A/N: Welcome to book 3 of my series Queen and Country! You must really be invested if you clicked on book 3! Thank you! If you have not read the first two installments, Proof of Concept and A Necessary End, I really would recommend you do that first! I'm big on overarching plots, intense foreshadowing, and continuity, so reading in order is best if you want to pick up on things. This story is my current project at this time of publication, and I do as of now have 13 chapters complete, but I wanted to get it out there, so I'll update it as I write.

Now, on the story: This is about the Jack the Ripper murders of Autumn, 1888, often called the Autumn of Terror. It's been a subject of interest of mine for about five years, and not only that, but a detective series? Set in London? In the 1880's? How could I pass that up? Anyway, google the murders if you're interested. For an overview, however: five prostitutes were murdered. They were part of a longer-reaching group of deaths commonly called The Whitechapel Murders. HOWEVER, it is important to note that all of those murders could not have been committed by a single person. Jack the Ripper's crimes only account for a small percentage of those murders. These five murders are separated by their M.O. of brutally mutilating the genitals and abdomen of the victims. Yes, I know, it's horrifying. I'm hyperempathetic and it can be painful to read the autopsy reports. The perpetrator of these deaths was never caught. Now, the majority of the information on the case itself in this story is all accurate. But there are some circumstances/behind the scenes occurrences that are fudged because of lack of surviving records. (Gaps in the narrative are very helpful to me in explaining the whole thing, because it furthers my ability to make a plausible case for suspects I have found in my study of the evidence. This is why I write fiction.) So, DO NOT use this story as a historical resource on these murders. www . casebook . org is my main resource, spaced out so it'll show up in the document, and it's a fantastic site with a cornucopia of information. Use that.

In conclusion, I apologize for the extended author's note. Please enjoy and leave a review with your thoughts, comments, and/or questions. Cheers! - Ell

Ex Inferno (Latin, translated: From Hell)

"Hell is empty, and all the devils are here."

-William Shakespeare

Prologue: The River of Blood

"Thus saith the Lord, In this thou shalt know that I am the Lord: behold, I will smite the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood."

-Exodus 7:17

Summer was coming to an end. Great grey rain clouds had rolled in over London, and the East End was drenched by the sheets of rain that fell like millions of tears from heaven.

The districts of Whitechapel and Spitalfields were full of filth. It coated the streets, lined the edges of the buildings in piles that gradually packed themselves down and moulded to the ground. When the rains came, bits of waste and garbage were washed away from the piles and further flooded the streets. Sometimes they didn't make it all the way to the pavement, simply falling into the sewer drains and clogging them so that the puddles could not drain away. Because of this, the dirty brown puddles of water were a common sight in the area, more often than not a permanent resident as precipitation occurred multiple times a week. They were almost as common as the dosses. Penniless women whose only source of income was begging at best and prostitution at worst. They could be seen on the steps of whatever buildings were merciful enough to not shoo them away, many of them too weak from starvation to stand.

On this particular night, a stranger calmly walked the Whitechapel Road. He was wearing a dark overcoat with a small golden pin on the lapel. Rain rolled off of his stiff, brown hat. He looked out of the corner of his eye at the dosses with something that many would have interpreted as pity.

Hardly anyone dared to be out in the cool night and freezing rain. The stranger passed a man who was standing with his back to the pavement, bent over and struggling to light a cigarette with rain slicked fingers. As he continued to make his way leisurely down the road, he bumped into a woman who was hurriedly making her way in the opposite direction.

"Sorry, sir," she muttered breathlessly as she passed him.

He caught her arm as she tried to walk away.

She inhaled sharply. "Sir?"

The stranger looked her up and down. Her dress was a rusty colour, and the gold buttons down the front were worn from being undone many times. "Take this," he said, pulling a sixpence from the pocket inside his coat. In the process, his hand brushed against cool, smooth metal, but he ignored it. "Get yourself out of the rain."

Her face lit up considerably as she saw the coin. "Thank you sir," she said, taking it from his hand and giving a slight curtsy before turning and walking away.

He gave a half smile as he watched her and waited until she was a safe distance away before turning to follow. The time was eleven o'clock at night.

There were two dock fires raging on this night, giving the dark sky a burning reddish glow and illuminating the thick clouds from which the rain fell hard with a steady and monotonous rhythm. Occasional rumbles of thunder shook the windows of the Frying Pan, a drinking establishment on the corner of Brick Lane and Thrawl Street. It was busy, and the loud bustle from inside could be heard as the light spilled out onto the street, giving a glowing spotlight to each individual drop of rain as it hit the ground, altogether forming an endlessly repetitive dance.

The stranger stood on the sidewalk outside the pub, casually leaning against the brick outface of the building, shielded from the rain by the awning. His hat was pulled down, casting a shadow over his eyes, and he leaned his head back to study the fiery glow coming from St. Katherine's Dock to the south. It had most likely been started by a lightning strike, he concluded, a smile flitting across his face. The heavens were angry tonight, and with good reason. They could try and deter him all they liked, but they would not succeed. This stranger in the dark coat, who purposely remained bathed in shadow, had the power, and he knew it too well.

He turned his gaze from the sky to the ground, watching with great interest the individual drops of rain as they fell, observing the small splash they made as they hit the ground and exploded from the impact. Another smile as he imagined the trouble the weather would cause for those who would follow in his wake.

A loud laugh and voices approaching the door caught his attention, and he pulled his hat lower over his face and pulled his coat closer around him. The shadow cast by the brim of his hat allowed him to watch others in the vicinity without them having any idea of it. The strains of fiddle music started up in the pub, and a loud cheer rose among those still inside.

"Oh, Mary, if you be leavin' you'll miss the music!" said one of the two women who had just stepped outside, speaking in a heavy Irish accent.

"No, I really must be off," replied the other woman in a voice slightly slurred with drink. This was the one the stranger had run into earlier that night. "Thank you for the bonnet."

The first woman shrugged and turned to go back into the pub. The other, Mary, pulled a dark brown cloak tighter around her shoulders and set off down Thrawl Street.

The stranger peeled himself off the side of the wet building and followed behind her once again, his footfalls light as a cat's. The time was half past twelve.

The man in the dark coat stood across from number 18, Thrawl Street. This address was that of a doss house, which gave food and bedding to any of the unfortunate women from the street who could afford to pay the nightly fee of fourpence. How they came by the money was never questioned.

The woman in the rusty cloak and dress stood on the steps of the doss house, shaking her finger at someone standing in the doorway. "Never mind!" she said loudly, obviously drunk. "I'll soon get my doss money! See what a jolly bonnet I've got now!" She gestured at the bonnet now covering her hair. She hadn't been wearing it the first time he'd met her. It had been given to her by the Irish woman at the pub.

The figure in the doorway, whom the stranger could not clearly make out, waved their hand dismissively and turned away, closing the door behind them to keep out the rain.

Mary mumbled an inarticulate curse and turned to the street, looking both ways as if considering which way to go before heading in the direction of the Whitechapel Road, staggering slightly with each step she took.

Her shadow continued to follow behind her, closer this time as he considered the weight inside the left pocket of his coat. No, not yet. Too soon.

The time was three quarters past one.

"Polly!" Cried a woman who was turning onto the Whitechapel Road from Osborn Street.

"G'evening to you, Emily," replied Mary, coming to a staggering halt, and the two women embraced.

"I've been down to the docks to see the fire," said Emily, gesturing behind her at the way from which she'd come. "Shouldn't ya be at the doss house by now? Surely you've plied your trade a decent amount tonight, eh?"

Mary, or Polly, shrugged. "I've had my doss money three times today and spent it."

The two women continued talking for several more minutes. The stranger was not interested in straining to hear what they were saying over the loud patter of rain on the pavement. He'd have to get closer. He couldn't risk that. Couldn't risk being seen. About five yards or so away from where the women were standing, he ducked into an archway and fished a cigarette and a match out of his pocket. He cupped his hand over the flame so it wouldn't go out and lit the cigarette, puffing it absently as he kept the woman in the rusty cloak in his peripheral vision.

After exchanging goodnights with Emily, Mary turned to head east down the Whitechapel Road. The stranger let his cigarette fall to the ground and set off behind her once again. The abandoned cigarette smouldered and instantly turned soggy. The time was half past two.

The woman in the bonnet, named either Mary or Polly, turned onto Buck's Row. The stranger now knew her to be a prostitute. He had just seen her speaking with a man and then entering an alley with him. He had heard the sound of three pennies falling into her hand.

Her shadow suddenly departed from her, turning into a side alley he knew led further up the street. He would overtake her there. His coat billowed in the wind as he swiftly walked, and his hand involuntarily made its way into the inside pocket, absently fingering the pleasantly smooth handle. Not yet. Not immediately. He let out a stream of air through his mouth and dropped his hand to his side, considering carefully the instructions he had been given.

Soon enough he was on Buck's Row once again. And with excellent timing, for the woman was just making her way in his direction. He strode confidently up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up into his face with alarm. "Oh, it's you, sir, we met earlier." Something in her voice suggested she knew something was amiss. Much depended on his convincing her otherwise.

He smiled. "Yes, fancy us meeting again. It's a good thing too, I was just looking for someone to occupy one of those alleys with, if you'd be at all…interested." He made a point of looking her up and down, resting his eyes for a moment on her bosom, part of which was showing through her cloak, which was now not all the way buttoned up.

Her suspicious demeanour vanished, and she gave him a slight nod. "That'll be three pence," she said, and he pulled some coins out of his pocket and dropped them into her hand.

"That's four pence, sir," she said, looking them over.

He smiled. "For your trouble."

She gave him a sort of questioning look, but said nothing about it. "We'd best make it quick," she said with a surreptitious glance around. "The constables will be due by on their beat before too long."

She took him by the arm and led him to the entrance of a stable yard.

She motioned for him to get behind her and began hiking up her skirt.

"You know," he said to her, fingering the cold handle within his left breast pocket again, "you truly should have gotten off the street while you could, rather than going off and spending that sixpence I gave you on drink."

Mary froze, stiffly dropping her skirts and straightening up. "What are you –"

Before she could finish her sentence, he grabbed her with his left arm and pulled her closer to him. She opened her mouth to scream, but he took a hold of either side of her jaw and pulled her head back. With one swift motion, he pulled the knife from his coat pocket and held it to her throat. She made a sort of small whimper, and he could feel her rigid, quaking muscles against him.

Terrified, the creature fought back, clawing and scraping at the hands that held her, but he only gripped her tighter.

Pressure and a slow, deliberate dragging motion across her neck. He felt the tear of flesh underneath his command. The head fell limply backward and he carefully laid her down on the ground, pulling her into the shadow of the gateway. He saw blood oozing from her neck and dripping out of her mouth as he gazed down at her. He reached into her pocket and took out the four pence he'd given her. "You won't be needing this, my dear," he murmured, kneeling on the ground and lifting up her skirts to start the next part of his work.

The blood flowed from her neck and joined the streams of water draining into the gutter. A scarlet trickle mixed with the rain. A river of blood in the midst of an ocean. The time was half past three.

I awoke with a start, breathing heavy and drenched head to toe in a cold sweat. I wasn't sure at first what had pulled me out of my slumber. The rain outside the window was loud, and accompanied by intermittent crashes of thunder, but that could not have been it. It had been raining all night long, and indeed, it had been one of the wettest summers London had ever seen. Listening for a few minutes longer, I could barely make out voices speaking outside in the hallway. They were hushed, and no wonder, for it must have been close to three or four in the morning.

"I'll fetch Watson," said Holmes to someone whose identity was unknown to me.

A moment later, I heard two pairs of footsteps returning to the spot outside my door, and three hushed voices conversing. They all trod lightly down the stairs, and I faintly heard the sound of the front door closing. I lay in silence, pondering what the urgent matter could have been until sleep overtook me again.