INSPECTOR FREDERICK ABBERLINE's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Inspector Frederick Abberline wanted to catch the Whitechapel killer before another woman died. He stood in his superintendent's office and pointed at the cracked window glass. A dead woman stared back at him from the reflection. No one else saw her. "She shows me his face," Abberline said. "The murdered girls speak to me in glass. We can stop him tonight." The superintendent set down his pen. Two other officers watched from the wall. One hid a smirk behind his hand. "You claim ghosts give you clues," the superintendent said. "I have reporters at my door and a killer loose. I cannot send a madman to hunt him." Abberline's hands shook. He pressed them flat on the desk. "I am not mad. Give me three days. One arrest." "You are off the case, Inspector. Surrender your notes to Constable Witcraft." The word landed like a slammed door. Abberline's certainty cracked into cold fear. Without the badge, he had no reason to walk those streets, no power to stop the next killing. In the window glass, the dead woman's mouth moved. Her hooded eyes burned. Mary Kelly. His neighbor once. His friend now, though she lived only in mirrors. "The tunnel... the green water," she whispered. "He runs where the stream cuts the stone. Tommy must not find me there... follow the water, Frederick." Abberline turned from the desk. He could not argue with a man who heard nothing. So he chose. He would catch the killer without their leave, or he would lose everything trying. Constable Derek Witcraft caught him in the hall outside. The big man blocked the stairs, pipe clenched in his teeth, mustache twitching. He had worked beside Abberline for years and believed in no ghosts. "They sacked you," Witcraft said. "I'm meant to take your files." He glanced down the empty hall. "But I want this devil caught more than I want my orders followed. What did you see?" "A tunnel. A stream through slimy stone." Abberline's voice steadied. "That is where he hides." Witcraft struck a match and lit his pipe. Smoke curled around his face. "The old drain below the cellar doors by the foundry yard. Green water runs there." He paused. "I never gave you my files. Understand?" They went together. Behind a run-down building stood two weathered wooden cellar doors set into the ground. Witcraft hauled one open. Rot and cold damp rose up. Below, a murky green stream cut between slimy walls. A grey cat sat at the edge, orange eyes shining. Big Tom hissed, then spoke in a sharp burst only Abberline could hear. "You're late, ain't you? He went through here, knife still wet. I watched him, didn't I? Nobody ever listens to a cat." Abberline dropped into the dark. He had no badge now. He had a ghost's clue, a stubborn constable, and a cat who had seen murder. It would have to be enough.