DISCLAIMER: I pay no disrespect to the victims of Jack the Ripper. My apologies if this was the case with previous chapters. What happened was truly horrendous, and I wish no disrespect to the unfortunate victims.

The blood-soaked body of Annie Chapman was discovered shortly after her 'tragic' demise.

Arthur sheathed his murder weapon back into it's holster attached to his belt, as the blood fountain spurting from Annie's neck began to lose it's luster. With a devilish glint in his emerald orbs he observed every last inch of her form, with a smirk silently sneaking its way onto his thin lips. The blood soaking the collar of her cheap dress , as well as the grey cobblestone street beneath her, caused an inaudible chuckle to ripple through his chest-his lips parting as small clicks in his throat resonated through the silent air. What a horrendously stunning visual he had created! Wouldn't you agree? At this rate he simply couldn't linger about in his home in wait for the tabloids to catch the news. He could already envision the headlines."Ghastly Murder on Hanbury Street!" or perhaps something a bit more preposterous as "Another Murder! New Serial Killer at Play?" Gosh, how delectable those titles sounded to Arthur's corrupting mind. So, after licking clean the blood cascading down in streams on his luxurious black leather gloves, Arthur disembarked from his latest effort.

With a poor-unfortunate-man stumbling upon Arthur's deed while going outside to fix his shoe. John Richardson being his given name. More and More fear began to disperse about the country of Britain. Women were given strict curfews and often found themselves locked inside, and men began to keep watchful eyes on every single living thing they crossed by on the street; in an attempt to find this ghastly fiend. Whitechapel was the heart of it all, if the citizens were to remain in the constant state of fearing for their worthless lives then the rest of britain would ditto their movements. The workers slaving over at the Printing Presses were not the only ones eating this fear pandemic up.

Arthur was as well.

Being the maestro of this ordeal, Arthur always kept tabs either it be with the police investigations of the status of his people's mental deteriorations. Abberline was stricken with a lack of leads and the citizens of Britain were petrified. What more could bring a smile to such an old man's face? (Despite the unmistakable fact our Arthur here appears to be in his twenties… Oh but, once more, I digress.)

Yet, there was another instance of a meeting that occurred two days after the first murder. Abberline was rapping his knuckle against the killer's door.

"Good morning." Abberline greeted, tipping his hat to Arthur at eight o'clock in the bloody morning. "I have some more questions, if you don't mind me asking that is." Abberline said, causing Arthur to spring into action.

Damn, Detective Abberline was well equipped and informed for this game they were playing.

"Yes, most certainly, please come on in. I was about to pour myself some breakfast tea anyway." Arthur responded, swinging the door further open to allow Abberline near any incriminating evidence. The detective removed his wool overcoat and placed it onto the shiny brass coat rack alongside his cap. Arthur led the curious sod into the parlor-the fire burning in the fireplace encasing the detective with a feeling of warmth other than the typical frigid weather that England all ways had on display.

Arthur excused himself for a quick moment, venturing off into the kitchen to retrieve that breakfast tea he spoke of earlier. He poured the brown liquid from the teapot into two white porcelain cups-painted with red roses. He nearly spilled it onto his holding the tea cup's handle, and narrowly avoided a burn of any kind, before returning back to the large parlor room. Abberline had migrated to the mantle of the fireplace, eyeing the sentimental keepsakes simply for the hell if it. But he returned back to the blue velvet couch Queen Victoria had sent, which was opposite of Arthur's lace trimmed couch. He thanked the elder Briton and graciously indulged in a prolonged sip from the liquid.
"I presume you know what has happened recently." Abberline cleared his throat. "The entire reason why I am bothering you."

Not selecting the word 'Whitechapel' was a fabulous move of Abbeline's part; Arthur would give him much deserved praise for that.

"There are so many things that occur each day, detective. You must remind me of what you are speaking of." Let's not forget how well Arthur could adapt to this game as well.

"Does the name, Annie Chapman, ring any bells?"

Arthur pulled a face as if he was contemplating, sipping his tea during the charade. Before his bushy eyebrows sudden rose up and his eyes widened just a smidge-like an over exaggerated housewife. "The papers talked about her, right?"

"Leather Apron's doing." Abberline continued. "His name has been on the headlines too. The public and my men believe that a man who works with leather is to blame. Last one seen in that area, by witness testimony."

"So you have the killer?"

"Far from it, if my opinion matters."

Arthur set his tea cup down and slumped back into his spot, the plush welcoming him. "What a shame... My people are scared and I can feel their emotions running through me..." Arthur said, a sad undertone in his voice. "But you are here for questions, correct? Surely I can help the matter in any way I can!"

The man believing in the suit of justice card never fails. It even caused Abberline to raise an eyebrow at the sudden statement.

"Where were you the night of the murder?"

"If it was anywhere between the span of nine at night until eight, then I was in my bed either reading or sleeping."

"Did you know the victim?"

"Not one bit."

"Would you happen to see anything suspicious from any person you know?"

"I only speak to the Queen, god bless her, on a regular basis. All my other friends are such old chaps, I wouldn't even fathom that they were involved."

"Are you speaking the truth?"

"Absolutely."