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storypaint) wrote2008-12-15 04:53 pm
storypaint) wrote2008-12-15 04:53 pm
To Hell (Layton gen)
Title: To Hell
Comm: defeating the purpose of the Professor Layton (Anon) Fan Meme
Prompt: The Professor investigating the Jack the Ripper case and trying to keep Luke out of it. A sequel to "From Hell."
Series: Professor Layton
Character/Pairing: Layton and Luke gen
Rating: PG-13 for blood, offscreen death, too much history
Wordcount: 1686 words
Excerpt: After the murders, Layton began to sleep less and less. Luke had never quite made it back to his own bed, but Layton hardly noticed. Sometimes Luke would wake at odd hours, two in the morning, three, and the professor would be bent over his desk, deep in thought.
After the murders, Layton began to sleep less and less. Luke had never quite made it back to his own bed, but Layton hardly noticed. Sometimes Luke would wake at odd hours, two in the morning, three, and the professor would be bent over his desk, deep in thought.
"Mary Ann, Annie, Elizabeth, Catharine..." he muttered to himself. "Martha? But her throat was different..."
Luke knew the women's names better than he knew his own mother's name. They played over and over in his head when he lay there, listening to the professor whisper to himself-- times of death and names, locations of wounds. He knew that if the professor thought he was awake, he would give up for the night and come to bed. But he couldn't let him know. It wouldn't be right.
When the letters came in, Layton examined them, one by one, his fingers tracing the letters. He went to other professors and talked to them about the handwriting. And most importantly, he read all of them.
"This one doesn't even make sense," Luke told him once, picking up a postcard from the desk. "He misspelled 'stab,' Professor."
"Luke, this man is obviously not in his right mind. You can discount nothing," Layton cautioned. Despite his reservations, he let Luke sort the letters with him, and discussed the case-- on occasion-- with plenty of ellipses. He tried not to share the details, but Luke knew enough to imagine.
The night of the 16th of October-- the night that the kind volunteer committeeman Lusk received a woman's kidney by post-- Luke didn't sleep at all. He didn't even bother trying after lying abed for an hour. He got up and sat down in a small chair near the professor's desk. The professor was surprised to see him awake.
"I'm sorry, Luke," he said. "I can't come to bed yet. This... this..."
"I know," Luke said, reaching for the newest letters. They worked until the dawn.
Perhaps the worst part was the fact that there were pig kidneys in their icebox. Layton had been planning to make steak and kidney pie for Luke's birthday. It was a waste of money, but they let it rot before they threw it out.
The rest of October passed without incident. Layton was following a promising lead and the case seemed about to break at any moment. He was even letting the cleaning lady in once a week to make sense of the mess.
And then there was a new name to add to their roster. Mary Jane seemed to affect him the most. She was quite young, and pretty, and Irish. Well, she had been.
"He has been loose for two months," Layton said to Luke when they arrived home after that investigation. Layton hadn't even allowed Luke into the room, but the guttural way in which he had cried out once he had entered made Luke glad that he hadn't tried. Layton sunk into his desk chair and removed his hat, putting his head into his hands and rubbing his forehead.
"Two months, and we have nothing. Detective Swanson is counting on us. We've been door to door, we've examined every letter, we've interviewed countless suspects. What are we missing, Luke?"
"I... I'm sure I don't know, Professor," Luke said quietly.
Luke lifted his head and looked at Luke for the first time, perhaps, in two months. He seemed to come to a conclusion.
"I think it's time you go home, Luke. This is no place for a young boy."
"But..."
The killer had marked him. Even when the nights were free of murder, Luke thought about that. He'd ran straight into him-- into a man with blood thick on his hands-- and the man had let him go. And Luke had been in so much of a hurry that he hadn't even looked at his face. The police had been so excited to take Luke's shirt from him, to analyze the handprint, but even that had given them nothing. The print was blurred, and there was no method of analyzing the blood (which would have, of course, been hers, anyway). He'd been interviewed over and over and forced to give only the tiny amount of detail he had-- tall, top-hatted, unspeaking, large hands.
"I can't leave you alone," Luke whispered, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. The professor's eyes were dark with sleeplessness, and so were his own. Did he have that matching deranged, distracted look? And when had the professor grown so thin? They remembered to eat once in a while (just oh god no meat, not anymore), didn't they?
"It's not safe here, my boy."
"He's not after boys," Luke insisted. "We-- we know that."
Layton stood abruptly and then gathered his apprentice into an awkward hug, tucking the boy's head against his chest, under his chin.
"This is not what an apprenticeship should be," he said quietly. "I can't keep you here with me on this."
"Professor..."
"I'll call your parents tomorrow."
They both glanced out of habit at the window. The sun was peeking out from the horizon, shaded already by dull clouds.
"I'll call them later today," he amended, running his hand through his hair.
*
Three weeks later, Luke stood on the docks next to his professor, who was thinner and more tired-looking than ever. He clutched at the man's slacks, not wanting to let go. He was worried about him. Mary's funeral had been hard on him. He'd sat there in the back of the church, amidst the thousands of London bottom-dwellers, and he hadn't cried. He'd simply listened.
Luke had prayed.
"Professor, please..."
"Come, now, I'll help you find your cabin," the man said, a smile (now rare) spreading across his face.
"Okay," Luke said reluctantly. It took too little time, he thought, before the professor enfolded him in another awkward hug and left him, shutting the door with a heavy thump.
Luke curled up in a ball on the bed, his head to the door. It would be a long while, he thought, before he would be able to sleep properly again.
*
Layton waited until the ship moved away before he turned to walk away. It was a long wait but he spent it, as one might assume, in consideration of the murders. When he turned, he nearly walked into another tall, top-hatted man, who smiled slightly.
"Clumsy," the man said. "Both of you."
"My apologies," Layton said immediately, but the man grunted and turned swiftly back into the crowd. Layton saw his hat bobbing through the people, oddly graceful in avoiding the traffic, and he let the man get fifty yards away before he finished processing what the man had said.
"Clumsy," he breathed. He'd made Luke tell him the story over and over and--!
He darted after the retreating figure, who didn't appear to notice; it wasn't long until the professor lost him in the crowd. He stalked the docks for the rest of the day, talking to sailors and passersby, to no avail.
*
Eight years later, the detective pressed the letter into Layton's hand.
"The last one," he said.
"I'm sorry?" Layton said, peering at the man underneath his hat. He had developed a rather bird-like, gangly appearance as the time passed, due to lack of proper sleep and nutrition. He rarely came out during the day anymore, preferring to reread the letters and correspond with noted investigators (and his former apprentice, who threatened every year to return to him in the spring; luckily his parents continued to veto the idea).
"They're closing the case, Det-- Professor Layton. It's been too long."
"There's no statues of limitation on murder. You can't close an unsolved case," Layton said, eyes widening.
"There's other things to consider now, Layton. There haven't been any other suspicious Whitechapel murders since 1891."
"Sadler seemed quite--"
"Lack of evidence. You know we tried. You know."
The man's face was sincere and Layton sighed, his own expression wan.
"Quite. If I... if I come up with anything..."
"You're always welcome at the station. You know that."
"Right, right," Layton said faintly, letting the man go before he opened the last one, letting his fingers play across the words. It was an obvious fake, and not a very good one-- not a handwriting match to any, though it did have similar language to the graffiti...
That night he dreamed of the top-hatted man, tossing and turning and sweating and coughing thickly. He still looked asleep when the police came to check him the next week, after neighbors had started to complain about the smell.
"He couldn't stand not being able to solve it," the investigator murmured, standing in the corner of the small bedroom where Layton had spent the last years of his life. There was little there that showed the personality of a once curious and brilliant man. The puzzles were tucked away in the wardrobe, and the photographs of his old apprentice, as well.
(The shirt had disappeared from the case archives nearly three years ago. The commissioner had instructed them not to tell Layton. He was working hard enough already, he said.)
"He worked very hard," one of his colleagues agreed, hunched over in the small room. They were both looking carefully away from the sheeted figure on the bed. The search for relatives had turned up no one; the search for money had revealed enough for a small grave. They'd had a whip-around for the coffin, so that was all right.
The investigator looked around the room one more time before exiting. There was clearly no sign of force here; old age had done Layton in all right. Old age and obsession.
The other policeman lingered just a moment, his eyes playing over the sheet.
"Very close," he murmured, turning the corners of his mouth up in a creepy sort of half-smile, and then he left, striding out onto a bright October day.
*END
Author's Note: No policeman was even a suspect in the Ripper murders. Anyone seeking more information about the Jack the Ripper case should consult the following sources, and better ones. These are simply the ones that I used in writing this story.
Jack the Ripper on Wikipedia
Whitechapel murders on Wikipedia, the article I used to provide all the timing and dates in the story
Jack the Ripper suspects on Wikipedia
Dear Boss letter on Wikipedia
Saucy Jacky postcard on Wikipedia
Casebook: Jack the Ripper, a website detailing the Ripper murders and investigation in exquisite detail
WWeather Conditions for the Nights of the Whitechapel Murders on Casebook
George Lusk on Wikipedia
Elizabeth Stride on Wikipedia *article has mortuary photograph of the dead woman*
Catherine Eddowes on Wikipedia *article has mortuary photograph of the dead woman*
The Enduring Mystery of Jack the Ripper from the Metropolitan Police website
Portrait of a Killer, an article summarizing Patricia Cornwall's book, A Chronology of Events Detailed in Portrait of a Killer: Jack The Ripper--Case Closed
Comm: defeating the purpose of the Professor Layton (Anon) Fan Meme
Prompt: The Professor investigating the Jack the Ripper case and trying to keep Luke out of it. A sequel to "From Hell."
Series: Professor Layton
Character/Pairing: Layton and Luke gen
Rating: PG-13 for blood, offscreen death, too much history
Wordcount: 1686 words
Excerpt: After the murders, Layton began to sleep less and less. Luke had never quite made it back to his own bed, but Layton hardly noticed. Sometimes Luke would wake at odd hours, two in the morning, three, and the professor would be bent over his desk, deep in thought.
After the murders, Layton began to sleep less and less. Luke had never quite made it back to his own bed, but Layton hardly noticed. Sometimes Luke would wake at odd hours, two in the morning, three, and the professor would be bent over his desk, deep in thought.
"Mary Ann, Annie, Elizabeth, Catharine..." he muttered to himself. "Martha? But her throat was different..."
Luke knew the women's names better than he knew his own mother's name. They played over and over in his head when he lay there, listening to the professor whisper to himself-- times of death and names, locations of wounds. He knew that if the professor thought he was awake, he would give up for the night and come to bed. But he couldn't let him know. It wouldn't be right.
When the letters came in, Layton examined them, one by one, his fingers tracing the letters. He went to other professors and talked to them about the handwriting. And most importantly, he read all of them.
"This one doesn't even make sense," Luke told him once, picking up a postcard from the desk. "He misspelled 'stab,' Professor."
"Luke, this man is obviously not in his right mind. You can discount nothing," Layton cautioned. Despite his reservations, he let Luke sort the letters with him, and discussed the case-- on occasion-- with plenty of ellipses. He tried not to share the details, but Luke knew enough to imagine.
The night of the 16th of October-- the night that the kind volunteer committeeman Lusk received a woman's kidney by post-- Luke didn't sleep at all. He didn't even bother trying after lying abed for an hour. He got up and sat down in a small chair near the professor's desk. The professor was surprised to see him awake.
"I'm sorry, Luke," he said. "I can't come to bed yet. This... this..."
"I know," Luke said, reaching for the newest letters. They worked until the dawn.
Perhaps the worst part was the fact that there were pig kidneys in their icebox. Layton had been planning to make steak and kidney pie for Luke's birthday. It was a waste of money, but they let it rot before they threw it out.
The rest of October passed without incident. Layton was following a promising lead and the case seemed about to break at any moment. He was even letting the cleaning lady in once a week to make sense of the mess.
And then there was a new name to add to their roster. Mary Jane seemed to affect him the most. She was quite young, and pretty, and Irish. Well, she had been.
"He has been loose for two months," Layton said to Luke when they arrived home after that investigation. Layton hadn't even allowed Luke into the room, but the guttural way in which he had cried out once he had entered made Luke glad that he hadn't tried. Layton sunk into his desk chair and removed his hat, putting his head into his hands and rubbing his forehead.
"Two months, and we have nothing. Detective Swanson is counting on us. We've been door to door, we've examined every letter, we've interviewed countless suspects. What are we missing, Luke?"
"I... I'm sure I don't know, Professor," Luke said quietly.
Luke lifted his head and looked at Luke for the first time, perhaps, in two months. He seemed to come to a conclusion.
"I think it's time you go home, Luke. This is no place for a young boy."
"But..."
The killer had marked him. Even when the nights were free of murder, Luke thought about that. He'd ran straight into him-- into a man with blood thick on his hands-- and the man had let him go. And Luke had been in so much of a hurry that he hadn't even looked at his face. The police had been so excited to take Luke's shirt from him, to analyze the handprint, but even that had given them nothing. The print was blurred, and there was no method of analyzing the blood (which would have, of course, been hers, anyway). He'd been interviewed over and over and forced to give only the tiny amount of detail he had-- tall, top-hatted, unspeaking, large hands.
"I can't leave you alone," Luke whispered, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. The professor's eyes were dark with sleeplessness, and so were his own. Did he have that matching deranged, distracted look? And when had the professor grown so thin? They remembered to eat once in a while (just oh god no meat, not anymore), didn't they?
"It's not safe here, my boy."
"He's not after boys," Luke insisted. "We-- we know that."
Layton stood abruptly and then gathered his apprentice into an awkward hug, tucking the boy's head against his chest, under his chin.
"This is not what an apprenticeship should be," he said quietly. "I can't keep you here with me on this."
"Professor..."
"I'll call your parents tomorrow."
They both glanced out of habit at the window. The sun was peeking out from the horizon, shaded already by dull clouds.
"I'll call them later today," he amended, running his hand through his hair.
*
Three weeks later, Luke stood on the docks next to his professor, who was thinner and more tired-looking than ever. He clutched at the man's slacks, not wanting to let go. He was worried about him. Mary's funeral had been hard on him. He'd sat there in the back of the church, amidst the thousands of London bottom-dwellers, and he hadn't cried. He'd simply listened.
Luke had prayed.
"Professor, please..."
"Come, now, I'll help you find your cabin," the man said, a smile (now rare) spreading across his face.
"Okay," Luke said reluctantly. It took too little time, he thought, before the professor enfolded him in another awkward hug and left him, shutting the door with a heavy thump.
Luke curled up in a ball on the bed, his head to the door. It would be a long while, he thought, before he would be able to sleep properly again.
*
Layton waited until the ship moved away before he turned to walk away. It was a long wait but he spent it, as one might assume, in consideration of the murders. When he turned, he nearly walked into another tall, top-hatted man, who smiled slightly.
"Clumsy," the man said. "Both of you."
"My apologies," Layton said immediately, but the man grunted and turned swiftly back into the crowd. Layton saw his hat bobbing through the people, oddly graceful in avoiding the traffic, and he let the man get fifty yards away before he finished processing what the man had said.
"Clumsy," he breathed. He'd made Luke tell him the story over and over and--!
He darted after the retreating figure, who didn't appear to notice; it wasn't long until the professor lost him in the crowd. He stalked the docks for the rest of the day, talking to sailors and passersby, to no avail.
*
Eight years later, the detective pressed the letter into Layton's hand.
"The last one," he said.
"I'm sorry?" Layton said, peering at the man underneath his hat. He had developed a rather bird-like, gangly appearance as the time passed, due to lack of proper sleep and nutrition. He rarely came out during the day anymore, preferring to reread the letters and correspond with noted investigators (and his former apprentice, who threatened every year to return to him in the spring; luckily his parents continued to veto the idea).
"They're closing the case, Det-- Professor Layton. It's been too long."
"There's no statues of limitation on murder. You can't close an unsolved case," Layton said, eyes widening.
"There's other things to consider now, Layton. There haven't been any other suspicious Whitechapel murders since 1891."
"Sadler seemed quite--"
"Lack of evidence. You know we tried. You know."
The man's face was sincere and Layton sighed, his own expression wan.
"Quite. If I... if I come up with anything..."
"You're always welcome at the station. You know that."
"Right, right," Layton said faintly, letting the man go before he opened the last one, letting his fingers play across the words. It was an obvious fake, and not a very good one-- not a handwriting match to any, though it did have similar language to the graffiti...
That night he dreamed of the top-hatted man, tossing and turning and sweating and coughing thickly. He still looked asleep when the police came to check him the next week, after neighbors had started to complain about the smell.
"He couldn't stand not being able to solve it," the investigator murmured, standing in the corner of the small bedroom where Layton had spent the last years of his life. There was little there that showed the personality of a once curious and brilliant man. The puzzles were tucked away in the wardrobe, and the photographs of his old apprentice, as well.
(The shirt had disappeared from the case archives nearly three years ago. The commissioner had instructed them not to tell Layton. He was working hard enough already, he said.)
"He worked very hard," one of his colleagues agreed, hunched over in the small room. They were both looking carefully away from the sheeted figure on the bed. The search for relatives had turned up no one; the search for money had revealed enough for a small grave. They'd had a whip-around for the coffin, so that was all right.
The investigator looked around the room one more time before exiting. There was clearly no sign of force here; old age had done Layton in all right. Old age and obsession.
The other policeman lingered just a moment, his eyes playing over the sheet.
"Very close," he murmured, turning the corners of his mouth up in a creepy sort of half-smile, and then he left, striding out onto a bright October day.
*END
Author's Note: No policeman was even a suspect in the Ripper murders. Anyone seeking more information about the Jack the Ripper case should consult the following sources, and better ones. These are simply the ones that I used in writing this story.
Jack the Ripper on Wikipedia
Whitechapel murders on Wikipedia, the article I used to provide all the timing and dates in the story
Jack the Ripper suspects on Wikipedia
Dear Boss letter on Wikipedia
Saucy Jacky postcard on Wikipedia
Casebook: Jack the Ripper, a website detailing the Ripper murders and investigation in exquisite detail
WWeather Conditions for the Nights of the Whitechapel Murders on Casebook
George Lusk on Wikipedia
Elizabeth Stride on Wikipedia *article has mortuary photograph of the dead woman*
Catherine Eddowes on Wikipedia *article has mortuary photograph of the dead woman*
The Enduring Mystery of Jack the Ripper from the Metropolitan Police website
Portrait of a Killer, an article summarizing Patricia Cornwall's book, A Chronology of Events Detailed in Portrait of a Killer: Jack The Ripper--Case Closed
no subject
~^__^~
no subject
Yeah, I couldn't figure out a very good ending, since they never solved the case! ;_; poor professor...
;___;
Re: ;___;
Sorry?