Haunted Castles [S.S. Col.] by Russell Ray

Author:Russell, Ray [Russell, Ray]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Horror, Gothic, Short Stories
ISBN: 9780143124016
Google: jNee0Za62MsC
Amazon: 0143124013
Barnesnoble: 0143124013
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1985-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

IX

THE SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF

Exactly,” said Lord Terry. “The Ripper’s killings, without exception, resembled the later Paris murders, and also the earlier massacres of Bluebeard’s, in that they were obsessively sexual and resulted in ‘wounds of a nature too shocking to be described,’ as the London Times put it. The Bluebeard comparison is not exclusive with me—a Chicago doctor named Kiernan arrived at it independently and put it forth at the time of the Whitechapel murders. And the current series of perverted butcheries here in New York are, of course, of that same stripe. Incidentally, may I call your attention to the sound of Jekyll’s name? Trivial, of course, but it would have been characteristic of that scoundrel Hyde to tell one of his victims his name was Jekyll, which she might have taken as ‘jackal’ and later gasped out in her last throes to a passerby, who mistook it for ‘Jack.’ And the date fits, you know. We’ve placed Hyde’s ‘birth’ at 1886 for no better reason than because the Stevenson story was published in that year . . . but if the story is based in truth, then it is a telling of events that took place before the publication date, perhaps very shortly before. Yes, there is a distinct possibility that Jack the Ripper was Mr. Hyde.”

Hunt toyed with the dregs of his coffee. “Excuse me, Lord Terry,” he said, “but another flaw has opened up.”

“Truth cannot be flawed, my boy.”

“Truth cannot, no.” This time, it was Hunt who stalled. He signalled the waiter for hot coffee, elaborately added sugar and cream, stirred longly and thoughtfully. Then he said, “Jack the Ripper’s crimes were committed, you say, between the years 1885 and 1891?”

“According to the best authorities, yes.”

“But sir,” Hunt said, smiling deferentially all the while, “in Stevenson’s story, published in 1886, Hyde died. He therefore could not have committed those crimes that took place after 1886.”

Lord Terry spread his arms expansively. “Oh, my dear boy,” he said, “when I suggest that the story was based in truth, I do not mean to imply that it was a newspaper report, a dreary list of dates and statistics. For one thing, many small items, such as names and addresses, were surely changed for obvious reasons (Soho for Whitechapel, perhaps). For another thing, Stevenson was a consummate craftsman, not a police blotter. The unfinished, so-called realistic story is stylish today, but in Stevenson’s time a teller of tales had to bring a story to a satisfying and definite conclusion, like a symphony. No, no, I’m afraid I can’t allow you even a technical point.”

“If names were fabricated, what about that Jekyll-jackal business?”

“Quite right—I retract the Jekyll-jackal business. Trivial anyway.”

Hunt persisted. “Was Hyde’s nationality a fabrication of Stevenson’s, too, then?”

“No, I’m inclined to believe he was actually English . . .”

“Ah! But Laval and Sellig—”

“Were French? Oh, I rather think not. Both spoke English like natives, you know. And Laval drank Scotch whisky like water—which I’ve never seen a Frenchman do.

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