The Practitioner places a black medical bag on the table. It is obviously very old, but not battered. It has been handled with care. He indicates it, "They say it was his. A medical bag, a healer's companion. How many rounds of mercy did it make with him by dawn, by noon, by night? If only it could speak. Perhaps, in its way it does by the artifacts it contains."

The Practitioner opens the bag, withdraws a folded piece of white fabric. He unfolds it, spreads it out neatly on the table. Printed in faded ink at one end is: St. Mark's Infirmary. "Even quite far back in his day a degree of sterility was required. Some peers, it's said, thought him extreme in his obsession with cleanliness, but then -- can purity be too pure? He demanded cleanliness both of hands..."

The Practitioner reaches into the medical bag, brings out an old but handsome wood box, opens it cover toward participants and removes a hemostat, "and the implements he used to stop bleeding." He places the hemostat carefully on the cloth, and removes a scalpel, "when life saving surgery was the cause of it."

Meticulously, the Practitioner places the scalpel beside the hemostat with subtle compulsiveness aligning them. "And, most certainly, various nostrums." He removes a small round pill box from the box, removes the lid. A few pills are in it. He carefully puts lid and box beside the scalpel, once again aligning them. "Pills to relieve pain, and..." he takes a small stoppered bottle filled with liquid from the box, "alcohol, blessed cleanliness for the afflicted."  Carefully places it beside the pill box.

The Practitioner picks up the wooden box, now seen empty, strokes it reverently, "Perhaps his healing touch is impregnated in the grain. It is said there was one who knew him, a woman who claimed he never seemed to age, not unlike the Count St. Germaine, purportedly centuries old, and still living on.  Nonsense, of course."

The Practitioner closes the empty box, places it on the table near a
participant. "In those darker times, when superstition seemed to prevail, some believed his healing hands were imbued with powers magical."  He puts the lid on the pill box, places it on the back of his hand. The pills penetrate the box and his hand falling to the white cloth.

He chuckles, "Belief no doubt born of conjuring entertainments he performed for children who were afraid to take their medicine, or some such.  He loved the young, even to risk of his own life.  It's said once during surgery on a child a careless nurse inadvertently slashed his wrist when taking a scalpel from his hand.  Bleeding profusely, he stayed on to supervise with nothing but a bandage pressed to his wrist until the child was beyond harms way. And
there was no shouting at the careless nurse, not even quiet reprimand. Accidents could happen to anyone. He was a gentle, loving man."

The Practitioner reaches into the medical bag, withdraws a folded piece of very old paper. "The woman who knew him said he was an ever studious physician, ever learning more, and a collector of rare engravings. Said to be from his collection." He unfolds the paper. It is an engraving of a woman, part of the skin stripped down showing the musculature beneath. "The work of the great 15th century anatomist Andreas Vesalius, from the original seven
volume classic De Humani Corporus Fabrica. A true treasure to any man of medicine. But how sad that it had been folded, negating much of the value if one is concerned with such matters."

The Practitioner refolds the engraving, places it on the cloth. "Collector, amateur conjuror, but by far most of all dedicated physician. The woman who knew him, the relationship unclear, said he never hesitated to go where there was need, even in hours of late night he went to give of his ministrations. And by day, what few moments of relaxation he allowed himself were marred by disgust, despair. The newspapers of 1888 and 1889 wallowed in the ghastly exploits of one they called Jack the Ripper. What monster lurked the nights of London. Mostly prostitutes the victims, those wanton carriers of disease."

The Practitioner is silent a moment, then says softly, "And then perhaps the good doctor himself had fallen victim. Quite suddenly he disappeared. No word to anyone, not even to the woman who knew him. He simply disappeared. Rampant speculation -- those who knew him not dared intimate he was the Ripper. The surgical percision of the murderous slashes upon the victims."

The Practitioner unfolds the folded engraving. Now there are very precise red lines drawn across the woman's throat, across the chest and abdomen, and a piece of scalpel blade. He stares at it, "With such precision. Others, the superstitious, believed he would live on to kill and kill and kill again. Nonsense, of course, but the Ripper was never caught. And if one considers hideous murders since then, similarities do exist. But once again, nonsense of course. Neither ordinary man nor great physician, amateur conjuror and collector lives forever."

The Practitioner reaches for the box in front of the participant, opens the lid. There is a bloody scalpel now in the box on top of a bloodstained garish garter. He delicately picks up the scalpel in a kind of a reverie, murmurs to himself, oblivious of the participants, "Carriers. Carriers of filth and disease those women of the night. But that," he now sharply turns his hand over, the scalpel gripped for stabbing -- a large long healed scar is seen on his wrist. He stares at it in rage, almost inaudible but chilling, "careless bitch was the first."

He snaps out of it, and casually begins putting everything away except the bottle of alcohol and the white cloth. "And so the mystery remains. Jack the Ripper never caught." He removes the stopper from the bottle. The odor of alcohol permeates the room. He pours a goodly amount on the white cloth and begins wiping his hands clean. Over and over and over and over again as he stares speculatively at one of the women present. And then he smiles ever so slightly.

METHOD:

You'll need a scar. No point in recommending the obvious because you won't do it. Why do I bother. Don't use one of those for Halloween available at novelty shops. It must look real. Get the liquid for making scars from a theatrical make-up supplier. I used old collodion from many years ago in my kit, something other may be used now. It should look long-healed so don't on some red to make it gory. It must be fairly subtle. The rest is acting. Preferably superb.

The gaudy garter and bloody scalpel are in the top of the box. Basically, it's a rectangular dove pan. Two small flanges keep the upper panel in place until the lid is closed. The inner lip of the bottom presses on the flanges allowing the panel to drop. The participants only see the inside for a moment as you close the lid.

Hobby shops, and surplus mail order companies have throw-away scalpels. Age some. Break part of the blade on one to be put into the packet with the Vesalius engraving. I suggest you dull the scalpels. Check out your local library, art section, for the Vesalius book of anatomy. Make copies of the autopsied woman. On one draw meticulously neat red lines across the throat, chest and abdomen. Fold this into a packet. Make a second packet without the red lines. Glue back to back. Put the fragment of scalpel
blade into the red line packet. After showing the regular one and refolding, simply turn the packet over when putting it down.

The pill box is a tarnished Okito Box. Or if you can find a round cardboard one with which you can do the Turnover Move certainly use that. Age and dent up a bit so it looks very old.

Get an interesting old bottle with stopper for the alcohol.

The white cloth must be absolutely clean, and no wrinkles except the few folds. It's part of the maniac's cleanliness compulsion. I couldn't make the cloth because my dust bunnies get all over everything. Obviously, I'm not Jack the Ripper. Lightly stencil 'St. Mark's Infirmary' at one end.

So I'll seem like a nag... but I must repeat -- all is acting here. At the end when you go into the reverie, the remembering, and the growing rage don't rush it. But then turning of the hand gripping the scalpel so the scar shows must be sudden, startling.

And for heaven's sake leave the hookers alone!

Eugene Poinc.

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