Revenge At White Chapel & other stories

6:19:03 PM MST

                       Kate sat with the pieces of blood soaked clothing in her hands, gloating.  The bitch at White Chapel was dead and she was glad.  How dare the harlot have her husband, taking the money and love that should belong to her alone?

                      The light of the fireplace her only solace,  Kate's  agile fingers quickly fastened the bloodstained pieces into quilt squares that would be added to normal ones of the quilt later and folded them away in her personal trunk.      Kate's smug smile spread  across her thick features, the  trunk key turning in the lock sealing away  the grisly reminder of murder.

                     Each time he had left to seek the company of a harlot, Kate had followed  her husband.  

            The first time Kate's heartbreak shattered her self worth  as she watched them together in the alley, sating their lust,  the money, her money,  changing hands into the strumpet's hands. 

             The woman's shrill laugh grated  on Kate's ears, sending blood pounding murderous  rage through her body.
 
               Revenge plans hummed through Kate's mind like a swarm of angry bees.

              A stout woman, Kate easily fit into her husband's clothing, being almost the same size.  Kate tucked her dress up into his clothing, donned a hat and ventured into the crowded night of the  White Chapel  district to seek her victim, the strumpet she'd seen her husband with in the past. 

             Many of the the ladies of the evening approached her, disgusting her with their flirtations, her disguise as a man working perfectly .    Kate wanted to wield the surgical tools she carried in her pocket into  their neck, but held off for the prize whore, motioning them away.

                         How Kate despised the pretty trollops for their way with her husband.   Mother Nature had not been kind to her.  Jealousy and envy fueled the fire to new heights of hate.

                       Kate's thoughts turned to her life with her husband.   Often she had to finish the Doctor's surgery, he would be too drunk,  shaking with the affliction of too much  ale.      Kate's skill in surgery surpassed her husband's, yet the credit for her mastery eluded her in Victorian times.   She was more skilled than anyone would guess, even the local authority.

                       Their names didn't matter to her, history would remember the trollops including the one she'd just killed, her name unknown, she thought, but she would rid them from the face of the Earth for taking her man.

                      Kate tossed aside the hat  (her husband would have no need of it in the grave soon),  stripped in the alley down to her basic feminine dress and folded the rest of the man's  suit and victim's  bloody clothing  strips carefully  under her  own clothes.  Kate was flushed with victory, the lust for revenge temporarily sated in her veins.

                        An  officer  glanced her way in the dark, inquired as to her health.   A brief panic engulfed Kate, yet she found her voice to tell him she was fine. The officer chastised her for being out alone at night with the Ripper loose in White Chapel.      Kate barely suppressed a laugh.  Afraid of her own shadow?  If he only knew he had the Ripper in front of him.   Kate heard her own voice reassure him, its sound unreal to her.  The officer moved on, and Kate tarried a moment to savor the flavor of  revenge in her tormented soul.    The dead don't scream and the officer in his concern for her had totally failed to check out the surroundings, or was it cowardice?

 

                     Another  bloody quilt trophy for the trunk.  Soon she would complete the quilt of death.   Kate  would leave a  letter, the quilt, death instruments and no remorse for her sins in her beloved personal trunk.

                     Kate's  anger stemmed from  the whores'  disease that now slowly was  killing  her husband, therefore they were the murderers in her mind.  Never mind the fact that he had gone willingly to them.    Kate despised herself for loving her husband in the face of  this, yet she couldn't stop loving him.   Killing the source of  her pain brought brief satisfaction.

                   Her husband groaned from the other room. The smell of death, like a dead animal, wafted through the small house that doubled as a doctor's office.  It grew more foul each day.   Part of her longed for it to be over, part of it sad to part with him.  It was ripping her apart, so why shouldn't it rip his lovers also?

                  How appropriate that they should have named her "Jack the Ripper."

                  Women had been discounted as suspects since they were the "weaker sex" and could find no motive for murdering the women at White Chapel.  Kate's ability to navigate through White Chapel hinged on this, her being a woman she was not even suspected.   Like a wolf in the proverbial sheep's clothing.

                  There  was no sound as Kate's husband died.  She was free now.  The reign of terror was over,  lasting several months.   Packing all of her belongings she decided to venture to America to live with her sister on the East coast, a new beginning.  The trunk accompanied her, along with her death quilt made of victim's clothing pieces.

               Kate lived to a ripe old age, and when she passed away her trunk  was opened  by her nieces and nephews.   They laughed at their Aunt's murder  confession thinking it to be the work of an aged and addled mind, and  sold the rest of her belongings to some nearby  shops dealing in used items.

               And her death quilt?   A prominent antique shop has an unusual quilt displayed in its window, valued for its age only,  made by Jack the Ripper.

 

                                               -30-

 

 

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