"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."-Frankenstein
Whitechapel, London 1888
The first murder
His hand swooped gracefully over the prostitute's white throat. Her mouth was opened in a small shriek of surprise and of pain; he smiled slowly as her body came down with a low thump. She gripped at his black coat, and he could see the life slowly draining from her dark grey eyes.
He swatted her loose hands away, and scooted her lump of a body from his polished black shoes. He heard the wound gurgle almost inaudibly; another deep slash he gave to her lower abdomen, staining the woman's dress with a deep crimson.
A pleasant smile over took his mouth as he turned on his heel. A merry tune came to his lips as he walked, whistling all the way while his shoes clicked cheerily on the damp cobble stone alley way roads.
--
Candle light flickered quickly as the wax dribbled down slowly onto the white parchment smudged by black ink. The shadows flickered across the top of his black hair, and his face was planted firmly on top of a thick book. A half full glass of dark whiskey sat beside the slumbering man's make-shift 'pillow', and soft snores escaped the man's pale lips.
The sun had began to rise over the dirty roof-tops of London, reflecting slightly off the misty grey fog from the rainy night before.
The man's snores stopped suddenly as a loud knocking at the bed-room door pulled him awake. He lifted a white hand savagely to the glass, and knocked it over in the process. A soft curse was uttered from his mouth as he lumbered towards the dark door where the persistent knocking continued.
"Yes?" He asked hotly, resting his forehead against the wood.
There was a pause, and he could hear the quiet clearing of someone's throat. "…The constable wishes to see you, L."
L groaned softly, and turned almost drunkenly (though his head was clear) to his mess of a desk. A small pool of whiskey puddled on several pieces of white parchment; this made the detective sigh.
He looked down at his rumpled, unbuttoned black vest and ink stained white shirt, and decided that, quite honestly…he didn't give a damn what the local constable thought of his appearance.
Opening the door with a façade of calm, he glanced at Quillish, giving him a look that asked what was going on. The old man simply raised an eyebrow to indicate that he had no clue as to what was happening.
His bare feet padded softly down the wooden stairs, and he stepped with as much arrogance as he could into the small parlor.
The local constable, along with two other men, stood in the semi-lavish parlor. They looked as disheveled as he felt; the two men glanced quickly at his slight figure in the door way, and he was surprised at the haunted expressions that they both wore.
The slightly porkish constable turned, and jumped almost in jubilation as he came strolling into the room. "S-sir! I'm so glad that you're in!" L watched with slight, smoldering annoyance as the bubbling man jumped from one foot to the other.
"What is it?" He asked coolly. The constable turned to the two other men (who shifted from one foot to the other) and turned back to him.
"Sir, these two men found a body of a young woman in Buck's Row. They said that she had been breathing at the time, but only slightly…I talked to the Metropolitan police about it and they've removed the body from the scene and have taken it to the hospital's morgue." L felt like yawing, and boredom washed over him like a cool wave. Yes, a human life had been taken…but in Buck's Row, an infamous street that had tiny, shabby and all about scary houses in Whitechapel, a place where death dwelled on every human soul who lived there, it wasn't surprising.
"Constable Neil," L said to the porky man, and lifted a thumb to his pink lips. The addressed stood straighter, and his round stomach protruded slightly.
"Yes sir?" The man's heavily accented voice caused both of the other men to jump slightly.
L talked from behind his thumb, and he lowered his black eyes to the wooden floor. "I want you to take me to the body…I shall look at it, and if any more murders occur that are similar to this murder, I shall take this case."
He turned on his heel, and left to get ready.
--
He always hated hospitals; the stench, the moans of pain coming from random rooms, to the over cheery nurses that smiled at his tired expression.
He hated the black shoes that Quillish made him wear, and he hated the normal Victorian dress with every fiber of his being.
The doctor whom was taking him to see the murdered prostitute's body was a graying older man whom had smiled when he had asked to take off his jacket. "It's fine," The man said with a tired chuckle, "Where we are going, you will not need fashion…"
They walked briskly to the end of the long hallway with nurses who slid past them; the doctor laid a hand on the brass door knob that led to the long twisting hall way which would ultimately deposit them into the morgue. He turned his old eyes onto the detective, "Sir…my apprentices will be performing the autopsy on the woman's corpse. It may be disturbing--"
L held up a hand to silence the doctor, and gave the man a small smile. "I'm sure I've seen worse carnage than your apprentices could ever even imagine." The doctor gave a humorless laugh, and they entered the long hallway.
The doctor turned to him as they walked; their foot falls echoed eerily. "The woman was found this morning by a carman on his way to work. Dr. Llewellyn, he lives near where the woman's corpse was found, concluded that she was dead, and so they brought her here." The hallway ended, and in front of them was a thin wooden door with a fogged glass window. L could see black figures that shuffled around in the large room. The doctor opened the door. "After you, sir." At this the detective nodded, and entered the room slowly.
He gave the room a quick once-over; three human skulls sat on a wooden shelf with various jars filled with various things. Two apprentices sat preparing a graying body; they both looked green, and their awkward, jerky movements screamed to the twenty-six year old detective that this was their first time preparing a body. They glanced at their master and the strange guest; their master only nodded to indicate that they had done something right, or he would shake is head to tell them that they had done something wrong.
L chuckled silently as the first apprentice (a boy no older than twenty, and skinny as a twig) began to make the first bloody incision. The other apprentice turned a sickly green colour as thick blood seeped from the long cut. "This is a fairly new procedure," The doctor mumbled to the detective. "I have taught the medical students as well as I could."
L nodded, "They seem to holding out well enough." He didn't point out that the portly one was holding back the urge to gag.
"S-sir?" The skinnier of the two remarked, "I think you should have a look at this…" He pointed at the pale prostitute's corpse. The doctor turned to glance at the pale detective, and nodded for him to follow.
The two apprentices parted to allow their master and his…queer looking guest to look at the woman's pasty flesh. The doctor's graying brow furrowed slightly, and he indicated with a slight whooshing motion over the neck where it was quite apparent now that she had been slashed twice. A deep purple bruise plumed on the side of her slightly rounded cheek.
"The wounds are deep…the injuries are from left to right. This may have been done by a left handed person. It seems that all the injuries were caused by the same instrument…perhaps…"L muttered quietly down at the woman's slashed throat.
"Perhaps what, sir?" The doctor flicked stone grey eyes up toward him. L shrugged.
"Nothing, I was merely thinking out loud."
18 miles from Whitechaple Hospital
His steps were quick and light. His neatly polished shoes clicked almost merrily over the damp with sewage grounds of the road.
He looked like he was a fine gentleman, so people flocked to him. They asked for pennies, a loaf of stale bread, or anything to tide them over for that evening.
He glared hotly at the scum and walked through the slimy crowd of Whitechaple as if he owned the area.
In a way…he would.
A dark smirk glinted eerily such as the silver knives beneath the black coat he wore.
--
Night had fallen over the wet and grimy streets of one of the worst slums in London.
The tumbler full of zesty whiskey sat untouched on his messy mahogany desk. The detective sighed and ran a hand through his raven coloured hair.
Photographs lay strewn over the many haphazardly arranged piles of papers that sat riddled over his desk. Another sigh left his mouth. His head really was pounding…maybe he should sleep?
A soft knock at his door pulled the detective out of thoughts of slumber. He stood from the wooden chair, "Yes Quillish?" He leaned against the wooden wall.
"Sir…there's someone to see you." L resisted the urge to groan, and to dig the heals of his hands into his eyes.
"This late at night, Quillish?"
"He says that it's important, sir."
Opening the door, L gave a small nod at his guardian. "What's his name?" The older gentleman looked at a small creamy white card that he held between two finely aged fingers.
"He says that his name is…Light Yagami, a detective from the Orient who has recently moved to London." L's brow furrowed, not remembering any one by the name of 'Light Yagami'. What a peculiar name, The raven haired detective thought, following his guardian/butler down the creaky wooden stair-case.
They rounded the corner into the dimly lit parlor; L's back was hunched, and his hands were clasped behind his back. He glared emptily at nothing, mentally grumbling that he detested whomever was calling this late.
The sleuth's eyes landed upon the person who enforced their presence into his home, and a small gasp left his lips. Amber coloured eyes met dark onyx; L studied the almost Roman-esque face of the Japanese man, and the gentle tilt of his eyes as this 'Light' person stood to shake his hand. "L, I presume? It's an honour to finally meet you." His English was impeccable, though there is the faintest breath of an accent.
L stared at the musician type hand, not used to such formalities. He lifted his eyes back up to the young detective. "You know of me, sir?" Light's pleasantly rosy mouth twitched upwards into an equally pleasant smile.
"Your reputation exceeds you." Quillish cleared his throat from the doorway, causing both young men to look at the butler.
"Sirs, may I remind you that it is very late." L nodded once and gave Light a look that clearly told him to cut the formalities and get to the point.
Light smiled easily, though L had a feeling that his news was anything but idle chatter. "Of course. L, have you heard of the recent killing in Buck's Row?" L nodded, gesturing to the young detective that he was allowed to sit on his finely made divan. Light sat upon the crimson surface as if he were a king gracing a fine throne.
"I have, but since this is Whitechapel, it could have merely been a rape or mugging gone wrong." Light's smile was unnerving, and L found his skin beginning to crawl.
"I believe you're incorrect." L's onyx eyes widened, and he watched as the Japanese man pulled out a crème coloured piece of parchment. Light held the paper out to him between two slender fingers. L's brow furrowed, and he took the paper in a peculiar, two fingered grip. His eyes widened as he translated the letter from Japanese to English.
Dear sirs,
I have only begun cleansing the filth from this world.
The letter was short, and the kanji were quickly scrawled over the crème coloured surface. L looked up from the letter, not noticing as his fingers began to crumble the parchment.
Light's amber eyes didn't conceal the amusement of having bested the empire's greatest detective. "…how many…did this murderer claim?" L finally asked, his voice a low, shocked whisper. The Japanese man studied him as he sat in his perched position, motioning to Quillish to get him tea so he could think.
"…the man in question claimed around five prostitutes of the Kyoto brothels in a time line of three months. The way the women died is very similar to the way Ms. Nichols died." L made a soft humming noise, and chewed his thumbnail to an abused stub. "I believe, L, that this murderer is the same we have been trying to catch in Kyoto."
L frowned and turned to the young detective. "Are you suggesting that…your murderer has moved to London?" Light just smirked.
"Indeed, detective."
-
His plan was working perfectly.
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Yes, a HISTORICAL fanfiction. I have researched tirelessly on this particular fanfiction, and though I know I'll make some mistakes here and there, I seriously hope that I've gotten most of the facts down. Ah yes, the Ripper Murders are a pretty cliched topic, but I really like studying them so...-shrug- I've had this first chapter sitting in my computer's hard-drive since last October. Sorry about sounding like such a bitter Betty. haha