The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper

by James Carnac

  As I mechanically stumbled on I bethought me of the state of my hands; and, under the light of a street lamp I looked down at the front of my overcoat. It was sodden with moisture and when I touched it I found this to be blood. It would not be observed in the dim light of these streets, of course, but it was disquieting. Could I walk safely in my present condition all the way home to my lodging?

  I had now come into Houndsditch and here I removed my overcoat, folded it with the lining outwards, and draped it over my left arm in such a way that my hand was concealed in a fold. My other hand I thrust into my jacket-pocket, and in this fashion I set off, walking rapidly in spite of my fatigue. I reached Henrietta Street as the sky was lightening, let myself quietly into the house where I lodged and crept softly up the stairs to my rooms.

  I would willingly have tumbled into bed without more ado, but there could be no rest for me until I had done certain things. I washed my hands and, as I did so, perceived from my reflection in a mirror above my wash-hand stand a single large splash of blood on my chin. I went cold when I noticed it, for what if someone else—one of the few pedestrians I had passed—had noticed it too and should remember! Certainly this business of mine was fraught with more pit-falls than I had estimated; and what on earth was I to do about my overcoat?

  I could not lock it away in its present state in case it should, by some accident, be discovered by my landlady. Its very presence was a menace, and I could not destroy it. I could only try to clean it, and this I did. I placed my hand-bowl on the floor and scrubbed the front of the coat with a nail brush. And the damned nail brush became reddened! At last I thought I had removed the blood from the coat, but I could not be sure until it had dried; I locked it away in my wardrobe.

  After that I carefully cleaned the scalpel and dagger with moistened newspaper, and hung the dagger in its accustomed place on the wall. The scalpel I replaced in my drawer with its fellows.

  At about six in the morning nothing remained, so far as I could observe, to bear witness to my activities but a wash-bowl of blood-stained water and a few scraps of reddened newspaper. With the paper and bowl in my hands I crept from my sitting-room to the landing and listened; no one was yet astir. I passed silently to the lavatory and disposed of the last of the evidence.

  After that I went to bed and slept soundly until nearly mid-day.

  Chapter 18

  The mental state of the conscience-stricken homicide has been treated by many imaginative writers according to their individual conceptions of what that state must be; and those conceptions show a great similarity. For it seems to be universally assumed that the homicide must be necessarily conscience-stricken. I question whether this assumption is borne out by actual fact.

  A distinction must be made between what is called the “working of conscience” which, in the case of a homicide, I assume to be meant a species of remorse; and the fear of being found out. It is extremely probable that the latter acts as an irritant or stimulus to the former. But in fiction, in which I include the drama, remorse on the part of the homicide is pictured as sufficient in itself to cause acute discomfort to the sufferer, the main symptom being a tendency to “see” the spectre of his victim.

  I can well imagine the mental harassment caused to an ill-controlled person by the fear of being found out which, in the case such as I am discussing, would imply subsequent hanging. I can understand such a person, in a nervous effort to reduce the object of his worry to a minimum, doing this and that in an effort to hide his traces—real or imagined—and I have gathered that quite a number of homicides have drawn detection upon themselves entirely by their needless precautions.

  But when I consider the matter of conscience as an active and independent agent of discomfort, I arrive at the conclusions first that these ideas of conscience are very much exaggerated, and secondly that when a homicide does become “conscience-stricken” as a result of his act, it can only be in those cases where the active party cannot justify that act to himself. In other words, he has gone against his own ingrained principles in killing another person at all.

  The reader, being doubtless a respectable and conventional person, will at once say that the killing of another can never be justified; that it must always be contrary to the principles of the killer. But I do not agree. In certain circumstances the killing of another is justified; cases occur in which the killing should be regarded as justifiable by any person able to free his mind from cant. And, of course, there are circumstances in which the killing of another is held to be right even by the hide-bound—or, if not absolutely right, at least not to be condemned. The execution of a condemned criminal is not held to be murder and the public hang-man does not, probably, suffer the twinges of conscience. I have not met that gentleman, but in the unlikely event of my doing so I must ascertain whether this is correct. And as for killing in war—well, we all know how our youngsters were egged on to go out and kill a few years ago, particularly by members of the tender sex who went to the length of distributing white feathers to those young men who exhibited reluctance.

  But apart from these recognized examples of justifiable homicide there are others, the recognition of which is shirked. As an example: had my uncle poisoned his cancer-stricken wife with the intention of saving her unnecessary suffering, his action would have been praise-worthy in the eyes of any reasonable person.

  Where, you will ask, is all this leading? Are you, J.R., suggesting that your disposal of the Whitechapel woman was justifiable? Well, no; I am not suggesting exactly that; but I do claim that it was on the border-line of the justifiable. Primarily I killed the woman in the hope that by “blowing off steam” I should be less likely to kill a useful member of society. I will admit to the inclination, but surely I should not be blamed too much for an inclination implanted in me through the medium of my ancestors? I did not ask for that inclination and should have been unquestionably happier without it. Yes, I know, O reader, that we are “intended” to fight against our temptations, and I have no doubt you have fought against your own. But I venture to think you have never had a temptation like mine.

  Whether or not the workings of conscience (if any) vary in the homicidal class in proportion to the degree of justification of the killing I do not know; but I do know that in my own case my conscience, such as it is, caused me no inconvenience whatever. I felt perfectly certain that a woman I had killed was no worse off after my action than she had been before, it being difficult for me to conceive any circumstances (leaving out the “fires of hell” theory, to which I was not prepared to subscribe) in which she could be worse off. At the best she had been reborn to a better and happier life (see Church Service) and at the worst she was dead in the materialistic sense and therefore free from her past troubles. She had had what is popularly called a “happy release.” Feeling this, why should I be troubled by conscience?

  As regards the fear of detection: I will confess to a certain slight uneasiness here, for I was not then a practised and experienced homicide, and the remote possibility that I might have left some trace occasionally troubled me during the first few days following the affair. But I soon overcame this, being reassured when I read the newspaper reports of the inquest.

  The first sitting of the inquest (which I thought it impolitic to attend) took place on the 9th August, and was reported on the 10th. I read the account of this, and of the adjourned inquest, with great interest, and learned that the name of my subject had been Martha Tabron or Turner, and that her remains had been discovered by a labourer named Reeves when he left George-yard Buildings for his work at about 4:45 a.m. Previous to this, however, another man had seen the woman lying on the landing at 3, but had ignored it assuming, from his experience of the district, that she was drunk. I estimated, therefore, that I had had a good margin of time in which to retire from the scene.

  Dr. Killeen, who had examined the body, gave a list of the organs penetrated, and showed remarkable acume
n in estimating that two weapons had been used.

  It appeared in the course of the proceedings that Mrs. Turner had been seen during the evening of the 6th August in the company of two soldiers. Later on the military were paraded at the Tower and also, I believe, at Wellington Barracks, and two men were picked out by the Witness concerned as being the men in question. But both men were able to show alibis which was, to me, a relief; for had an innocent man been charged in connection with the affair my own position would have been an awkward one. I should not have known quite what to do.

  Nothing appeared at the inquest which gave an indication of a “clue” to my identity, unless information was being withheld from the public and the police were at sea; and I saw no reason to feel uneasy.

  So far as I could judge, the case caused but little excitement; my landlady, a garrulous woman, made no reference to it in my hearing, although she showed, as a rule, considerable interest in similar items of news.

  —

  At this stage I should like to clear up a popular misconception, and to state that Martha Turner was the first person I disposed of. I desire to do so because of the following facts:

  In certain journalistic accounts of my exploits it has been stated that I was responsible for the death of a woman named Emma Smith on 3rd April 1888. In fact, during the “Terror” of the autumn of 1888 this was assumed to have been one of my cases even by responsible persons such as coroners.

  In one newspaper article which I have observed it is stated that “Emma Smith was found dead and horribly mutilated, lying in a small entry in Osborne Street.” The writer goes on to say that “Dr. Phillips declared at the inquest that the mutilations were the work of someone skilled in anatomical dismemberment.” And that it was something “diabolical and uncanny,” that “Londoners were horrified” and so on and so forth.

  Now this statement is not merely an exaggeration; most of it is absolutely untrue. Mrs. Smith was set upon by a party of men who assaulted her and severely injured her by driving an iron stake, or some such instrument, into her body. Mrs. Smith’s body was not discovered anywhere; she was able to get home to her wretched lodgings where she gave an account of the assault. A woman friend assisted her to the hospital where Mrs. Smith died of her injuries twenty-four hours later. As to the attainments of those responsible for the assault, Dr. Phillips may or may not have made the statement attributed to him; but I cannot trace it, and it seems highly improbable that he regarded an ability to drive an iron stake into a woman’s body as evidence of “skill in anatomical dismemberment.” As for London being horrified; well, I question whether many persons knew or troubled anything about the case, for murders in the East End of London were then by no means uncommon.

  But let it be noted that Mrs. Smith’s death was due to a party of men according to her own statement. She mentioned four, and said that one of them appeared to be about nineteen years of age.

  Later on, when my handiwork began to earn recognition, it was almost universally assumed by those without knowledge of the above facts that Mrs. Smith was one of my subjects. But there was never the slightest evidence to bear out this assumption.

  I may also touch upon the modern popular belief that “atrocities” by J.R. were of almost nightly occurrence, and that they were very numerous. This again is quite incorrect, as this record will show. And any person who doubts my statement can confirm it quite easily by reference to the newspapers of the period.

  Chapter 19

  I had hoped that my enterprise of the 7th August would dispose, once and for all, of my unfortunate craving; that, having allowed myself to experience a satisfaction, I should have permanently satiated that craving. But I soon discovered, with rather mixed feelings, that the assuagement was purely temporary.

  Although in the past I had always been fascinated by blood and, during later years, by knives, the urge to shed blood had only occurred on isolated occasions and then suddenly and unexpectedly. But now my experience had resulted in actual knowledge of the satisfaction to be derived from blood-letting; from a slumbering beast, awakening only at rare intervals, my “complex” had become an ever watchful thing awaiting an opportunity to glut itself.

  And, in addition to the satisfaction of the act, I had discovered a new and unexpected source of interest: the excitement of the attendant circumstances. I began to realize the fascination exercised by the sport of hunting when the prize is the death of the quarry, and the forfeit that of the hunter. And being a comparatively young man I was not unaffected by conceit on realizing that I had set myself against the forces of law and order and come off best.

  I had not then, and never have had, any feeling of contempt for the police. Our police force is, I should imagine, one of the most capable in the world; with certain newspaper offices it shares, probably, the honour of being the most efficient organization in this country. But the police, although able and industrious, are not omniscient. They cannot find their man without some traces to guide them.

  Nevertheless I congratulated myself on having avoided the attentions of the police; and I was afflicted by the sin of pride.

  Now the fact that I had baffled the police (if the omission to leave clues may be regarded as a process of baffling) was, in itself, an incentive to me to try my luck again. The game of “hare and hounds” seemed to offer a fresh source of interest in addition to that attached to the actual commission of homicide. But I knew that every enterprise I carried out would mean a fresh risk, and that the risks would be cumulative. To make a hobby of the thing would not be homicide but suicide.

  So I curbed my desire—for a few weeks.

  But towards the end of August my craving was such that I decided to satisfy it once more. This would entail another risk of detection which, in conjunction with my former risk, might be considered to give an arithmetic product equal, not to two risks added, but risk squared; for it was possible that the police already held some trifling clue regarding the first case, useless in itself, but possibly of value if combined with any intrinsically trifling clue which I might leave in the future. I must therefore look well to my precautions, acting on the experience gained during my first exploit.

  I considered that first occasion: where I had been right and what mistakes I had made.

  I had been right in my choice of subject, locality and time. The first had practically placed herself at my disposal, and the locality had proved to be most suitable. The time had been well chosen, being late enough for the streets to be uncrowded, and yet allowing me leisure in which to reach home before the early risers at dawn.

  As for my mistakes, I had, so far as I could estimate, made two. I had removed the Malay dagger from its usual position and its absence might have been observed by my landlady. There had been no need for me to take the dagger at all; the scalpel alone would have been sufficient. And by confining myself to one knife on this second occasion I should reduce the risk of dropping a weapon by half.

  My second, and more serious mistake, had been in allowing myself to become blood-spattered. I should have remembered the admonition of my old school-fellow’s pork-butcher father when killing his pig to “stand clear.” Or I should have despatched my subject more carefully; instead of violently stabbing her I should have cut her throat. I need hardly enter into the technical reason for this alternative method.

  On future occasions—for I now admitted the probability of several future occasions—I must endeavour to avoid getting my clothing stained. The obvious plan was to wear a protective garment, but as it was impracticable for me to assume an overall in which to work, my long black overcoat would appear to fill the bill; for I could remove and fold it as I had done before.

  The refined reader will doubtless view these calculations of mine with distaste; but they were necessary. No one enters upon even such a relatively trifling affair as a summer holiday without some preliminary planning. How much more so, then, is planning nece
ssary in such an enterprise as that of mine, where the smallest slip may lead to the most unfortunate consequences? And I record my schemings in order to show that the homicidal maniac theory, to which I have earlier alluded, cannot be regarded seriously. I question whether a lunatic, such as popular imagination pictures, would have been capable of such preliminary precautions. He would more probably have simply run amok without regard to consequences.

  But I was careful; I held my anticipatory excitement in check the while I looked at my problem from all angles, examining it logically and critically. Surely no symptoms of lunacy here!

  —

  I fixed upon the 30th August as the date of my second adventure; but on the afternoon of that day I suddenly bethought me of another point.

  On the first occasion I had not attempted to explain my lateness to my landlady, beyond the insufficient statement that I was visiting the theatre. My reason for not enlarging upon that I have already mentioned. But it now occurred to me that if several occasions arose—and this seemed extremely likely—it might flash across the mind of my landlady that at those times when certain “atrocities” had taken place I, her lodger, had been absent from my rooms until an exceptionally late hour. I could guard myself against her possible suspicion by inventing someone in the nature of what Oscar Wilde calls a “Bunbury”—a sick friend or relative whom I frequently visited; this idea I decided to ponder at my leisure. But pending some such invention, was it, I wondered, necessary for my landlady to know I was absent at all?