoed in my mind: Mr Somerville. It was almost too perfect, the way he had weaseled his way into the very identity of the notorious killer. It seemed too much like a madman’s game. But was it? Or was this something more calculated?

I leaned back in my chair, letting the weight of my thoughts settle in. The answers would come, I knew, but I needed to stay focused. The next step was clear. The matchbox could be the key. Perhaps, there were more clues scattered around Manchester that I hadn’t yet discovered.

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Franc68
Lorient Montaner
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