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

  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Five Orange Pips

  I was filled with adrenaline. I didn’t even look over my shoulder for cops as I sped the short distance to Billings Hospital, a huge complex on 59th Street connected to the University of Chicago Medical School. Like all medical school hospitals, it teemed with students in lab coats, cops, EMT’s, security, the occasional medical professional, and the patients. The staff was, however, very organized and duly recorded my lie when I pretended to be Tom’s sister in order to get to see him. Shortly, a young candy-striper with big teeth and long, thin arms took me down a corridor into their treatment area. She pointed to a wall painted institutional green.

  “You’ll have to wait right here,” she said, flashing those white teeth.

  I spotted Tom. He was lying on a gurney in the cubicle across the hall. Six medical types surrounded him performing various tasks. One had collected Tom’s clothes, and I caught a glimpse of blood on his shirt and pants as they pulled the curtains around the cubicle. After that, all I could see were pieces of elaborate equipment being wheeled in and out of his cubicle and a lot of activity.

  “What happened to him?” I asked the volunteer.

  “Oh, I couldn’t tell you that. You’ll have to talk to the doctor. Let’s see.” She flipped through some papers on her clipboard. “Oh, it’s Dr. Willows on duty this morning. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  I was worried. I felt queasy. I couldn’t sit so I paced back and forth. What the hell had happened and how bad was it? It seemed an eternity before an attractive red-haired woman approached.

  She removed her wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m Dr. Willows. Are you the sister?”

  “Yes. How is Tom?”

  “He’s in a coma, but we’ve gotten him stabilized. Got a concussion, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be any abnormal swelling of the brain. We’re monitoring that.”

  She put her glasses on and read from his file. “Whole left side badly bruised. Dislocated shoulder. Right ankle and wrist sprained.” She closed the file and looked at me. “Let me put it this way, we don’t know the extent yet of any internal injuries. Falls like this often provoke internal bleeding that doesn’t show up right away, even on X-rays.”

  “A fall?” I winced. My knees buckled. I leaned against the sickly green wall for support.

  “Didn’t you know? We won’t be able to tell for another couple of days if there are any spinal injuries. Overall, he’s a very lucky guy.” She touched my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Take a few deep breaths,” she suggested as she looked at her watch. “We’re giving him a full MRI. Then he’ll be moved to intensive care where he’ll be monitored closely for internal bleeding and spinal involvement.”

  I kept shaking my head no, alarmed at his condition.

  “The cops are anxious to interview him as soon as he’s out of sedation,” she continued. “We’ve put him on some heavy duty pain medication at this stage, so he might not make much sense when he wakes up. Oh, here’s the cops.”

  While she huddled with them in hushed tones, I tried to get rid of the lump in my throat and digest the scope of Tom’s injuries.

  Dr. Willows returned, clutching the paperwork to her chest. “They want to talk to you. They’ll be in the waiting room.”

  “Doctor, wait a minute. Are you suggesting that he might have spinal injuries and he could be... paralyzed?” I had trouble getting the word out.

  “What I said, I believe, was that we have to wait at least a day or two before we know anything for sure.”

  I must have looked as sick as I felt because she smiled sympathetically and said, “I’m sorry. That’s the best I can do. My advice - pray.”

  A balding male nurse with several tattoos and an earring in his left ear approached and handed me a large plastic bag. “Here’s the patient’s things.”

  Chapter 4

  “It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it.”

  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Scandal in Bohemia

  I clutched the plastic bag stamped with the hospital logo. My knees were trembling as I opened it. Tom’s socks and shoes were piled on top of his bloody pants, shirt and underwear. Underneath those were his glasses, wallet and watch. My eyes teared as I looked at the familiar watch with the brown leather strap and gold-toned case. He’d gotten it recently and boasted that it was water resistant up to 130 feet. We’d shared a good laugh when I’d inquired how he intended to use that particular feature in his bookshop.

  At the bottom of the bag was his Graf Von Faber-Castell pen, a present from a grateful client. It was worth over two thousand dollars, and he’d be glad to know it hadn’t been stolen. Lastly I found his van keys and transferred them along with his wallet to my purse.

  Wincing at the bloodstains, I checked his clothing. You never know what you’re going to find in a man’s pockets, but his phone and Grange’s diary were not there. I wondered where they were.

  In the waiting room, I approached the cops and asked what had happened to Tom.

  There was a long pause during which they both stared at me the way cops do when they’re processing whether you’re on the Most Wanted List. Then one of them checked his notebook and said, “Here’s what we know so far. A 911 call came in at 14:55 hours from a person named McGil...”

  “That’s me,” I told them.

  “Okay, you’re McGil. You suspected a Mr. Tom Joyce might be hurt at the David Joyce Grange estate. Phone line went dead. Patrol and ambulance dispatched immediately and arrived in minutes to destination 4600 block of Woodlawn. A white male, Mr. Thomas Joyce, was found unconscious, bleeding, and badly bruised at the second floor landing of a spiral staircase. Police at the scene were unable to get any details. EMT’s put him on a stretcher and brought him here. Hasn’t said a word since.”

  The second cop said, “We’re waiting to interview him when he comes to. Meanwhile maybe you, being his sister, could tell us something more about what happened.”

  “Officers, I wish I could. The only thing I know is that on the call, the last thing he said was that someone was trying to kill him.”

  “I’ll put that in my notes,” Officer Bob said. “Says in the report that the victim was unconscious when they picked up and when they delivered to Billings.”

  I held up the bag with Tom’s effects. “Officers, I looked through his stuff and his cell phone’s not there.”

  Officer Bob took hold of his lapel and started talking into the clip-on police radio as he moved to another area in the lobby.

  “We’ll try to get a hold of those EMT’s and check out if they picked up a cell phone,” Officer Jim said, pursing his lips.

  “Maybe you can tell us what your brother was doing at the Grange mansion?”

  “He was hired to appraise the Grange book collection.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “I’m not sure. He mentioned the executors of the estate.”

  “Know of any enemies your brother has?”

  I wondered whether someone else knew about the Grange diary he’d found in the hidden compartment. And I wondered if they knew about the Doyle notes and The White Company manuscript. If I said anything, I’d be getting Tom in deep trouble with his employer. Professionally, it could be ruinous.

  “No. No enemies I know of,” I told them. “He’s very well liked.”

  “But you’re saying he said someone was trying to kill him, right?”

  “Yes. I think he was pushed down those stairs. But I have no idea who might have done it.”

  “Who else is at this place - this Grange estate - where the incident happened?”

  “Tom didn’t tell me. He’s only been there a few days. But it has to be somebody at the mansion who pushed him.”
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  Officer Bob stopped talking into his police radio and walked toward us, shaking his head. “Seems those EMT’s are already out on another call. Have to wait until they report back.”

  Officer Jim clicked his pen a few times. “We’d like to contact other members of your family. Maybe they’ll know more about what your brother was doing and possible enemies. We’ll need some names, numbers and addresses.”

  “My mother...” I stopped, coughed, and swallowed hard. I’d almost given him my own mother’s name and phone before I realized they wanted Tom’s family, not mine. Of course they thought I was his sister. Another lie was necessary. I desperately tried to think of a way to avoid this question.

  I coughed again, trying to stall. I realized I’d put myself in a trap of my own making. I’d have to own up to lying. They were sure to find out sooner or later - specifically sooner. I was positive that even now other cops were at Tom’s apartment, rummaging through his stuff. They’d unearth his address book faster than a teenybopper tracks a bargain at the mall. Then they’d zero in on me instead of whoever did this to Tom. I couldn’t let that happen.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” I said feebly. “Technically, I’m not Tom’s sister.”

  “Technically?” Officer Bob frowned mightily.

  “How does that work exactly?” Officer Jim’s eyebrows raised.

  “They said you had to be a relative to get in to see him,” I explained.

  “So... you’re saying you lied?”

  “You’re not the sister?”

  “I’m like a sister to him,” I insisted. “We’re close friends. And I told you there’s no one else.”

  Officer Jim put his hands on his hips. “So, technically, who the hell are you Miss McGil?”

  “I’m looking her up now, Jim.” Officer Bob typed furiously into his small computer. “Oh shit! She’s an insurance investigator.”

  “Technically, yes, but that’s not the reason I’m here,” I interjected.

  They both stared at me. Officer Jim said, “We have to inform the staff. You won’t be allowed to see him, you realize.”

  “Please don’t do that. Let me explain.”

  “And if you’re not a relative, we’ll have to take his things from you.” One of them snatched the bag from my grasp.

  I let it go. I’d only make it worse if I mentioned the keys and wallet I’d removed.

  “For whatever reason, you did lie to us,” Officer Bob said icily. “We’ll want to question you further, so where can we get in touch with you Miss McGil?”

  I told them I was going to stay at the hospital because I was worried about Tom. “If he was right,” I persisted, “and someone did push him down the stairs and try to kill him, shouldn’t a guard be posted at his door? He’s lying there helpless.”

  “We’ll sort that out before we take the next step,” Officer Jim said.

  My shoulders sank. I felt totally helpless. I hadn’t succeeded in finding out what had happened, in establishing Tom’s condition, or in getting them to guard Tom to prevent further incidents. I sure was one great investigator, and Tom was bearing the brunt of my incompetence.

  Chapter 5

  “What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence... The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?”

  -Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet

  True to their word, the two cops ratted on me. I had to leave the emergency room and was denied admittance to the ICU. When two beefy hospital security guards suddenly appeared to escort me out, I went quietly.

  I exited the hospital lot and pulled into a nearby side street to phone Tom’s bookshop. Debra Yates answered. She often fills in for Tom while he does appraisals. She was shocked when I relayed what had happened.

  “The doctor told me Tom was lucky, and she was right. The odds of a fatal fall down stairs are very high, similar to being stabbed to death,” I explained as a sea of insurance statistics on mortality floated through my brain.

  “DD, Tom’s given me power of attorney in order to do various transactions. I’ll bring that to the hospital straight away. They’ll have to let me see him even though I’m not a relative.”

  “Good thinking, Debra. And call his attorney too, just in case. And keep me informed.”

  “I will,” she promised. “I know Tom would want you to investigate what happened. If he said someone tried to kill him, then that’s what happened. For Tom’s sake, you’ve got to find out who.”

  Mentally I was still in shock, sinking lower and lower. I decided to confide in Debra and told her all about the Grange diary, The White Company manuscript and the Conan Doyle notes and the connection to Jack the Ripper.

  “Tom was just telling me that the notes would solve the Ripper murders because they prove that Doyle did know who the Ripper was.”

  “Did he tell you who?” Debra asked.

  “No. That’s when I heard the thud. I feel certain someone was listening and pushed him down the stairs before he could tell me anything more. Since his cell and the diary are missing, I suspect that our someone probably has them.”

  “Sounds plausible,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Tom was probably trying to find the notes and the manuscript somewhere in that mansion,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “That sounds like Tom. Do you think that’s why he was attacked? Mostly Woodlawn is not a nice place,” Debra said. “Maybe it was a random burglary.”

  “No, he was inside the mansion, and anyway I don’t believe in coincidences. I think it’s connected with the diary and the Doyle notes.”

  “If those notes do exist, DD, and if Doyle wrote about knowing who Jack the Ripper was, it’s one earth-shaking fantastic find.”

  “The question is whether Tom told anyone else.” .

  “Somebody at the Grange estate?” Debra asked.

  “That’s what we have to find out. I’m going back to the Grange mansion as Tom’s assistant appraiser. If anybody contacts you, be sure to verify my credentials.”

  “What are your credentials?” she deadpanned.

  “Make up anything to get me in. And let me know how Tom’s doing. The next day or so is critical.”

  “Oh, and DD - there’s one more thing.”

  Another thing that needed doing. I felt as if the world was crashing down on me.

  “Wolfie’s at the bookshop,” she said.

  Wolfie is just what his name implies. He’s a true wolf - about 65 pounds, and 2 ½ feet high at the shoulder. Even his feet are big - more than twice as big as a coyote. And Wolfie, like all wolves, has a strict social structure based on dominance. He likes to be leader of the pack - the alpha male. Somehow though he’s adjusted to life outside the wilderness and has become a house pet. He belongs to some of Tom’s friends in Upper Michigan, and Tom often wolf-sits for them.

  “Tom told me his friends were vacationing in Italy,” Debra added.

  Wolfie and I like each other, but I was hard pressed to take on anything more. I sighed.

  “DD, I can handle him.” Debra said. “We get along great. Don’t worry.”

  “But he’ll be alone there overnight,” I observed.

  “He’ll be fine. I’ll check on him after I leave Tom and first thing in the morning,” she promised, and we left it at that, both of us crossing our fingers.

  I started the car. I had no real plan but knew I had to get into the mansion and snoop. Maybe the cops who’d responded to the 911 call would still be there and have some information.

  Chapter 6

  ‘‘In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward.’’

  -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet

  All the way to the mansion, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tom and what happ
ened. The Grange diary, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Jack the Ripper, and Tom. What he found was explosive stuff. Proof of the Ripper’s identity wasn’t just about money and prestige - there would be reverberations through history. If someone else knew about the notes, I was certain that was why Tom had been attacked.

  Tom was a member of several Sherlockian societies around Chicagoland, and he’d always had a lively interest in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in the Jack the Ripper murders. He’d taken me along as his guest at some of these meetings, and we’d often discussed the Ripper murders too. I knew that Conan Doyle was 29 years old and already famous in 1888, the year the Ripper murders took place. And I knew too that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle personally worked with Scotland Yard detectives to help solve some real criminal cases of the time. It’s only natural to think that Doyle would have gotten involved in solving the most notorious crime of the time - the Jack the Ripper murders. I knew that Tom would be able to evaluate the authenticity of any notes Doyle had written - if and when he got his hands on them. Anything written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle about Jack the Ripper would be the hottest news item in the world. The Internet would explode, and such a discovery would be the apex of anyone’s career. I only hoped Tom would get well enough to find the notes and enjoy his fame. But where were they? If someone had them, why hadn’t they gone public with them long ago? The diary was the key, and I had to find it. Briefly I wondered if the Grange diary was a fake, a joke, planted for Tom - or someone else - to find.

  The shock over Tom’s injuries was beginning to wear off, and I realized I was starving. I spied a neighborhood grill and ordered a giant coffee and an egg and bacon sandwich. While I ate, I again thought of Auntie Elizabeth’s warnings about bad things coming in threes. We Scots like to be forewarned.

  The Grange Mansion was an Italianate four-story pale yellow brick building set back from the street. Its impressive columns, three-story balcony, and big carved lions were surrounded by a 5-foot wrought iron fence topped with spikes that ran along the front of the mansion and a 6-foot brick wall that surrounded it on the other three sides. In addition to the walled entry, motion sensors with floodlights were installed under the eaves at each corner of the building. When I came earlier, I wasn’t paying much attention to security. Now I looked closely but didn’t spot any outdoor cameras. I wondered how sophisticated the rest of their security system was.