There's a knock on my door and I know it's going to be bad news. Miss Atkinson, my secretary, enters stony faced.

"Yes Mavis, what is it," I ask? "Everything alright?"

"There's a telegram for you Detective Chief Superintendent Reid. It's from Headquarters." She hands me the note and turns and leaves. As the door closes I read it.

MURDER IN CHELSEA. HIGH PROFILE VICTIM. ATTEND SCOTLAND YARD. MEET WITH ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER IMMEDIATLEY.

I get a constable to hail me a carriage and as the damn thing bounces and bumps through London's crowded streets I think of the telegram. Murder. If the Assistant Comissioner wants me to see him then the victim must be very high profile; Royalty perhaps? Or maybe a Member of Parliament? The Prime Minister even.

I must say, I can do without this. I'm already working on another murder case; prostitute, throat slashed open in a Soho knocking shop two nights ago, nasty business. Whispers of the Ripper float along the crowded streets of London- those heinous murders still fresh, but it's been eighteen years since he stalked our streets and Chelsea isn't Whitechapel. I should know: I've worked both.

I was a young constable, with less than two years' service, walking the beat in Whitechapel when Saucy Jack got up to all his naughtiness. Those were bad times.

I was first on scene at the last one. Poor Mary Kelly, you should have seen the state of her; all sliced and diced like a Christmas turkey. Sergeant Dawson, who was with me at the time, threw up in his helmet; Inspector Carlin had to give him the rest of the day off. I'd been on night shift, but I offered to stay on to help the detectives work the crime scene. They were impressed with my handling of the situation and a few months later I was invited to join the Criminal Investigation Department. I spent months working on the Ripper murders with them, but we just couldn't crack it. Mary's mother came over from Ireland to collect the body and I promised her that I'd find her daughter's killer.

In 1889 I was promoted to sergeant and left Whitechapel for Hackney. Two years after that I was promoted to Inspector and transferred to the City Of Westminster. I stayed there for nine years and got promoted twice (Chief Inspector to Superintendent) before moving on to the Borough of Chelsea where I was promoted again to Detective Chief Superintendent, and in all those years I haven't given up on that promise I made to Mrs Kelly..

Forty minutes later I'm sitting outside the Assistant Commissioner's office. His secretary, a pretty East Ender, types away on an old typewriter. After a few minutes his door opens and he beckons me in.

"Take a seat Reid."

I do.

"Listen up, because we need to work fast on this one, but before I tell you; prepare yourself. You know the victim in this one."

I absorb his words, but am more curious than anything. Why should this murder take precedence over the dead whore?

"The victim is Lady Kensington."

"Of Chelsea?"

"Do you know another one," he snaps.

"Good grief, I only saw her last week; she was in great form."

Lady Kensington, this is not good. I do know her, was a friend of her husband before he passed away. She's become something of an amateur sleuth recently; has been studying the Ripper case. She asks my opinion sometimes, asks for investigatory titbits. I do it just to humour her, what with the husband dead and the kids at boarding school, the poor dear's bored, that's all.

He goes on, "Right, here it is. She was discovered this morning by a friend. She'd been shot through the head."

"How many times?"

"Once, we think. The pathologist hasn't seen her yet, we're waiting for the investigation to start. You will be heading this one up Reid"

He shuffles on his chair. The leather makes an embarrassing creaking noise.

"This is big Reid," he says leaning forward. "The Prime Minister's gotten involved, wants this cleared up post haste." He stands up, walks around the desk and stands in front of me. "The Commissioner wants Webb on this one, thinks that you being a friend of the family might hinder the investigation, but I want you on it."

I swell a little with pride.

"You know how highly I rate Webb, but when it comes to the high profile stuff your much more suited and he is getting on a bit now; lost some of his edge. I need the best on this. The best homicide detective I have is you."

"Yes sir, I'd be honoured and I thank you for the vote of confidence."

"Excellent. Now you'll need someone with you on this. Who do you want?"

"Sergeant Hinton," I say, "I'm thinking of promoting him to Detective Inspector. This case should see if he's fit for the role."

"Very well; you start now."

We shake hands and I leave.

I hail a carriage and I'm back in my office in no time. I summon Hinton. He arrives during lunch.

"Sit down man," I say.

He does.

"You'll have heard about what's happened with Lady Kensington."

"Yes, sir; nasty business."

"Good. I've selected you to work with me on this one. Don't worry too much about anything; I'll supervise the investigation, you do the donkey work."

"Yes sir. When do we start?"

"Now, let's go. I'll tell you what I know on route to the crime scene."

We hail a carriage and I tell Hinton what I know.

"Right listen up sergeant. Crime is as follows. At nine thirty AM on the morning of the seventeenth of March 1907, the body of Lady Victoria Blannahachet was discovered lying on her bedroom floor by a friend. She had been shot through the head."

"Do we know what with?" Hinton asks.

"I'm coming to it man. Beside the body was a Colt 1878 revolver minus one round. The gun's still at the crime scene. Two PC's are on guard duty."

"Any witnesses?"

"None at the moment."

Hinton scribbles away in his notebook.

"Alright. First things first: the victim. White female, thirty eight years old, widow to Lord Kensington, Richard Blannahachet, who died of pneumonia three years ago at the age of forty four. Children: two, one son one daughter. The eldest is Michael, sixteen years old and is currently boarding at Eaton. Sophie, the daughter, twelve, is currently boarding at Harrow school for girls."

Hinton scribbles furiously.

"Family members will have stayed last night. Lady Kensington has been very lonely of late, what with the kids away and the husband dead. I do not suspect that any of them would do this."

"Who then sir?" Hinton asks.

"They have a butler handyman type. Dreadful little slum dweller. Ex-army. Fought in the Second Boer War, got a chip on his shoulder because he reached Lieutenant over there and became a butler over here. He lives in the basement of the house next to the boiler. My money's on him."

Hinton remains silent but I see that he has written SUSPECT BUTLER on his pad.
There's no question mark after butler.

Thirty minutes later I'm in the lounge comforting, Sophia, Lady Kensington's mother. Her tanned Mediterranean skin is grey and sallow. She whimpers in Greek, her native tongue. Sitting beside her is Lady Catherine, her daughter, and she holds her hand affectingly. Standing against the fireplace is a tall, handsome young man. His black hair is heavily oiled and the smoke from the pipe he sucks on stains the air.

"Are you going to catch the bastard Reid?"

That's Detective Chief Superintendent Reid son.

"I assure you Lord Bruce, I will."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Hinton says to someone only he knows. The family all look around at each other.

"Thank you, sorry I didn't catch your name," Lady Catherine says.

"Oh sorry your Ladyship. Hinton, Detective Sergeant Peter Hinton."

"Thank you Detective Sergeant Hinton, you are most kind." Catherine smiles at Hinton and the man blushes. Maybe I'm wrong about him.

I need to progress this so I start.

"Alright. Whilst I know you are all upset, but I have a job to do."

"Of course superintendent," Lord Bruce says.

That's DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT.

"I'll talk to you all as one if I may. When was the last time Lady Victoria was seen?"

Lady Catherine speaks. "About ten thirty last night. We'd played cards, Victoria, mummy, me and Pippa."

"Pippa?" I ask.

"Oh, Pippa's Victoria's best friend. She's married to Teddy, the Prime Minister's son."

"And where is Pippa now?"

"Under sedation; the poor dear had such a dreadful fright."

"Indeed. I will need to speak to her at some point."

"We can wake her up now if you want," Lady Catherine adds.

"No, ma'am, that won't be necessary. Lord Bruce, where were you last night?"

"Is that an accusation chief inspector?"

Demoted in an instant. I'll let that one go.

"No sir, just a question."

"I was at my club on Pall Mall, dozens can vouch for me."

"That won't be necessary sir. Did anybody hear the shot?"

"No," Catherine answers on behalf of them all.

"Now tell me about the butler."

"Besch," Brucie says. "What about him? The man's a pleb, but a killer?"

"What sort of relationship did Lady Victoria have with him?"

Catherine answers. "As far as I know fine. She didn't mention any problems. He was paid well and left alone when off duty. I see no reason why he would do this."

"Does he own a gun?"

"I don't know, only he can answer that."

Hinton stops writing and says, "Can we speak to him now?"

"Yes, of course. I'll get the maid to summon him."

Lady Catherine stands up, goes over to the corner of the room and pulls on a chain. A bell sounds somewhere in the cavern that is this house.

Whilst we wait Lady Sophia stops whimpering and speaks. "The silver," she says.

"What is that your ladyship," I ask.

"The silver. Victoria talked about the silver."

"What about the silver mummy," Bruce adds.

"It was going missing; she had an argument with Besch about it one night. It was loud, woke me up."

"When was this ma'am?" Hinton asks.

"Last week."

"Can you remember anything of the argument, ma'am?"

"Just bits. Besch said he didn't do it, Victoria said that there was no one else who could have."

The plot thickens.

"Well Hinton. I've heard enough. We need to talk to the butler."

"Yes, sir."

"I private; if I may."

The maid takes us into the study and Besch is summonsed. Hinton takes a seat. I stand and a few minutes later Besch shuffles in.

"Sit down man," I say.

He does and I sit on the opposite chair.

"How you feeling, Besch?"

He remains mute.

"So, Besch, how are you?"

"Fine."

"Where were you last night?"

"Here."

"Did you hear anything? See anything?"

"No."

I stand up and walk around the room. I'll remain silent, let him think for a while; let him wonder what's coming next. He's got guilt spread all over his face. I'll crack him.

"I think we need to visit the crime scene, don't we Besch?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

Hinton, Besch and I are taken by the maid to the crime scene. Two uniformed constables stand guard outside the room. They take off their helmets as I approach.

"At ease men," I say.

One of them opens the door and we enter. Hinton lets out a gasp when he sees the stain. A dark red blemish, two feet in diameter, marks the thick white carpet. The body has been moved, but the gun remains. Hinton's face turns a whiter shade of pale, and my doubts are confirmed. If you want to make it in this job, you have to be able to stand the sight of blood.

I tell Hinton to watch Besch and I search the room. I find what I'm looking for under the bed. I hold up the pillow and show Hinton and Besch the hole through the centre and I point at the scorching."

"Know anything about this?" I say to Besch.

"No," he says. "I didn't kill her."

Just to the left of my foot rests the revolver. I look at the coldness of it. It looks well maintained, but what do I know about guns?

"Know anything about that?"

"No," Besch says.

"So if I take this down to Headquarters and get the scientists to dust it down I won't find you prints?"

He shuffles and looks nervous. I've got him.

"I didn't kill her, but that is my gun."

"Where did you get it?" I ask.

"The Second Boer War. They were given to officers."

"Kill anyone with it?"

"Over there yes; here no."

"We'll see. Now what's this I've been hearing about missing silverwear?"

He answers immediately. "Now look. Lady Kensington accused me of stealing her silver. I can assure you I never touch it, apart from cleaning it. We had an argument. She went to bed and so did I. In the morning she was dead, shot with my gun, but I didn't do it."

"Can anyone vouch for you, anyone confirm that you were in your room?"

He hangs his head and remains silent. I've got him.

"Well Hinton. I think it's time we searched Mr Besch's room."

Hinton takes hold of him and we go to his room. Hinton holds onto him whilst I tear the room apart. I don't find what I'm looking for and kick the wall in frustration. I hear a hollow thud and my heart leaps. I check the wall and find that one of the wooden partitions is lose. I pull it open and find Aladdin's cave of booty. The recess is full of clocks, cutlery and jewellery. Got him, old Besch is bang to rights.

"Right Hinton, hold him tight. You're in for it now Besch. Go get the family," I say to the constable.

When the family's gathered I make my announcement. "You will be pleased to know that I have solved the crime and it's all thanks to Lady Sophia. When you mentioned the argument about the missing property I got to thinking."

I pace the room in glory.

"What has happened here is that there has been two crimes and poor Lady Victoria solved the first one. Besch here, not happy with what you good people have been paying him has been stealing Lady Victoria's property. She found out, challenged him and he silenced her before she could inform the police. The gun is his, his prints will be on it; I will prove that and the stolen property has been found in his room."

"How could you? After all we have done for you?" Lady Catherine says. Lord Bruce steps forward with murder in his eye. One of the constables stops him.

"Don't worry sir; I'll take care of him. Hinton get me a carriage."

I put handcuffs on Besch and say, "Alfred Besch I am arresting you for the murder of Lady Victoria Blannahachet. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Half an hour later Hinton, Besch and I are in an interview room at Notting Hill Police Station. Besch sits with his head almost touching the desk. He's upset, his eyes are wet. Some soldier eh?

"So Besch, you killed her didn't you?" I say.

"No, how many times do I have to say it, I didn't. I liked that job, liked lady Kensington, she was a good employer. I had no reason to steal."

This goes on for half an hour and I'm bored with it. I need to end this interview. It's time for the end game. I pick up the revolver and say.

"Did you shoot her like this?" I point the gun at Besch and see surprise flash across his eyes. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak I blast him in the chest. He dies instantly. Hinton looks more surprised than Besch and he too takes a bullet in the chest. The bang is loud and I know that my colleagues will arrive in seconds, so I fire one more shot. I graze my side and fall to the floor, pretending that I am in more pain than I am.

A sergeant and two constables burst in. "Besch, he grabbed the gun and killed Hinton. I got the gun and shot him back. He got me first though."

They fuss over me and I'm taken to the infirmary.

The next morning I'm discharged from hospital a hero. Lady Kensington's killer has been given what he deserves. The crime has been solved and I'm in line for my next rank. I think of Hinton for a moment. Despite his aversion to blood he was a good copper, but what happened to him had to happen. It's not his fault, neither is it Besch's.

All the blame lies at Lady Kensington's dead feet. Who would have thought that a bored, upper class widow would have almost solved one of the greatest mysteries of our times? She was a smart lady; had an analytical mind; would have made a good copper if she wasn't such a stuck up posh bitch. She had a theory about old Jack; she told me about it when we met at her house to discuss her project. She thought that he could have been a policeman and had used her political and societal might to get access to the records of the Metropolitan Police's shift patterns at the time of the Ripper killings. Her theory was that maybe Jack the Ripper was a copper and that he had killed whilst on duty. London bobbies patrol alone. A cop, on his beat, could stop a prostitute for soliciting, arrest her, take her away from prying eyes, and do to her what he wanted. From her studies of the shift patterns she whittled it down to twelve names, twelve coppers who were working on duty at the time of every killing. She showed me the list. The first five names had been counted out. My name was number eleven. She had joked about it.

"Look Reid, you're on my list; don't rip me," she laughed.

I laughed too. she had worked it our and with her high place in society she just might be listened to. She had to go. I couldn't do it out right, needed a fall guy. Poor Besch fitted that bill. Over the course of my visits, and when lady Kensington wasn't looking, I selected various items from her property and hid them in Besch's room. I searched his room when he was out and found out where he hid his gun. It was only a matter of time before she told someone about the thefts. Yes, I needed a fall guy and Besch filled those shoes. Last night, whilst Besch was serving dinner I broke into the mansion. I got his gun and hid in the small recess under the stairs. When everyone was asleep I snuck into her room and shot her through the head. I muffled the shot by firing through the pillow. Besch didn't stand a chance. Yes he was innocent, as was Hinton, but I need to preserve myself; it's survival of the fittest.

I'm discharged from hospital with a tub of morphine for the pain. I hail a carriage and it drops me off at my house. I get changed and catch another carriage to Whitechapel. I get out, pay the driver and walk along the cobbled streets, thinking about the last time I was here.

I walk to Miller's Court on Dorset Street and think of the ninth of November 1888 when I paid for a night with Mary Kelly. I stand outside the property and remember the blood. It awakens something in me. I turn around and walk into the Crown and Sceptre pub. I order a pint of bitter and whilst its being poured I go to the gents.

I lock myself in one of the cubicles and take, from my pocket a small vial. It's filled with blood from the whore I ripped in Soho two nights ago. I unscrew the lid and smell the deliciousness. The blood's congealed, so I spit into the vial, dip my finger in, and write on the stall door.

JACK'S BACK.