Or was the journey to the East End simply too difficult in the fog? There is compelling (though not completely proven) evidence to suggest Sickert was in France at the time of the murders,9 but Cornwell argues that even if he was, Sickert could have commuted between his base in Saint-Valery-en-Caux and Whitechapel to kill. But why not kill prostitutes in Dieppe, a town he knew well, which was only 20 miles from St Valery? Dieppe was a port, with many brothels (maisons de passe) and streetwalkers to service rough trade. Such was the demand for British prostitutes in French ports that there was nefarious procurement and white-slave-style trafficking of women, to open prison-like maisons, across the channel. Mary Kelly probably acquired her Marie Jeanette names from a stint in one. Cornwell argues Dieppe was too small a town, so it would have been too risky to kill there. But this fails to appreciate the compact nature of the area where the murders did occur. The planned murders were all within a few minutes’ walk of Flower & Dean Street. Would someone with the overpowering desire to murder, of a ‘habitual’ killer, make the trek from St Valery10 to Whitechapel before doing so? This is a killer so crazed he took outrageous risks which could easily have resulted in his capture; a man who killed Mary Ann Nichols on a policeman’s beat with the PC just 50 yards away; and having killed Elizabeth Stride, was trapped at the back of Dutfield’s Yard with no escape route, until the pony and cart driver went to get a candle. Yet minutes later he found himself again hiding in the darkness, feet from the body of another victim, whilst he waited in hope for a policeman to move on without seeing either him or the body. Would such a psychopath be willing to spend all day travelling whilst the blood lust was on him? I doubt he would have considered Dieppe too risky for his ventures.
I have treated Sickert as a bona fide suspect, by attempting to place him at the Ripper crime-scenes. But looking at the realities of Whitechapel in 1888, the case against Sickert falls apart. It would not have been as easy for a middle class artist to blend in to the hostile, alien environment of the East End, as Cornwell would have us believe. Sickert’s alleged multiple studios do not equate to his meanderings on the night of the double murder, and he would not have had the local knowledge the killer possessed. It is probable the killer had abilities unknown to Sickert, and a crazed killer calmly doing a twelve-hour commute to kill is fanciful. Sickert should not be taken seriously as a Jack the Ripper candidate.
Cornwell claims to have been shown Miller’s Court seventy-four years after Jack McCarthy’s little slum was demolished.11 I hope it will not take as long for the case against Sickert to be ‘Case Closed’.
Notes
1. Example: Cornwell’s interest in Sickert sprang from his paintings. He arguably painted works based on the bodies of Eddowes and Kelly. He did not paint his other alleged victims. Cornwell claims no photographs of these bodies were available to the public when Sickert painted them (1905–7). Photos of Eddowes and Kelly appeared in a book, Vacher l’eventeur et les crimes sadiques, published in France in 1899, whilst Sickert lived there.
2. Rule, F., The Worst Street in London (Ian Allan, 2008)
3. Liz Stride’s nickname ‘long’ was not due to her face. It’s cockney humour – long stride.
4. Jacques-Emile Blanche said his friend Sickert had a ‘genius for camouflage in dress, in the fashion of wearing his hair and in his manner of speaking.’
5. Ibid.
6. Cornwell, P., Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper Case Closed (Putnam, 2002), p.164
7. Ibid., p.227
8. The police identified shiny black bag-man as innocent bystander Leon Goldstein.
9. Sickert’s mother wrote from St Valery, 6 September, ‘Walter and Bernhard talk and paint and both look and are very well.’
10. There was no direct train from St Valery to Dieppe. It took two and a half hours to journey the 20 miles.
11. Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper Case Closed, p.12
Bibliogrpahy
Cornwell, P., Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper Case Closed (Putnam, 2002)
Rule, F., The Worst Street in London (Ian Allan, 2008)
Ian Porter is an ex-journalist, novelist, guide and public-speaker. A Londoner, whose family was from Bermondsey and Limehouse, Ian wrote the novel Whitechapel, which is set in 1888. He is a public speaker on Victorian poverty and guides Jack the Ripper walks.
9
‘Doctor’ Francis Tumblety
Joe Chetcuti
From The New York World:
[Tumblety] used to explain his long absence at night, when he was prowling about the streets, by telling [his landlady] he had to go to a monastery to pray for his dear departed wife.
From The Bucks County Gazette:
[Tumblety] attended high mass at the cathedral, and was preceded to the service by a colored page in gorgeous livery, carrying a big prayer book in a velvet covered stand. This scandalized the worshippers and the ‘doctor’ was requested to worship less ostentatiously or go elsewhere.
From the doctor’s ad in the San Francisco Chronicle:
[Tumblety] is one of the few mortals to whom the divine gift of healing seems to have descended as a legitimate inheritance.
From A Sketch of the Life of the Gifted and World-Famed Physician:
…I noted the fact that you were still engaged serving the Lord in a very proper manner – if such service does not bring reward in this world it must do so in the next. [Tumblety claimed he was the recipient of this letter from a physician friend.]
From the Prince of Quacks:
During December 1856, a patient, Adolphus Binkert, who was otherwise in good health, came to Tumblety with eruptions on his face. In the office, the doctor felt his pulse, shook his head and said, ‘Poor fellow, it is all over with you and you must die very soon.’ Tumblety told Binkert that he was in the last stages of consumption…At the time, Tumblety also gave him a lecture about God and the devil. In several subsequent visits, [Binkert] got additional medicine but the treatment did not seem to be working. When he asked the doctor about this, Tumblety asked his religion. Binkert was a Catholic and Tumblety told him that the medicine would not work unless he went to see a priest and got absolution.
From A Sketch of the Life of the Gifted and World-Famed Physician:
While in Rome I had many cordial invitations from some of the most distinguished Princes of the Church…The highest honour I received during my sojourn in Rome was an invitation to visit the Vatican, where His Holiness, Pope Leo granted me an audience. On a former visit to Rome I had the honour of an interview with Pope Pius IX.
Francis Tumblety was not adverse to manipulating religion for the sake of his own benefit. He often displayed letters he claimed he received from clergymen, but the authenticity of the boast was quite disputable. His misuse of religion and misrepresentation of pious names were tasteless acts of self-promotion. He even took this a step further, when a patient of his died under suspicious circumstances in 1860. The doctor confidently invoked the name of a local religious personage, in the hopes it would pave the way for his escape from legal trouble. The short story deserves repeating.
The night before a coroner’s jury, in St John, New Brunswick, declared him guilty of manslaughter, Tumblety fled to the city’s suspension bridge. When questioned by the gatekeeper, the doctor smoothly lied, explaining he had been beckoned to cross the bridge so he could come to the aid of a man of the cloth, one Revd Dunphy. In reality, Tumblety only used that pretence for the purpose of safely fleeing from the city. From there he continued on horseback over the American border thus becoming a fugitive of justice. His tale about travelling to see Revd Dunphy was as fabricated as his excuse about travelling to a monastery to pray.
As for his dealings with Adolphus Binkert, he cunningly used theology as a scare tactic to recruit a potential patient. Having been raised a Catholic, Tumblety knew the basic catechism of the Church and probably was aware of the fearful reverence the brethren held for its canon, during the nineteenth century. The doctor twisted
the meaning of the Sacrament of Penance and used it as a means of persuasion against Binkert. He eventually victimised Binkert to the point where he extorted a gold watch from the duped man. His manipulation of religion became a convenience for him, while his successful exploitation of patients became financially profitable.
It was said of Tumblety, ‘He is not a doctor. A more arrant charlatan and quack never fattened on the hopes and fears of afflicted humanity.’ Throughout his medical career the quack took advantage of the weakened disposition of ailing people and made vows to cure them. Those empty promises often resulted in temporary popularity for him in numerous cities. Needless to say, his days were numbered in each of those places, because the public would eventually figure out the charade. When his patients realised they were getting taken, things turned ugly. This was best explained in a letter sent to Washington DC by the Provost Marshal General of Missouri:
(Tumblety) has been compelled to leave several towns and cities in Canada for his rascality and trickery, and is being continually importuned and threatened by those he has deluded and swindled.1
Since there were no laws governing false medical ads in newspapers during his career, the doctor used this medium, extensively, to misrepresent himself. Compulsory school attendance laws began to appear in America during the 1852–60 period; first in Massachusetts and then, soon afterward, in New York. Newspapers were read out loud in households on a large scale. This national literacy development coincided with the growth of the doctor’s ad campaign. Tumblety’s arrogant display of big headlines attracted a number of gullible and afflicted people into his office. A key ingredient to his ads was the use of phoney testimonies from former patients.
The doctor’s finagling of religion and tinkering of newspaper ads would not be needed when he desired to snare a young male adult. The force of his personality, along with the promise of continued employment, often sufficed in getting a naive lad under his control. As expected, these situations occasionally met with tribulation. The doctor’s intimate involvement with his non-consenting secretary (a college boy named Lyons) led to court appearances in New York City. A similar type of problem popped up across the ocean. According to Detective William Pinkerton, Tumblety had to deal with the English police after he eloped to Liverpool with his teenage employee, Henry Carr. In addition, the Evening Star of Washington DC printed a letter of concern, because Tumblety was suspected of having run off with ‘young Isaac Golliday’ and neither had returned. Golliday and Carr each had a father who warned against sharing in Tumblety’s company, but it was to no avail. The doctor had a reputation for sordid vice, and when he succumbed to it, an impressionable young man would get recruited. He continued to behave in a promiscuous manner even after the age of sixty.
Out of all his targets of exploitation, the armed forces may have been his favourite. He seemed to take plenty of pride when pretending to be associated with an army. There were occasions though, when this antic was not received well. One instance occurred in March 1865, when the doctor was arrested for dressing in military attire. ‘Putting on foreign airs’ was the charge, apparently. This habit of his started in the nation’s capital, during the early days of the American Civil War. Pinkerton remarked:
At that time my duties in Washington were connected with the secret service of the army and my attention was naturally drawn to [Tumblety] a good deal by his military appearance…A little inquiry soon showed that he had flooded the army with his handbills and with objectionable books, so much so that General McClellan issued strict orders that the circulation of these books in the army should be suppressed, on the ground that many of the books were calculated to debase the soldiers.2
It was understandable if the General had become annoyed with the man. A Rochester newspaper reported on how Tumblety would parade himself ‘as one of General McClellan’s staff at Washington. He was not on the staff, but dressed as near like an officer as he dare, and would follow the General’s staff on horseback at a safe distance.’3
Tumblety later spoke of having been furnished with passes from McClellan that enabled him ‘to go and come where and when [he] pleased.’ The doctor kept feeding his ego, while openly disrespecting military decorum; inevitably, this had to come to an end. A highly-respected researcher in our field, Roger Palmer, has a newspaper clipping in his collection that told of a time when Tumblety stood before the Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton. The result was predictable, as seen here in Brooklyn Standard Union:
Stanton, who was not as good-natured as the President, had [Tumblety] thrown out of his office one day, and, in fact, ordered him to leave Washington in twenty-four hours.
Many years later, Pinkerton informed a mid-west journalist that the doctor had indeed been run out of town. Stanton, however, may have had a serious reason to evict him. The National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) has a handwritten testimony in its files, inked by a private in the Union Army. Tumblety was accused of selling bogus military discharge papers out of his medical office on Pennsylvania Avenue. The soldier named two men from his regiment who made this underhanded transaction with the doctor. It seems befitting of Tumblety that he would have taken advantage of homesick soldiers, but regardless, it was those deserters who bear much of the guilt in this matter. The NARA document is kept in a file pertaining to Edwin Stanton’s successor, Lafayette C. Baker.4
After the war, his military theatrics continued. The doctor proudly presented a dubious letter of praise, written to him by General Ulysses S. Grant. He publicly shared personal correspondences, supposedly coming from Generals Robert E. Lee and William T. Sherman. According to the New York World, he appeared in Pittsburgh ‘wearing the uniform of an officer of the United States Navy.’ So, it was plain to see that his eviction from Washington did not cause him to change his ways. The charlatan liked what he was doing, and he arrogantly expanded his military masquerade act, with a European flair. The cover of his 1872 autobiography showed him decked out in a Prussian Army uniform. It was decorated with a variety of medals. After Paris was seized by the Prussians, Tumblety became fascinated by the French awards presented to physicians who had served in field hospitals during the conflict. The doctor coveted that type of an award, so he printed one up and placed it in his book. He bestowed himself with a Brittany Cross, along with a diploma for his devoted service to the Ambulance of Brittany ‘in the qualification of Doctor during the war.’
Judging by his actions, one could say Tumblety had very little respect for authority, be it from the military or the Church. Even law-enforcement officers were treated with contempt. While in custody, during November 1888, Tumblety shot his mouth off against his jailers. The Brooklyn Citizen reported:
Tumblety was arrested in London some weeks ago as the supposed Whitechapel murderer. Since his incarceration in prison he has boasted of how he had succeeded in baffling the police.5
Tim Riordan discovered a story about how a Pennsylvania police department received similar disrespect. This was in regards to Tumblety’s antics in Philadelphia during the summer of 1863. The doctor had an innocent man arrested, and jailed, for allegedly stealing a gold medal from his medical office. The Philadelphia Police Chief blew his top at Tumblety, after it was learned the whole thing was a hoax. The doctor skipped town when perjury charges were brought against him.6
An unpleasant aspect of this study into Tumblety’s life was reviewing the times he embarrassed the poor for his own esteem. A couple of reports showed he had developed a habit of randomly tossing money on the ground, as if he were feeding the pigeons. From ‘Recollections of a Police Magistrate’ in the Canadian Magazine:
Looking at his hand full of [mixed coins] he said loudly, so that all the people in the shop might hear him, ‘How did I ever get that trash in my pocket?’ [Tumblety] picked the gold out in one hand and walked to the door and threw the handful of silver out the door, across the sidewalk on to the roadway, where there was a scramble for it.
From the Brooklyn Standard Union:
The boys used to follow (Tumblety) for the money he scattered here and there…
A demonstration of his superficial benevolence to the poor occurred in Buffalo in 1859. The doctor announced he would distribute barrels of flour to the needy at a popular gathering site downtown. A local journalist from the Buffalo Morning Express witnessed the event:
The crowd collected was very immense, and very little discretion was used in regard to the actual necessities of the poor. The whole thing, as our readers already know, was an advertising dodge, and reflects no credit on the originator.
It looked like Tumblety’s distribution of flour fell under the old saying, ‘There is no greater treason, then to do the right thing for the wrong reason.’ His gestures of aiding the poor came across as artificial. By the same token, his self-serving behaviour transcended class levels. When the doctor began his career in Rochester, he obtained the signatures of prominent citizens in the community. At first glance, it seemed he was seeking respectable names to endorse his personal character. Soon afterwards the signers found themselves tricked. Tumblety took the signatures to Canada and claimed they were endorsements of his ability as a medical physician. He knew no boundaries when it came to taking advantage of others, regardless of their position in society.
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