The Riddle Of The Skull Murders
Lorient Montaner
'Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once'.—William Shakespeare
The mere notion of obsession may, if permitted, affects the psyche of man entirely—a desire at once explicit and yet grotesquely misconstrued. Ipso facto, we fail to discern the indelible presence that pervades, that which lies nestled in the perturbation of the criminal mind—a perturbation seldom restrained by reason. There exist mysteries in crime so insoluble that we are bound to tread the perilous boundary between fact and conjecture, both entwined and elusive, within the countless cases borne of deliberate wickedness.
The stark reality of crime reminds us that we cannot easily forestall the disquieting culmination of its prospect. I shall not venture to speak with undue optimism or impracticality when recounting the singular and perplexing affair that came to be known, in both broadsheets and whispers, as “The Riddle of the Skull Murders.”
—Cutting from The London Gazette, 13 March 1891:
The body of a fifth victim has been discovered in the East End of London, and the authorities now entertain the grave suspicion that an unsuspected madman prowls the streets, perpetrating acts of horror and unmitigated savagery. At present, tangible evidence remains scarce and equivocal, and the barbarity with which the victims have met their end defies description.
The name of the fifth unfortunate has been disclosed: Mary Esther Gordon, a destitute and ill-fated prostitute, was slain upon Hanbury Street late last evening. Her corpse was discovered savagely mutilated—her head cruelly dissevered from the body in its entirety.
As previously indicated, few clues were recovered at the scene, and no witnesses have yet come forth. In the meantime, a nightly curfew has been imposed upon the city’s inhabitants, as London reels beneath the grim shadow of a remorseless predator. We shall endeavour to keep the public apprised of any notable discoveries or developments henceforth.
My name is Jack Cauvain, and I have investigated and resolved some of the most arcane and perilous cases involving clandestine societies, unholy cults, and deranged criminals during the waning years of the nineteenth century and into the dawn of the twentieth. I have but recently been appointed Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, a station I have attained by virtue of a diligent temperament and an inquisitive mind, both of which I have striven to maintain with steadfast devotion. I have ever upheld the duties entrusted to the constabulary with the utmost discretion and rigorous application.
At the time, I had only just concluded an investigation in the city of Edinburgh, concerning the alleged murder of a young nobleman whose body was cast from the great cantilever railway bridge that spans the Firth of Forth, plummeting into the dark and unforgiving waters below.
My experience, you ask respectfully? Three years past, I had devoted myself unrelentingly to the baffling enigmas of the Whitehall Mystery and the infamous Whitechapel Murders—cases that confounded the minds of many a fine inspector. It was upon a cold March afternoon that I arrived at the bustling and obstreperous Victoria Station in London, departing forthwith from Edinburgh, having been summoned to lend my acumen to a new and grisly affair unfolding in the capital.
As for my person, I am of neither remarkable height nor diminutive stature—of average build and moderate constitution. My hair, cropped short and carefully parted to the right, bears a brunneous hue. I wear no beard nor moustache, but I hold in especial regard my neatly groomed sideburns and a fondness for garments of a dark persuasion. My eyes—raven in tint—are often said to possess a studious and penetrating quality. A singular detail in my fashion, and perhaps my one vanity, is the black Bowler hat I wear without exception—an accessory that has become something of a signature amongst my colleagues.
Upon arrival at the station, I was met by a constable in uniform, whose countenance bore a circumspect mien. His traditional woollen tunic and Keystone cap stood in stark contrast to the restless clamour of the crowd that surged around us.
‘Good evening, Inspector Cauvain. I am Nigel Harrison of the London Metropolitan Police, and I have been assigned to serve as your assistant on the case. It is a pleasure and an honour to work with you.’
‘The pleasure is mine, Harrison, and I am most eager to learn all the particulars pertaining to this case. If you would oblige me, might we depart at once? Time, as you know, is of the essence,’ I replied.
‘Of course!’
‘Will you be needing to make any stops before we arrive at the police station?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Though I had been occupied with the writing of my memoirs—specifically, a most engaging account of the Mary Pearcey affair, which had stirred the public conscience not long prior—I considered it imperative to turn my attention to this new and perplexing investigation. I was conveyed directly to the headquarters at Old Whitehall Place, now newly designated as New Scotland Yard. The edifice at No. 23 Whitehall Place was to serve henceforth as my working address. Along the way, I was duly apprised of the most recent developments in what had already become known as the Skull Murders.
Upon our arrival, I was introduced to Captain Charles Bailey, a colleague of some renown, who took it upon himself to relay further details that had not been imparted to me by Officer Harrison. Throughout the journey from Edinburgh, the peculiar association of a skull and a riddle had gnawed persistently at my curiosity.
‘Captain Bailey, there is something which perplexes me still,’ I said. ‘Why, precisely, is this case referred to as “The Riddle of the Skull Murders”?’
He responded, ‘Those foolish newspapers are to blame for that, Inspector Cauvain. Ever since the first killing, a curious pattern was noted—each crime scene bore a skull and a riddle left behind. The more intrepid editors have taken it upon themselves to ascribe this to some devilish cult and have fanned the flames of hysteria with lurid tales of satanic rites. It's all the nonsense of a penny dreadful.’
‘I am not the least bit surprised, for their accounts are gleaned from dubious sources and riddled with speculative fancy. Regardless, we must not allow ourselves to be distracted by sensationalism. If we permit the narrative to be commandeered by the press, we shall find ourselves unable to wrest control of the situation. Thus, we must exert every effort, gentlemen, to resolve this matter with due haste and diligence.’
‘I hope so! We here in London shall assist you in whatever endeavour necessary to accomplish this immediate task.’
‘The first thing that must be done is to increase vigilance in the East End, and to continue the curfew—making it known to the Londoners that we are most serious in our pursuit of the criminal. By imposing this curfew, the public will come to understand the gravity of this case. We must be imperant in this, and ensure that the message is conveyed with clarity and authority. Furthermore, we must turn the newspapers to our advantage. Until we obtain any pertinent intelligence regarding the identity of the murderer, we shall remain at the mercy of their unyielding press, awash in gossip and conjecture,’ I explained.
‘I would hope that would be the case.’
‘Have faith, Captain Bailey. A crime of this nature is never meant to be resolved easily.’
I was then conveyed to the Cadogan Hotel, where I would lodge during my time in the city. I instructed Harrison, my assistant, to notify me at once should there be any developments in the case whilst I remained in my chamber. There, within the solitude of the hotel, I pondered the minutiae of the investigation, scrutinising every angle and detail in my mind. I could not help but wonder if the killer would strike anew that very night. As it turned out, I would not be left to wonder for long.
A sudden rapping at the door startled me from my thoughts. When I rose to answer it, it was Harrison, who bore grim news—the killer had indeed struck again.
Without hesitation, I left for the scene. This time, the murder had occurred in Dorset Street, and it was far bloodier and more grievous than those prior. Yet, as with the previous slayings, nothing had been purloined. Upon arriving, I found a throng of onlookers peering through the darkened veil of the fog at the police cordon and the gruesome scene beyond. Dorset Street was no stranger to ill repute, known widely for its teeming population of thieves and wanton courtesans who prowled its narrow alleys beneath the shroud of night.
There was an inscription scrawled upon the wall, no doubt left by the presumed killer, invoking the tragic words of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Was there a cryptic message hidden within this famous quotation? Did it possess an ostensible validity, or was it merely verbiage expressed surreptitiously?
‘Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music! Beware the ides of March.’
The thought that immediately concerned me thereafter was the necessity of preventing the press from sensationalising this dreadful murder. I ordered the journalists to stand back, knowing that I had precious little time before the morning papers would, no doubt, publish the details. Fortunately, there was a critical witness who had glimpsed the assailant, a young prostitute by the name of Sally Doyle. She was certainly no slattern, though she was far removed from the upper echelons of society.
Once I was informed of this, I quickly instructed Harrison to bring her to me. At first, she was startled, trembling with fear, but eventually she composed herself sufficiently to speak. Her accent was unmistakably Cockney, and while I could understand it, the rhythm and peculiarities of her speech proved to be an occasional challenge. I had become accustomed to all manner of accents—from the Geordies to the Tyke, and the Cockney dialect, with its sharp, lilting tones, was somewhat refreshing in its own right. When I inquired about the culprit’s appearance, she spoke of certain peculiarities that stood out in her mind.
‘You saw him, young lady. How would you describe him? Did he speak?’ I had enquired.
Her response came, ‘No, but methought him to be a bloke, yet he was no ordinary bloke, Inspector. He was tall and handsome, well-dressed, with his walking cane. He was a swell, I meantersay, for he wore a gaudy top hat atop his napper, and his chivvy was rumbustious. Can’t forget the jerry that he pulled out from his benjy—it was sparkling gold! I have never seen aught like that, me jack. He had a bloody shining ring with a fancy ruby. And those lamps of his were evil, like the devil, I tell thee—me jack.’
‘What else can you tell me of relevance?’
‘Blimey, for ‘twas the Devil in disguise, me jack. The poor buor had no chance to thwart the man. He had a beast with him.’
‘A beast, you say?’
She was reluctant to continue, but I had convinced her, for the sake of the victim. She hesitated, then stared into my eyes with swift trepidation before reluctantly answering my questions. Her unbelievable tale would have been persuasive, but she began to blather concerning the Devil. The intensity in her eyes was undeniable as she cautiously muttered the fiend’s name again. I would dismiss this balderdash, considering it no more than the overreaction of a frightened woman, perhaps driven by an overactive imagination or the effects of fear.
What I found more interesting and important to the case, however, was her description of the imperious man. Before I finished with her statement and allowed her to depart, she recalled one very intrinsic item that the individual had left behind and had been discovered by her.
‘Ya must think me barmy for what me mouth shall say, me jack. I tell ya, he was no bloke at all, and neither was that beast. He was a bloody Devil, and the beast as well! I know ya don’t believe me, but 'twas a Devil. Now, before I go on me merry way, jack, methinks it best to give ya this fogle, for it belongs to the killer,’ she asserted.
The item was a silk black handkerchief, bearing the initials D C, and what was more mysterious was the encrimsoned blood that partially stained it. It was indeed the first important clue we had of the killer's identity. It was no mere handkerchief, but an appurtenance to the killer's predilection. Now, all that was needed was to locate the origin and the maker of that strange handkerchief produced.
As for the reference to the Devil, I had to postulate that the actual culprit was either a clever or insane man. The plot thickened with the mentioned component of the satanic cult. Perhaps the indomitable beast was Barmecidal, and its appearance could intimidate one into believing and fearing the culprit to be the actual Devil. I had to apply my logic and rational explanation to this, for there was little to no other description that was feasible to comprehend or analyse. I worried about the prospect of hysteria spreading amongst the populace in the city, and worse, it suffusing with an untamed rapidity.
I knew then that terror would be ubiquitous and impossible to stop. How was I to prevent the murders from spreading further into the Greater Metropolitan area? I knew I had to be punctilious, and my demerits could not be plainly detected by the intrepid murderer. The key was, of course, in revealing his veil of secrecy.
From what I could perceive of the killer, he was discreet, but not pusillanimous. He had a modulated influence that wielded sheer terror and looming dread over the city. This I began to feel at intervals, and as I cogitated on the effects of his control, I realised his capacity to be both morbid and decorous at the same time.
Thus, during the night in my room, a sudden thought occurred to me: the pattern in the killer’s behavior. The murders were primarily in the East End of London, and from what the witness had stated, the murderer’s guise was that of a foppish dandy or nobleman; but I could not easily forget the mention of the beast.
It could not be a beast, and it had to be a large canine or mongrel. What I had failed to consider in that moment was the fact that all the witnesses who saw the beast spoke of its enormous teeth. Through my usual meticulous attention to detail, I began to entertain the possibility that it might be an actual animal. Could it be a wolf? No, it must be a sturdy dog. Could it be an escaped animal from the zoo? Was it roaming the streets?
The next morning, I headed towards the London Zoo to explore the theory that had consumed me during the night. I had assumed the culprit might be an animal from the zoo, or perhaps a wild animal—if not a canine. This was my first, and at that moment, the only reasonable hypothesis.
Although I could not entirely dismiss other possibilities, I had to acknowledge the oddity of it all. Once at the zoo, I began questioning the zookeeper to see if he was aware of any animals that had gone missing or escaped. His answer was negative—no animals were missing or had escaped from the grounds. His response was peculiar, yet I felt compelled to search for the mystery of the beast elsewhere.
I then instructed Harrison to investigate the origin of the handkerchief left behind by the anonymous killer. After my conversation with the zookeeper, I visited the London Museum, hoping to find some clue about large wild animals that could be capable of such ghastly murders. However, there was little evidence at the museum to support the theory of a wild beast being involved.
Subsequently, I left the museum and went to the public library, where I read and borrowed books on the subject. Despite hours of research, I could not find any significant lead pointing to my suspect, but something inside me—an instinct, perhaps—began to make me question the very idea of a beast. It had to be a large dog, and I tried to convince myself that this was the most plausible conclusion.
Afterwards, I returned to headquarters to speak with Harrison and Captain Bailey to see if they had uncovered any new developments in the case. When I spoke with them, they had nothing substantial to report, other than the fact that the sensational murders were being excessively exploited by the newspapers.
'Rubbish, plain rubbish they print in these worthless newspapers!' Captain Bailey uttered.
'I agree, Captain, but we must not allow these scandalous editors to corrupt the minds of the public or interfere with our case', I responded.
'Then what shall we do in the meantime?'
'For now, not much, except wait for his next move. Surely, he must make a mistake.'
'I hope, for the sake of the argument, that you're correct in your calculations.'
'Eventually, all bad things come to an end, don't they?'
'What do you mean by that statement?' Captain Bailey inquired.
'Allow me to explain, Captain.'
'Proceed. I am listening.'
'The goal of the criminal never abandons him, for it only grows with more desire.'
'And what am I to understand from that, inspector?'
'Simple, captain. His desire will eventually lead him to make a critical blunder. Now, do you understand?'
'I believe I do.'
A sense of helpless frustration and ineptitude began to emerge within us as I pondered this troubling dilemma. I feared that the murders could extend beyond the East End, and my growing preoccupation with the case only intensified, as I dreaded a sudden turn of events that would bring even greater catastrophe.
Around midnight, the murderer struck again. This time, however, the crime was committed in Hyde Park, rather than the East End. The murder took us completely by surprise, occurring in an area that lacked police presence or supervision.
When I arrived at the park, Captain Bailey was already there and briefed me on the details, based on the information he had gathered from a witness. It seemed that the killer—or killers—were not as discreet and precise as before. We had a witness, and there was clear evidence as well. The familiar inscription, carved into a tree, had become a redundant but troubling phrase:
"Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music! Beware the ides of March."
This was the essential shred of recurring proof I had hoped for, one more thread to bind the killers to their deeds. The sight of the victim’s body was both shocking and distressing. As with the previous victims, the gruesome remains were soaked in gore, too horrific to describe adequately. Her head had been severed from the torso completely, either by a blade or saw, with chilling precision.
Her gown had been torn to shreds, and there were unmistakable bite marks—those of a canine—around her legs and arms. Her lifeless body lay in a heavy pool of blood, surrounded by loathsome flies and pestilent rats, which were scavenging on her remains. Amidst the horrific scene, the skull was discovered, providing yet another telling piece of evidence in need of resolution.
"Only a madman, or perhaps madmen, could have committed such an atrocity. This is the work of pure madness," I muttered.
"It’s ghastly, indeed, inspector. What a horrendous way to die!" Harrison replied.
"I agree, Harrison. However, we must not allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by disgust. Instead, we must focus on the evidence left behind—traces of the murder. What do you have to report, my good man?"
"We have a witness, and clues were left behind," Harrison responded.
"Proceed!" I urged.
"A woman named Martha Townson saw the mysterious man, the one eluding justice, and she even heard his voice," Harrison explained.
He paused before continuing, "But there’s more. The woman mentioned a Hansom carriage. She was quite descriptive and said the man fled with it into the night. There was a deep intensity in her eyes as she recounted the encounter."
"The man fled with a carriage. Then it is he whom we must locate and speak to immediately," I said, urgency creeping into my voice.
"But he could be anywhere in London, or worse, he might have already left the city without us noticing," Harrison countered.
"True, Harrison. Nevertheless, we must make every attempt to find him."
I was uncertain how to respond to the mention of the fleeing carriage. My mind was more captivated by the evidence collected at the crime scene. What did we know? First, the enigmatic man—a willowy figure, well-groomed, and wearing an illustrious top hat. His countenance was gaunt, and his voice was both seductive and commanding, carrying a distinctive Welsh accent, resounding with a lofty hauteur. In the previous crime, he had left behind a black silk handkerchief, and this time, what had been discovered was an opulent gold watch.
As with the handkerchief, the initials 'D C' were engraved. I knew the key to solving this conundrum, or daunting task, was to unravel the mystery of the handkerchief and watch. There was another important detail to consider. Next to the body of the victim were strands of hair that appeared not to be human. It was too early to surmise or guess what type of creature or animal the strands of hair belonged to. There was also another significant piece of corroborative evidence. The witness had previously indicated that the stranger had fled in a Hansom carriage immediately after the crime.
'Discretion is required in this intricate case, Harrison. Despite the fresh evidence, the patterns of the murders are highly distinctive, and these violent attacks cannot be reduced to an unmitigated hypothesis. Yes, I know that a brazen dismemberment of the torsos is akin to decapitation. However inordinate as this case may be, we must be draconian in our measures, for the murderers will not show leniency towards our cause,' I replied.
'Do you think that the pattern of the murder reflects a cunning deception we have yet to uncover, inspector?' Harrison asked.
'I would not say discovered, but more observed.'
'In what way?'
'Until now, we have been more preoccupied with the heinous nature of the murders that we have not given much thought to the mindset of the criminal.'
'That would imply that we would have to read his mind.'
'Not exactly, Harrison. All we require is creativity and common sense.'
'I believe I am beginning to understand you better, inspector.'
It was nearly early morning, and the night was still perceptible to the eye. The most disconcerting aspect of the murder was the identity of the victim. Not only was the victim faint, but she was Sally Doyle. Yes, the same Sally Doyle who had been a witness in the previous case. Even though her head had been severed and her body badly mauled, we were able to verify her identity.
Indeed, these clues were decisive and vital to the case, and all that remained was to discover the culprit or culprits. The evidence ascertained that night had begun to bear fruit. I scarcely slept afterwards. Upon waking in the morning, I found the newspapers rife with egregious distortions.
The following is a cutting from The London Gazette, 14 March 1891:
A new victim of ‘The Riddle of the Skull Murders’ was discovered in Hyde Park late last night. In spite of the presence of the London Metropolitan Police and the curfew imposed, the killings persist, and the Metropolitan Police have, thus far, effected no results, rendering their efforts seemingly futile. This glaring omission has captured the attention of Londoners, causing an unsettling stir amongst the city’s most respected society.
From the scant details divulged, the victim—Sally Doyle, a poor prostitute—was found dead, her head severed from her torso, as with the previous victims. The most ominous detail is that the murder occurred outside the customary precincts of the East End, and an enigmatic inscription from Shakespeare was discovered engraved upon a tree.
Nothing is yet known of the murderer’s identity, and Her Majesty has requisitioned the assistance of the Prefecture of Paris. We shall keep the public informed of any new developments.
Of course, it was unwelcome news, and nothing more than a vilification or diatribe, couched in journalistic rubbish and repugnance by the editor, Mr Maxwell. Although I was far from pleased to awake to such invective news, my chief concern lay with the recent evidence recovered at the crime scene. The strands of hair retrieved were examined meticulously through a magnifying lens as forensic proof.
In the end, nothing definitive was proved regarding the beast’s origin, save that it resembled the coat of known large canines in the country. Above all, I was eager to ascertain the owner of those curious objects. Harrison had revealed that the watch was of American make, whilst the handkerchief was French.
Still, I remained unconvinced, for the suspect’s accent was unmistakably Welsh. It seemed to me, from his bearing and speech, that he was both a gentleman of rank and a passionate traveller—a striking paradox, yet highly suggestive. There was, moreover, a strong likelihood that he might be an actor or artist. I instructed Harrison to search hotels and private lodgings for any Welsh speaker of means or repute.
Meanwhile, I resolved to visit a local theatre and enquire whether any actors from Wales were among the company. Consulting the playbills and advertisements in the papers, I found that Julius Caesar was then in rehearsal, featuring an actor named Dylan Craddock, noted for his Welsh brogue.
I at once recalled the initials ‘D C’ engraved upon both the watch and the handkerchief. Enquiry revealed that he was in his dressing room, preparing for that very performance. The inscription upon the tree, I realised, was none other than a quotation from Julius Caesar—the play in which he now took his part.
When I entered and met him, he was seated in his chair, his back turned towards me. He was in disguise, and I could not discern his true appearance; yet his voice was unmistakable—distinct and deeply memorable. He seemed entirely at ease, speaking calmly from his chair, attentive and composed.
‘Mr Craddock, I shall not take much of your time, sir. If I may impose upon you, could we arrange to speak this day about a matter of utmost importance?’ I asked.
‘The riddle of the skull murders, I presume. And you are wondering where I have been, and whether I am the villain behind these heinous acts. I shall not treat your suspicion with effrontery nor indifference, merely because I am Welsh and eccentric—like Oscar Wilde. I am not one to languish idly upon my histrionic laurels or accolades. As for your invitation, I must decline, for I have several acts ahead, and shall soon be leaving London. Do accept my cordial invitation to stay and witness the play upon the proscenium. Do you not enjoy Shakespeare, inspector?’ He replied.
‘I fear I must also decline, sir. My duties with the case take precedence.’
‘Indeed. Time, for we thespians, is ever precious. I hope that when you do find your murderers, Inspector Cauvain, you are not too sorely disappointed by what is revealed.’
I looked into his imperious eyes and responded, ‘I shall be quite satisfied, sir.’
‘I adore challenges, and more than that, I adore besting them. Victory, inspector, is ever so delectable to the senses.’
His final remark, delivered with a flourish and a devilish grin, seemed a calculated quirk—a clear sign of his theatrical hauteur. In him, I perceived an austere eccentricity and traits befitting the very villain I sought. Yet such impressions were insufficient grounds for arrest. He excused himself with an actor’s grace, and I stood motionless for a moment, feeling a singular chill sweep through me, as the wind slipped in through the open window.
I left the theatre with my thoughts entangled in doubt and intuition, but resolute nonetheless. Craddock had become more than a mere suspect—he had become the axis around which my suspicions now revolved. Yet, lacking definitive proof, I could not wield the arm of the law against him, not yet. Thus, I tasked Harrison with a delicate but crucial role—to watch Craddock’s every movement, discreetly and diligently. Wherever he went, Harrison would follow.
Time was an invisible adversary, ticking relentlessly like the grand clock of Westminster, reminding me that every moment lost could be another life taken. I had to act swiftly, yet with unerring precision. The smallest error could scatter this web of clues to the wind.
It was then that I learned Craddock was residing at The Savoy—an elegant choice that matched his cultivated airs and theatrical vanity. More importantly, the hotel’s records confirmed that he had indeed been in London at the time of every murder. That fact alone cast a long shadow over him, deeper than mere coincidence would allow.
I felt a creeping sense of revelation stir within me, subtle yet vivid, as though I had brushed against something both tangible and elusive. The case was unfurling, its tendrils extending not only through the city, but into the obscure crevices of its hidden societies. Before I returned to the scene of the last murder in Hyde Park, I paid a visit to Madam Dillingham—a mystic, revered and reviled in equal measure. It was said she had knowledge of things better left buried.
I brought one of the retrieved skulls with me. Harrison had uncovered whispers of a clandestine sect known as the Cult of Death—a shadowy congregation, delitescent and esoteric in its rites. Some journalists had gone so far as to link the killings with the occult, and even with the Freemasons, in wild conjecture.
Madam Dillingham was a strange, charismatic figure—hypnotic in manner, draped in shawls of deepest purple, her parlour thick with incense and shadow. Our discussion hinted at truths that eluded rational grasp. Symbols carved into the skull bore resemblance to rites practiced by an ancient sect devoted to transformation through death. Her words were chilling, but they did not repel me—they beckoned me further.
And so I went to Hyde Park again, as dusk crept across the city, to prove a theory of my own. I believed that the killer—or killers—driven by compulsion or pride, might return to the scene of their crime. That obsessive nature, so often present in minds possessed by ritual and desire, would not let them stay away. They would revisit it, to relive the moment or admire their dreadful work.
London had grown tense and afraid. The gorgonised public, wide-eyed with fear and fascination, had begun to whisper theories of their own, sharpening their awareness with each new horror. And there, at the edge of the park, I watched—not just with my eyes, but with every nerve attuned, every breath drawn deep. The stillness of the trees, the whisper of the wind—every detail spoke, if only I could listen closely enough.
I had sensed the eerie presence of unseen eyes observing me with audacious precision—hardihood cloaked in shadow. That uncanny feeling guided my steps to the garden where Sally Doyle’s body was once found. The soil had recently been disturbed. There were fresh footprints etched into the earth—distinct, unweathered, and speaking silently of a visitor, or perhaps, the killer himself returning to the scene.
The prints were irregular, and their pattern difficult to identify. Still, I ordered the constables to create a cast of them. If nothing else, they might provide some forensic leverage—a fragile strand in a web rapidly fraying.
Upon my return to headquarters, I met with Harrison and Captain Bailey. I relayed the discovery and pressed Harrison for his surveillance report on Craddock. Disappointingly, he had little to offer beyond Craddock’s appearance at a restaurant in Piccadilly—an evening engagement with his actor acquaintances. Nothing more, nothing less.
Unwilling to take further chances, I directed an officer to monitor Craddock throughout the night. I knew we were close—somewhere within reach of a revelation—but the danger of error was a specter I could not ignore. One wrong assumption could collapse the entire case like a house of cards.
That evening was cloaked in a deceptive stillness. The air was crisp, the city lights gentle and lulling. I had allowed myself, if only briefly, to believe that perhaps there would be no new horrors before dawn.
But London is never still for long.
By midnight, that illusion shattered. Three murders—swift, harrowing, and grotesquely timed—unfolded across the city like a coordinated performance. First, a body was found in the East End. The second came from the genteel quarter of the West End. The third—a brutal and brazen killing—occurred near the venerable arches of London Bridge.
I was summoned at once to headquarters. The air was taut with disbelief. Captain Bailey sat hunched over the reports, and Harrison’s face was ashen. What they told me chilled me more than the cold.
The East End murder matched the past killings—another prostitute found in a degraded state, signs of ritual markings again present. But the West End victim was of a different stature: Lady Euphemia Wycliffe, a woman of influence and noble heritage. And the London Bridge victim? Lord Roland Ashbury, a nobleman known for his philanthropy and his dealings with certain shadowy circles of power.
The change in victimology was stark and staggering. This was no longer confined to a pattern of class-targeted killings. The circle had widened—drastically. The killer, or killers, were making a statement. They had beguiled not only the public, but humiliated the Metropolitan Police—taunting our assumptions, our methodology, our pride.
And in that moment, I understood: the murderer was evolving—or worse—he was not alone.
The witness statements trickled in like fragments of a broken mirror, reflecting more confusion than clarity. One swore the voice he heard bore an American twang—sharp, guttural, almost theatrical. Another, at a separate scene, insisted it was French—silken, cold, deliberate. Both could not be true, and yet, neither could be dismissed. These contradictions only served to deepen the fog around us.'
'But amidst the chaos, one detail was unwaveringly consistent: the grim token left behind—a skull, meticulously placed. Each bore an inscription carved with eerie precision, some phrase that struck terror even in hardened hearts. It was not merely a signature; it was a challenge. A ritual. A message.'
These were not random killings. Nor were they the acts of a single, unhinged mind. They bore the marks of something organised, theatrical—an intelligence behind the madness. Multiple murderers. Possibly collaborators, bound by a creed or a cause unknown.'
The newspapers showed no mercy.
'Scourge of the Skull: Metropolitan Stumbles Again!'
'Nobility Not Spared–Cult Strikes at the Heart of London!'
'Inspector Cauvain at a Loss?'
Each headline stabbed at our credibility, fanning the flames of fear and public fury. I could feel the weight of the city pressing on my shoulders—the urgency to unravel this dark puzzle before the next act unfolded.'
And so, I knew—I could no longer rely on conventional deduction alone. The answers lay deeper, obscured in shadows and symbols. Perhaps even in the whispered secrets of the Cult of Death, or the histrionic smile of Mr Craddock.
That night, I had slept little and spent the dwindling hours haunted by the phantasms of the murders. I was expecting the heavy criticism of the press, and I would awake to the scathing venom of all the major newspapers in London.
—Cutting from the London Gazette, 15 March 1891:
It has been several days that has transpired, and the reprehensible and irrepressible murderers have not been detained, and the overwrought populace within London clamour indignantly, for justice and swift retribution. It is even more transparent with each repugnant murder that the London Metropolitan Police has been totally feckless to seize the astute culprits, and are apparently more incompetent and fretful in laxity, with their proceedings.
Impetuous rumours of the secret Cult of Death and the return of Jack the Ripper have begun to circulate throughout the city straightaway, and the queen, uneasy with the negative attention the case has received abroad, has therefore instructed the London Metropolitan Police to offer a lofty reward of a million pounds, for any pertinent information that leads to the lawful apprehension of the dastardly culprits. We shall keep the interest of the public always informed of any fresh details concerning the murders.
The press was at the front door of the London Metropolitan Police headquarters, more riled than ever by the new murders that had occurred the day before. Extreme tension and anxiety were consuming the city in a frantic frenzy.
There were appeals and demands upon the Metropolitan Police to find the culprits, for they were now killing worthy aristocrats and had expanded their spree to other known areas of the city. This was intolerable to the queen and the English politicians, who had urged her to relinquish her discretion in the matter and become more involved in the case.
I spoke to Harrison at once and asked him if Mr Craddock had left the hotel that night. His response was no—Craddock had spent the entire night in his hotel, accompanied by the rest of the cast. The notion that there were multiple killers compelled me to return to the theatre and inspect the names of the other cast members, in search of any American or French nationals.
After a thorough search through the list provided by the dramaturge of the theatre, two particular names arrested my attention. The first was a Mr Roger Beaumont, and the second, Mr Armand Bonnaire. I was told by the dramaturge that Beaumont hailed from New Orleans, whilst Bonnaire was from Paris.
Fortune favoured me, for I found the young American Mr Beaumont in the foyer. He had just returned from a social engagement. His appearance was unmistakable: a man of medium stature, fair complexion, with hazel eyes and dark hair visible beneath the brim of his top hat.
What was more conspicuous was the expensive ring he wore, adorned with a sparkling ruby. He did not detect me, for I quickly turned my back as he passed by. This detail intrigued me precisely—it was the kind of information that stirred the wheels of thought in my mind. The question that revolved endlessly within was: how might I deceive Mr Craddock and the other two, luring them into a place where they would be both vulnerable and visible? I pondered this deeply.
Then suddenly, the ideal that had floated vaguely in my head took shape—becoming a marvellous idea. Although I knew it was a considerable risk and the plan might very well fail, I was left with no other option.
Thus, I shared my intentions with only Captain Bailey and Harrison—the two individuals I trusted the most. It was not that I wished to distrust anyone else, but I could not be certain whether the killers had collaborators within the ranks of the London Metropolitan Police. The suspicion of a clandestine Cult of Death behind the murders had begun to fester in my thoughts, and the theory of multiple killers suited the pattern of these brutal slayings.
My thoughts then turned to Madam Dullingham, the spiritualist—an expert in the field of the supernatural. I went to her residence on Gloucester Street. Upon my arrival, I found the rear door ajar, and so I entered.
As I passed through the hall, I found her—stone dead upon the floor. Her head, like those of the other victims, had been cleanly severed from her body.
It was a ghastly sight. Blood was everywhere. Her lifeless torso lay submerged in a crimson pool that stretched outward like a grotesque halo. And on one of the walls, scrawled in that same dreadful fashion, was the chilling inscription from Shakespeare:
'Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music! Beware the ides of March.'
There was also a letter that was left behind, and its contents were basically the words of one of the presumed killers goading me to catch them. It was addressed to me. The following contents of the letter I had shared with utmost discretion.
Dear Inspector Cauvain:
You, who are wise and perceptive, will not shy away from a challenge—one that, rest assured, you will find most intriguing. If you are bold enough to accept, then be prepared to face us before your morgues overflow with lifeless bodies.
What matters is not my name, nor what you choose to call me. What truly matters is the cause we are fighting for. You may call me mad, but I am no more mad than the corrupt elites who suck the lifeblood from society, parasites to be sliced and devoured. We are dedicated to our cause, just as you are to yours.
For decades, we have endured the injustices heaped upon us, and no longer shall we stand idle while our rights to worship are destroyed. I will not keep you any longer with my words, but know this: time is of the essence.
'The time of the Ides of March is near—the 15th of March!'
Indeed, today was that day—the day the official opening of the London-Paris telephone system was to be unveiled to the public. However, due to the ongoing murders, the event had been postponed. As I stood, staring at the lifeless body of Madam Dillingham for what seemed like an eternity, an intruder attacked me from behind. We struggled fiercely on the ground.
He was dressed entirely in black and wore a mask. Fortunately, I managed to grab a rod from the hearth and strike the assailant’s head, knocking him unconscious. As I caught my breath, a large black mastiff entered the room, its sharp teeth bared, its gaze fixed on me. I quickly drew my pistol from my waistcoat and fired, striking the animal as it lunged. It collapsed to the floor, dead.
After the immediate danger had passed, I removed the mask from the intruder and checked his pockets. To my horror, I found a note—a note that spoke of a private meeting between the Marquess of Salisbury, the leader of the Conservative Party, and a man named Mr. Craddock. The meeting was to take place at the Marquess' estate in Hertfordshire. It was clear then that their next intended victim, however audacious it seemed, was none other than the Leader of the House of Lords himself.
'Good God!' I muttered to myself in disbelief.
I knew time was of the essence. The plot was thickening, and the thought of the Marquess’ imminent death drove me to act swiftly. I wasted no time, rushing out of the house to inform Harrison and Captain Bailey of this shocking discovery. We had no time to waste in alerting the authorities in Norfolk, so we boarded the train immediately. By evening, we had arrived in Norfolk.
After arriving in Norfolk, we left the train station and took a carriage to the Basilic Estate in Hertfordshire. When we reached the estate, we found the Marquess in the midst of an engagement with Mr. Craddock. They were seated in the parlour, and Mr. Craddock, dressed in his usual debonair fashion with an elegant top hat, was pouring wine into the Marquess' glass. The two men were lifting their glasses in preparation to drink, but I rushed into the room and seized the Marquess' glass before he could sip from it. The Marquess looked at me with bemusement.
'Do not drink the wine, Your Excellency!' I commanded.
Mr. Craddock sprang to his feet, but before he could make a move, he was quickly apprehended by Captain Bailey. I immediately explained the situation to the Marquess, and the guards of the estate arrived in a timely manner. The devious and Machiavellian plot of the Cult of Death had been foiled and exposed.
But then, there was one final, shocking twist—one that I had never anticipated. Whilst Captain Bailey detained Mr. Craddock, Harrison, to my utter disbelief, pulled out his pistol and aimed it at me. The Marquess, frozen with horror, stared at the scene in absolute bewilderment. I stood there, momentarily stunned, as Harrison revealed his ring—the same one I had seen earlier, which I had failed to associate with the cult members.
Unknowingly, Harrison had been a loyal member of the Cult of Death. But for how long?
'What the bloody hell are you doing, Harrison, with that pistol in hand?' I demanded.
He stared at me with a devilish grin and said, 'Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music! Beware the ides of March.'
'Good God, Harrison, since when have you been involved in these murders and the secret cult?'
He laughed at me in an abderian manner, then uttered, 'Since the beginning, Inspector Cauvain!'
He hesitated, then added, 'Who else would know all the meticulous details of the police?'
With a cynical stare, he then threatened, 'Now, put your pistol down, or I shall shoot the Marquess at point-blank range!'
'How can I trust you?' I asked.
'You have no other choice, Inspector Cauvain', he replied.
I began to piece things together. The minor details I had overlooked—his odd demeanor from the start, his fidgetiness—were now clear indicators that I had failed to equate to him before. Reluctantly, I did as he commanded and lowered the pistol.
His inexperience and desperate foolishness would cost him his life in the end. The commotion had alerted the guards, who were now rushing towards the parlour from outside. As Harrison pointed the pistol at the Marquess, he pulled the trigger—but before the shot could reach its target, a gunshot rang out from afar, striking Harrison in the chest. He crumpled to the floor, dead.
With his dying breath, he uttered a final, chilling phrase that reminded me of the demented cause of the Cult of Death.
'Beware the Ides of March, Your Excellency. Your day to die has arrived. I may die, Inspector, but surely not the cause—or the Cult of Death!'
He then died, eyes wide open. That was the grim end of Harrison’s life—and with it, the dreadful plot of the Cult of Death reached its conclusion. The riddle of the skull murders had been solved. London, and indeed the rest of England, was finally free from the reign of terror that had gripped it through the bloody days of March in the year 1891.
The remaining members of the cult were either apprehended, took their own lives, or fled the country. New laws were swiftly imposed to combat secret societies and cults across England. As for the American and the Frenchman, both were apprehended in London as they attempted to abscond justice.
The mystery of the large canine was also resolved. The beast mistaken for some mythic creature was in fact a menacing mastiff, trained for death and terror.
The Metropolitan Police were commended with great honours, and I, Inspector Jack Cauvain, received a noble award from both Her Majesty the Queen and the Parliament. It seemed, at long last, that the streets of London were returning to a semblance of normalcy.
Even as the years passed, I could not shake the lingering question that haunted the corners of my mind: were there still members of the Cult of Death, hidden in shadow, conspiring to revive their sinister cause? The riddle of the skull murders had been solved—but the echo of Harrison’s final words would remain etched in my memory:
'Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music! Beware the Ides of March.'
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