Mar 13, 2016

Thank you all for the fantastic response to my totally unscientific market research to analyse which what percentage of my followers were interested in the "HORROR" component of my story.  

Well the results are in...around 10%.  And thank those of you who pre-ordered as a result of that sample.  As promised, the conspiracy part of Louisiana Blood is another area I’d like to analyse.  

So here’s a chapter in which the conspiracy of Jack The Ripper is plotted and launched...unbeknownst to the conspirators they have been overheard...

Please feel free to like the post if you are a conspiracy nut, and feel even freer to pre-order.  I’m hoping to break the 50% funding line this weekend and any help is appreciated.  

Click here to PREORDER

Okay, hold onto your hats...

LONDON 1888

Mary Kelly hurries through the streets. She’s terrified  and constantly looks over her shoulder. She meets up with other woman,  the women in the photograph along with Mary that are destined to become the first victims of Jack The Ripper. Mary Anne Nichols, Dark Annie, Long Lizzie and Catherine Eddowes.

“Over the next few days I told my friends about Fay and what I’d seen...at first they didn’t believe me...but that soon changed.”

                                                                                  ***

A policeman knocks on the door to Mary’s house in Dorset Street and goes in. 

“The police visited me...they made it very clear I couldn’t leave London under any circumstances...” 

The policeman leaves the house. A young man steps from the shadows and raps on the door. 

“And then I met Edward.”

A young man sits on a chair opposite Mary. Slim, with a sensitive face, and soft caring eyes.

“Journalists were in the habit of following police around in those days...especially after a murder, and I thought he was just another one of them after a scoop...but he seemed very concerned about my safety...so I listened to his story.”

PALL MALL GAZETTE OFFICES

The offices of the Pall Mall Gazette were situated in an impressive four-storey building that looked more like a court than the home of the famous newspaper it housed. It had been losing money for years and its owner Henry Yates Thompson took the decision to bring in the radical William T. Stead to assist him in his struggling editorship. 

Stead immediately set about involving the Pall Mall in numerous sensational political crusades, Such crusades consolidated Stead’s journalistic power and, for a time, made the Pall Mall one of the most influential papers in London, with literary contributors that included George Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wilde. 

But behind its grand façade a situation was developing that could spell the end of its illustrious history and the ruination of its editor W.T Stead paced the office. Two gentlemen sat opposite his desk. A Lamson Pneumatic tube system, an impressive brass device for sending messages via tube throughout the offices, glinted on the wall behind him.

One of the seated men was George Monroe, a thick set and intense looking individual, the Assistant Police Commissioner, a secret agent and head of Section D, the political intelligence branch of CID. 

The other man sat with his face in half shadow, smartly dressed and with a military bearing. Known only by his codename Triton, secret agent to Queen Victoria. Stead is red in the face and furious. The veins pulse in his forehead as he wipes sweat from his face with a sodden silk handkerchief. 

“Do you have any idea what you are suggesting!”

Triton speaks with an icy calmness and absolute authority. 

“I am not suggesting anything...I am relaying a specific policy that you will be assisting us with...” 

Stead leant over the desk. 

“Assisting! Damn it man what you’re proposing is insane!” 

Triton steepled his fingers and fixed the sweating editor with cold appraising eyes. 

“There is an element of the situation that may give that perception I’ll grant you.” Stead mopped his brow. “And if I choose not to assist you with your...policy?”

Triton looks at him. Not an option. He motions to Stead to sit down. 

“Let me explain the reality to you.” Stead slumped back in his chair like a fairground balloon that had lost its air. 

“I’d be obliged to you I’m sure."  His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Triton. He pulled out a small pocket diary. Consulted it, cleared his throat and began speaking. 

“Your publication appears to be a well respected and profitable enterprise...however...” He ran his finger down a line of figures that spread down one of the pages. 

“Your latest bank position shows a deficit running at several thousand guineas...a condition your competitors might view as parlous...should they find out...” 

Stead sprang to his feet. “How the hell...?” Triton fixed him with an icy stare. “Please sit down Mr Stead...” the editor slumped back in his chair. Triton continued.

“Your involvement in the purchase of a thirteen year old girl for sale into prostitution was ill judged, and could, with the relevant testimony still prove fatal to both your private and public life...” Stead looked up. 

“That’s all dead and buried...I served my time for Eliza.” Triton shot him a thin-lipped smile. 

“Nothing remains buried if we wish to exhume it Mr Stead...we can bring witnesses forwards that will crucify you...and believe me, there will be no resurrection....” 

Stead’s face crumpled. Triton nodded. “I’ll take your silence as acquiescence...now Mr Monroe...do you have any issues with our plan?”

Monroe rubbed his hands together as if washing them clean of any responsibility. “What makes you so sure it will work?” Triton fixed him with eyes that missed nothing. 

“It will work because we have the full backing of her majesty and all the resources necessary to carry it out. Warren will not be Commissioner for much longer ...we’ll see to that, and the position will be yours...as a result of our endeavours the police force will be adequately funded, properly staffed and given the respect it so badly needs.”  Monroe pulled at his collar like it was choking him. “I agree it could do with all you are suggesting...it’s just...well if this ever got out...” He trailed off. 

Triton straightend up in his chair. “As you must be aware the incident involving the Duke of Clarence was an unfortunate situation...a jealous rage...common amongst people of that class...had it not been witnessed we could have controlled the situation...”

Monroe nodded. Licked dry lips. “The Kelly girl...is she willing to comply?” Triton slipped his diary back into his pocket. “All of the girls involved have been promised a new life and travel to America where they will be safe...after all, it wouldn’t do to have our supposed victims wandering around the streets.” 

The Assistant Commissioner gave a sharp laugh. “No...quite.” Triton looked at him. The smile died on his face. 

“Their deaths will be orchestrated ...identification will be arranged and the bodies of some unfortunates we already have in storage...will be...well...you’ll read about them in the papers.” Stead suddenly looked across, as if realizing the depth of his involvement. “What is my role in this?”

Triton gave him a pitying look. “My dear William you will be producing the copy of your life...you’ll be notified of the time and place of the murders and the most accurate details...your circulation will go through the roof...along with your bank account and personal fortune...you will of course be selling your soul...” 

Stead looked at Triton, his eyes cold and wide with disbelief at the scope of his power. “Do you have a conscience?” Triton chuckled. “I save it for special occasions, and I never bring it out in matters of state... ” 

“Do you have a name for the fiend who’ll be terrorising these poor unfortunates?” Triton stood up and moved towards the door. “I leave that to you...”

Monroe got up. “And who will be ah...doing the work?” Triton smiled. “I have a pair of villains that have no option other than to do my bidding.” Stead threw the sodden handkerchief into a waste bin. “And what about their trustworthiness ...what’s to stop them selling their story to some other tabloid?” Triton leaned towards the editor. “Their fear of death Mr Williams...it’s a powerful argument don’t you think?”

                                                                                  ***

In the LAMSON TERMINAL ROOM Where the pneumatic tubes that sent messages shooting around the building terminated, Edward listened to the voices coming from an open brass tube marked “Editor”.

And on that bombshell! Have a great weekend and if you’d like to send me a LIKE or PREORDER I’m grateful.