The Conan Doyle Notes: The Secret of Jack The Ripper Read online

  Title Page

  The Conan Doyle Notes

  The Secret of Jack the Ripper

  A Literati Mystery

  by

  Diane Gilbert Madsen

  Publisher Information

  The Conan Doyle Notes: The Secret of Jack the Ripper

  Published in the UK by MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive

  London, N11 3GX. UK.

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright © 2014 Diane Gilbert Madsen

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  The right of Diane Gilbert Madsen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  Cover design by Roland Sarkany, Marlena Agency.

  Praise for This Book

  “Diane Gilbert Madsen’s ‘The Conan Doyle Notes: The Secret of Jack the Ripper’ was the best book I’ve read in a long, long time. I was hooked by page six and couldn’t stop reading. Spellbinding, intriguing and with a beguiling wit, Ms. Madsen delighted me to no end.”

  Catherine Lanigan, author, Romancing the Stone, The Jewel of the Nile, and Love Shadows.

  Quote

  “As a rule, said Holmes, the more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be.”

  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Red-Headed League

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my brother and good friend, Albert Earl Gilbert, with thanks for the many times we’ve talked Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle and Jack the Ripper.

  And to my wonderful husband Tom Madsen - contributor, plot thickener, best of everything.

  Acknowledgements

  Sincere gratitude for so many contributions of expertise, time, effort and friendship:

  TOM JOYCE of Joyce and Company Rare Books, Chicago, IL - Great friend, overall font of wisdom and a very real character in the Literati mystery.

  AUGIE ALEKSY, proprietor of Centuries and Sleuths Bookstore, Forest Park, IL. for his enthusiasm, friendship and great conversations about Holmes, Doyle and the Ripper.

  THOMAS MANN, Reference Librarian at the Library of Congress - Erudite, skilled and a delight to know, whose treatise on the Ripper’s handwriting is a touchstone work.

  OFFICER PAUL (BUD) WHITTENHALL, former Chicago Police Officer, who patiently shared so many stories and so much invaluable knowledge of police procedure.

  CARL PATRICK, Attorney and friend, whose honesty and forthrightness make the world spin on the right axis.

  ELY M. LIEBOW, Holmes fan (Inspector Gregory, BSI)) and scholar. I miss you and treasure the times we discussed The Method. His book, “Dr. Joe Bell - Model for Sherlock Holmes,” inspired me and became an integral part of this story.

  DEBRA YATES of the Caxton Club in Chicago, IL - Auction winner and named character in this mystery. Thanks for your support.

  KAREN DANCZAK-LYONS, former First Deputy Commissioner, Chicago Public Library - Thanks for your timely, helpful assistance with a myriad of questions.

  STAN HOWELL, Business, Science, and Technology Division, Chicago Public Library. Many thanks for your excellent research on autos and Doyle’s 1894 visit to Chicago.

  SHEILA LOWE, Graphologist and Mystery Writer - Many thanks for the fascinating world of character analysis through handwriting.

  PHIL RITCHEY, DICK MARTENS AND RAY HEISE, for so many good times and for always being there to answer questions, advise and keep me (mostly) out of trouble.

  RICK KOGAN, a true Chicago gentleman, scholar and radio icon. Thanks for “being hooked” on my books.

  THE CRITERION BAR ASSOCIATION, Chicago. Always stimulating and greatly missed since we moved to FL. We still treasure the mugs won in the Outrageous Theory Contest.

  Chapter 1

  “Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot.”

  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Adventure of the Abbey Grange

  Monday afternoon

  T.S. Eliot was right - “April is the cruelest month,” and April in Chicago is even crueler. It isn’t winter, and it isn’t spring. It’s that lousy Chicago in-between weather - damp and windy, offering the promise of warmth but not delivering. I’m Chicago born and raised and should be used to it by now. But like the Cubs, I always expect it to be better every year.

  My name is DD McGil. My birth certificate reads Daphne December, but that was a horrible compromise between my mother and my father, so people use it only at their peril. I freely admit to being female, blonde, smart-assed and stubborn. My favorite color is red, and being Scots, I’m always suspicious of what’s under the surface. Most of all, I can’t abide the Paisley. I don’t admit to much else ever since the seventh grade when I learned to keep my chin up and never end a sentence with a preposition.

  I used to be an assistant professor, happily teaching 17th century English literature, until murder intervened and ended that career. Now I’m an insurance investigator, as far away from academia as I can get. Perhaps most importantly, I’m about to turn 40.

  This afternoon I was on a job. I was driving along beautiful Sheridan Road in my green Miata tailing a subject, one Claudine Romani. She’d filed an insurance claim related to severe back injury after a slip-and-fall at one of those big box stores. Fifteen minutes ago she’d left her house, destination unknown. That’s where I come in. United Insurance hired me to make sure she wasn’t scamming. I pulled into traffic far behind her and executed some tricky maneuvers so she wouldn’t tumble to the tail.

  In my experience, people are always doing something wrong. It’s an axiom I live by. But so far on this surveillance, Romani hadn’t done anything suspicious - just the usual grocery shopping, drug stores and doctors, and visiting neighbors. I couldn’t read sinister into any of it.

  When she changed lanes again, I followed suit. Truth-be-told, I was enjoying this job. Chicago is a magnificent city. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine that a mere twelve thousand years ago the whole of it had been under a glacier - a glacier with ice miles thick that stretched all the way from the North Pole. Right now I was speeding along what had been the terminal moraine of that glacier where mastodons instead of cars would have roamed the wetlands.

  I braked suddenly to avoid playing bumper car with the BMW in front of me. We were at one of Sheridan Road’s curves where traffic slows down to 15 mph. That’s when my cell rang. I don’t have caller ID. I never know who’s going to call, and anyway, I like surprises. It was Tom Joyce, my antiquarian bookseller friend. Our friendship goes back to well before he and his bookshop, Joyce and Company Rare Books, became venerable Chicago institutions. He’s helped me out on a few cases, and we enjoy our intellectual sparring bouts.

  “Hi, DD. What’s today’s word?”

 
This was a standing joke ever since Tom signed me up for the Oxford English Dictionary “Word of the Day” service for my last birthday. The OED sends me an e-mail every day, and today’s word was “propitious.” How was I to know it should have been “murder?”

  “I’ve got some great news, DD! I’ve been doing an appraisal of the David Joyce Grange library collection. In fact, I’m calling from the Grange estate. I’m just about to head home.”

  “You sound excited, Tom. Was David Joyce Grange some relative of yours?” I joked as I spotted a space across from the florist where my subject had stopped.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Tom replied. “I only wish he was related.”

  My front wheel gently contacted the curb as my back bumper just kissed the car behind me - perfect! “I know I’ve heard of him, but it was so long ago, I can’t remember any details.”

  “That’s because he’s been dead for years. He was a lumber tycoon and made a fortune building the City of Chicago. He collected of all kinds of things, especially books. His son inherited the estate, but he died young. The son’s wife, Beatrice - everyone calls her the Dowager - lived on until a year or so ago. She never had old David Joyce Grange’s book collection appraised, and now that they’re selling the property, it has to be done as part of the estate valuation. Everything is going to Leslie Hindman Auctioneers over on Lake Street. They need the appraisal done for their auction catalog.”

  “And as luck would have it, I see that the best appraisal guru in the Midwest - namely your modest self - got the job,” I quipped.

  “Damn right! It’s fantastic. There’s probably over 5,000 books, many I’ve never seen including some really fine original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle manuscripts as well as a ton of Chicago history and such. It’s a fascinating glimpse into the mind of a collector and his treasures. It’s all pretty exciting.”

  I turned off the engine. Romani was looking over some yellow roses in a silver bucket outside the shop. “So it sounds like you’re in heaven.”

  “I am, DD. I started the job two days ago, but the collection is so massive, I’ll need another 10 days to finish. Listen, what I’m really calling about is even more exciting. I want to stop by and see you. I found something fascinating that’s going to amaze everyone.”

  “I’ve never heard you sound like this. What is it?”

  “I uncovered a small brown leather book today hidden in a secret recess in the desk in the Grange library.”

  “Tom, no one’s going to be excited about an address book of women that the dead lumber tycoon screwed.”

  “No, it’s not that! It’s his diary! I had one hell of a time because that desk had at least three hidden compartments. The third one had really tricky springs, and I almost didn’t find it. It even had some numbers carved in the wood. I’ll tell you all about that adventure later.”

  “So it’s not a black book, it’s a diary. Same difference.”

  “DD, get your mind out of the gutter. This isn’t listed in the estate inventory, and if I’m right, this will be worth more than pure gold. I’ve only skimmed it. Tonight I plan on reading it all.”

  “You mean you’re taking it home with you?”

  “Well, yes. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I’m so excited, I can’t help myself.”

  “That’s what all criminals say,” I jibed.

  “DD, you know me better! Maybe I’m stretching the rules, but it’s not criminal.”

  “So what exactly is this earth shaking bit you read?”

  “Grange personally met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in 1894 when Doyle was in Chicago as part of his tour of the U.S.”

  “Which probably explains why he collected so many Doyle manuscripts,” I noted. “So what?”

  “What’s so exciting is that the diary references the original Doyle manuscript of The White Company. Grange purchased it, but that manuscript, like this diary, wasn’t listed on the inventory of the collection either.”

  “That is interesting, Tom. How could an important manuscript like The White Company be overlooked? If you found the diary hidden in a secret compartment, maybe that explains why it wasn’t cataloged, but The White Company was Doyle’s favorite book. He even killed off Sherlock Holmes to give him time to write it. Have you thought that maybe Grange sold the manuscript before he died?”

  “The White Company isn’t the big thing.” Tom was breathless. “The diary says that Grange found notes tucked inside the manuscript about ‘JTR.’ He figured Doyle didn’t realize they’d been mistakenly included with the manuscript. Grange wrote in the diary that he would never return them to Doyle.”

  “What’s JTR?” I asked.

  “DD, that’s the thing. That’s why I’m so excited. “JTR” is Jack the Ripper.”

  Good thing I wasn’t driving, or I’d have hit a tree. What a bombshell. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of world famous super sleuth Sherlock Holmes, had notes about one of the most famous criminals in history. Maybe he’d included the Ripper’s identity. This WAS big. I took a deep breath.

  “You still there?” I heard Tom ask.

  “Yeah, but don’t ever do that to me again. You took me completely by surprise.”

  “I was surprised too,” he admitted. “Maybe this answers some questions as to why Doyle never published anything about the Ripper.”

  “Lots of people wondered about that,” I agreed. “After all, Doyle lived at the time of the Ripper murders plus he worked with Scotland Yard on some real cases, so why was he silent about one of the biggest unsolved investigations of the time?”

  “It’s kind of like the dog that didn’t bark in the night,” Tom said.

  “If Doyle wrote about knowing who Jack the Ripper was, it’s an unbelievably fantastic find. Maybe the notes weren’t stolen Tom. Didn’t you tell me once that Doyle’s son, Adrian, wrote about how forgetful his father was? Doyle might have forgotten he put them in the manuscript, and since The White Company was Doyle’s favorite book, maybe he figured he’d never sell it,” I speculated, still in shock.

  “This diary and the Conan Doyle notes are the biggest things ever to come to light about the Ripper murders. A lot of people would kill to get their hands on the notes.”

  “Maybe that blog I read on the internet recently knew something - whoever wrote it suggested Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself was the Ripper!”

  “DD you know that’s ridiculous. From what Grange wrote in his diary, the notes do solve the Ripper murders because they prove Doyle knew who the Ripper was.”

  “Wow! Tom, that’s unbelievable! The Ripper murders are still going strong after 125 years. If you can solve that mystery... So tell me, did Grange say in his diary who Doyle fingered?” I asked, tingling.

  I heard an odd sound, then a loud noise. It sounded like Tom dropped his phone.

  “Tom? What’s going on?”

  A thin voice from far away moaned, “DD. Help. Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “Tom... Are you there?”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 2

  “As you value your life or your reason, keep away from the moor.”

  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles

  I hung up with 911 and phoned Woodley, my partner on the Romani surveillance job, explained what had happened and asked him to relieve me early.

  “Check. Already on my way. Should be there in ten,” Woodley agreed in his usual clipped patter.

  “She just parked in front of her house,” I reported. “Be sure to run a check on any visitors tonight. She bought a huge bouquet of flowers, so my guess is she’s expecting somebody special.”

  “Double check. Good luck with your friend. Give me a holler if you can’t make it tomorrow.”

  My heart was beating fast as I pulled up the apps for the address of the Grange mansion. The 911
operator had mentioned Woodlawn but no street numbers. It popped up immediately - 4614 Woodlawn, a little north of the University of Chicago in the exclusive Kenwood district. Kenwood is a landmark Chicago area that’s still famous today for its stately mansions and well-known residents such as President Barack Obama, Lewis Farrakhan, and, in the past, the murderers Loeb and Leopold.

  I took off, still in shock. My Auntie Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon, always reminds me that bad things come in threes, so I tried to brace for what was yet to come.

  The property at 4614 was indeed a mansion in the middle of a fashionable residential area with well-maintained homes for several blocks in either direction. But the area was an oasis of gentility surrounded by much meaner streets with graffiti, vacant properties and urban blight. In Chicago, like in most big cities, the two lifestyles co-exist within a stone’s throw of each other despite massive urban renewal projects.

  Three cop cars and Tom’s Dodge Caravan were parked in the expansive circular front drive. I pulled in next to the Caravan and jumped out. The day was overcast and windy, and the raw wind gusts off Lake Michigan battered me from every direction. A cop stopped me on the verandah. I asked about Tom and explained that I’d made the 911 call.

  e He H”Oh, that’s different.” He quickly took out his notebook and recorded my name, address, phone, and e-mail.

  “I want to see my friend,” I asked impatiently. “What happened to him? How is he?”

  “First tell me exactly what you heard on that call,” the cop, whose name was Burton, demanded.

  I knew I wouldn’t get any information until I told him, so I did - hurriedly. Then Burton said with a sympathetic look, “Your friend was found unconscious at the bottom of the staircase. They already transported him to Billings Hospital.”

  Chapter 3

  “I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take.”