“Pardon me,” Caroline asked. “But I wonder if either of you know a man named John Gardener?” It was reported that a man by this name had been one of the last people to see Elizabeth Stride alive.
The fatter of the two women replied, “If you’re looking for a man to pay your doss, you’ll have to find one on your own, like the rest of us.”
“A woman named Elizabeth Stride was murdered a fortnight ago. Did you know her?”
“She asks a lot of questions, doesn’t she, Bessie?” the thin one said. “Why d’ye think that is?”
“Liz was a friend,” Caroline said. “I want to know how she died.”
“A friend, eh?” Bessie said. “If that’s the case, you’re the only one she ever had.”
“You knew her?”
The thin one said, “Everyone knew Long Liz. She made sure of it.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was the most hateful woman I’ve ever met,” Bessie said. “If you were a ‘friend,’ as you say, you’d a known that.”
“Bessie!” said her friend. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
“I don’t care if she is dead. She was nothing but a common thief. D’ye know she stole my dear mum’s pearl brooch? I never did get it back—she probably sold it on so she could drink herself silly.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“Why’re you defending her? She was awful and you know it better than anyone. She stole your bloke!”
“I’m better off without him. She did me a favor on that score, she did.”
So Liz Stride had been a thief, Caroline thought. Could that have gotten her killed? Could it have gotten them all killed?
“Has she had rows with anybody recently?” Caroline asked.
“You mean like with anyone who might’ve killed her?” Bessie said. “I ain’t no snitch, am I?”
“Even if it might save another?”
She laughed, her round belly bouncing like a child’s rubber ball. “You think one of us whores is out here killing our own, is that it? That’s a good one, that is.”
“Did you know any of the other victims?”
She gave Caroline a hard look. “Wait a minute,” she said, her jaw set. “You’re that midwife the police suspected of being the Ripper. What’re you doing, trying to start trouble? Looking for someone else to blame so you can save your own hide?”
On another such evening, Caroline outfitted herself in one of her dead husband’s suits, piling her hair up into a bowler and rubbing coal along her jaw to mimic beard stubble. She went out, looking for women who might attract the Ripper’s attention. It was no difficult task; streetwalkers lurked everywhere, beckoning. One gravel-voiced slattern grabbed her by the arm as she passed, startling her.
“Aye, sir, would ye be liking a bit of company?” she said. She appeared to be forty or so, and quite in need of a good washing up. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with drunkenness and she stunk of gin.
“Indeed, I would,” Caroline said, her voice pitched low.
“C’mon then,” the woman said. “I know a nice private place where we can spend some time together.”
She led Caroline to a darkened stairwell. She gathered her skirts and started to pull them up.
“Oh no, there’ll be no need for that,” Caroline said. “I only want to talk.”
“Bah! I’ve no time for it.” She started to walk away.
“Wait,” Caroline said. “I’ll pay you. How much?”
The woman looked at her with suspicion. “Fivepence will do.”
Three was the going rate, but Caroline handed over the requested coins with no argument. The woman placed them somewhere amid the folds of her abundant cleavage and said, “What d’ye want then?”
“Do you know anything about the Ripper murders?”
The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Why should I know anything about the murders? I mind me own business and it’s a good thing I do.”
“Did you know any of the victims?”
“I’d seen ’em about. Didn’t know ’em to talk to ’em.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve witnessed something? Seen anything suspicious?”
“Why’re you so interested in the killings? What’re you, a bobby?”
“Nothing like that—”
Realization crossed the woman’s face like a shadow, immediately replaced by an expression of pure fear. “Dear God, you’re him, aren’t you?”
The woman screamed and tried to run, but Caroline was quicker. She grabbed her arm and covered her mouth. “For the love of God, be quiet or the whole of Whitechapel will hear. I’m a—I’m a newspaperman, looking for a story.”
The woman seemed to accept this and Caroline loosened her grip. As soon as she did, the woman broke away and ran, yelling, “It’s him! It’s the Ripper!”
Caroline made it home that night, managing to avoid another arrest. But if she were to catch Jack the Ripper, there seemed only one way to do it. She’d have to lure him out herself.
—
Caroline assessed her appearance in the mirror. It hadn’t been difficult to disguise herself as a common East End whore—all it took was a filthy dress and a slovenly manner. She added a black bonnet and veil to help conceal her face and concluded that she looked the part.
She’d studied every available detail of the Ripper killings—the newspapers reveled in publishing every gruesome detail. In each case, the manner of death was strangulation. He throttled his victims first, waiting until after they died to sever their throats and mutilate their bodies. With this in mind, she practiced defending herself against such an attack.
It had been several weeks since he’d killed Liz Stride and Catherine Eddowes, leading some to believe he’d finished his scourge. But the last letter, sent to the president of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee two weeks after their deaths, was the most shocking of all. With it, the Ripper had included a human kidney. To Caroline, this vile package indicated he’d no intention of halting the killings and it made her more determined than ever to find him.
Armed with a scalpel taken from her makeshift tool bag, she wandered the streets, trying to draw the Ripper out. It was easier to conceal than a kitchen knife, and if necessary, easier to use.
A man on the opposite side of the street called to her. “Is that bonny Ida I see over there?”
Caroline smiled. “It’s not Ida you see, sir, but Nellie.”
“C’mon over then, sweet Nellie, and give us a kiss.”
She laughed and continued on her way, turning up Whitechapel High Street. It was well lit here, illuminated by the interior lamps of the public houses, gin shops, penny show houses, and coffee stalls. Street performers offered every sort of entertainment, from singing waifs to wiry acrobats. It was difficult to imagine a killer in the midst of such frivolity.
She walked to the White Hart Pub, intending to stop for a quick drink and a rest. This end of the street was engulfed in darkness, and as she entered George’s Yard to access the pub’s front door, someone came up behind her.
He grabbed her to him, holding her tightly against his body with one arm and cupping her mouth with the other. Within seconds, he dragged her to the darkest corner of the passage and wrapped a scarf around her neck. Though she’d rehearsed this moment many times, she hadn’t known how powerless her panic would render her.
He twisted the scarf tighter. Light-headed now, she just had the strength to pull the scalpel from her pocket and drag it as deeply as she could along the back of his gloved hand. He gasped and flinched, loosening his grip. She lashed out again, digging the blade in even deeper this time. He backed away and she spun around, swinging it across his face.
He howled in pain and ran off toward the passage’s other end. She got her first solid glimpse of him and saw that he wore a police constable’s uniform.
“Murder!” she cried softly, for the assault had made her hoarse. “Murder!”
She scrambled after him, knowing there was little chan
ce she’d catch him. After a few steps, she turned back toward Whitechapel High Street to find help.
Then, she stopped short. The man who’d attacked her had been a constable, or at least dressed as one. For all she knew, she’d end up reporting the crime to the very man who’d committed it. Having survived one attack, she had no desire to face another. And having already been a suspect in the Ripper killings herself, she didn’t dare go to police headquarters for assistance.
She trudged home, frightened and sore. When she stripped off her coat, she found a torn piece of the scarf he’d used caught on one of the buttons. His effort to kill her had left bruises on her neck.
She spent a sleepless night, wondering at the revelation that Jack the Ripper was either a police constable himself or posing as one. Either way, it was a brilliant ruse—the uniform allowed him to walk the streets at night, concealed as a trusted public official, all the while searching for potential victims.
The following morning, she was still in bed when Emily came pounding at her door.
“Caroline! Caroline!”
She opened the door and found her friend in a mess of tears. “Heavens, Emily, what’s happened?”
“It’s Mary,” Emily choked. “She’s been—dear Lord, Caroline—the Ripper killed her.”
The significance of Emily’s words sunk in as Caroline realized the truth. Mary’s death was her fault. If she’d reported the Ripper’s attack last night, the police might’ve laid chase and caught him before he did this to Mary.
Oh, dear Mary, I’m so sorry.
—
Caroline steeled herself as the facts of Mary Kelly’s slaying emerged. She couldn’t allow herself to succumb to grief and guilt, for it would help no one. Instead, she focused her attention on the only thing that mattered: finding the Ripper and avenging Mary. Avenging all of them.
The details were almost too much to bear. Mary’s head was severed and placed beneath one of her arms. Her ears and nose were cut off. He’d disemboweled her body and tore the flesh from her thighs. Some of her organs, including her heart, were missing. He’d ripped the skin off of her forehead and cheeks and pushed one of her hands into her stomach.
But the most important detail of all was the photo printed in The Star two days after Mary’s death: a torn scarf was found on the bed beside the body. Caroline recognized it, for she still had the other half in her possession.
—
George Hutchinson, a mutual acquaintance of Mary and Caroline, seemed to have been the last person to see her alive. Two days after Mary’s murder, Caroline went to see him.
“I already told the police all this,” he complained. “Why’s it so important I tell it to you?”
“Mr. Hutchinson, I know how fond you were of Mary. I was, too. I can’t rest until I know what happened to her.”
“She asked me to lend her sixpence and I didn’t have it. She said she’d have to get it some other way then and I let her go off. If I’d a known what was gonna happen I woulda stole it for her myself.”
“Mary was deep in debt. Your sixpence wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“Maybe not. But I had a feeling something bad was set to happen. She met a man on the next corner and I followed them back to a lodging house. I waited outside for half an hour or more but when no one came out, I left.”
“What time was this?”
“About two o’clock, I’d say.”
“The inquest revealed that Mary died around four,” Caroline said. “Unless you stayed with her all night, you probably couldn’t have helped.”
He nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.
“Do you remember what the man looked like?”
Mr. Hutchinson described a stocky man of average height, quite unlike the person who’d attacked her.
“And did you see any bobbies about?” she asked.
“I suppose I did, but since nothing untoward had happened at that point, I didn’t think to say anything.”
Before she left, she assured Mr. Hutchinson: “You mustn’t blame yourself for Mary’s death. There’s nothing more you could’ve done. Let that knowledge bring you peace.”
She wished she could believe the words for herself.
On her way home she stopped at a fruit cart to buy an apple for lunch. After she handed the merchant her coin, she turned around and saw PC Neil on the opposite side of the street. He might’ve been the last bobby in Whitechapel she still trusted, but nevertheless, she had no wish to speak to him. She was about to turn and walk the other direction when she noticed the bandage affixed to his cheek.
No, she thought. It’s only by chance. He can’t be the Ripper.
PC Neil headed toward her and as he got closer, the truth became apparent. He was the right size and build. He’d been at or near the scene of all the murders. He wore a bandage in the very place she’d wounded her attacker. PC Neil, a bobby who’d ever only showed her kindness, was the man who’d tried to kill her. Which meant, likely as not, he was also Jack the Ripper.
She stood still, wanting to flee but unable to move. Her previous determination to destroy the Ripper now seemed brash and foolhardy. Faced with him now, she gave him the brightest smile she could muster. “Goodness, constable, what on earth happened?”
She searched his eyes for anything that might suggest him capable of the Ripper’s savagery, but saw nothing but benevolence. Had she been mistaken? Could the wound on his face be only a coincidence?
He raised his hand and touched the bandage. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with, Mrs. Farmer. Just a nasty scuffle last night. All in the line of duty, you know.”
“It’s weeping through the bandage. Have you seen a doctor?”
“Certainly there’s no need for that.”
She took a deep breath, trying to bolster her courage. “An infection can be quite serious,” she said. “I live just around the corner and have medical supplies at my disposal. If you like, I’ll clean it up for you.”
“Very well, perhaps you’re right. That’s very kind of you.”
Though it was a short distance, the walk home seemed endless. Along the way, she formulated her plan, understanding the risk. If she failed at her task, he would kill her. If she succeeded, she could be arrested.
She unlocked the door and invited him inside. “Sit down,” she said, indicating a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll just go get my bag.”
She moved casually in spite of her racing heart. Did he realize that she’d been the one he attacked before moving on to Mary Kelly? Was she playing into his hands instead of the other way around? Thankfully, she kept her bag close at hand in case of emergency; it took only a few steps to fetch it, enabling her to keep her eye on him.
“It must’ve been a terrible fight,” she said, crossing back over to where he sat.
“Working the East End is no easy thing,” he said. “But that should come as no surprise to you.”
She took out a clean cloth and a bottle of carbolic acid. Using her surgical scissors, she carefully cut the tape away from his face, revealing the wound. She’d cut more deeply than she’d thought, dangerously close to his eye. A half an inch higher and she might’ve blinded him.
She fought to keep her hands steady as she poured a quantity of carbolic acid onto the cloth and raised it to his cut.
“This might sting,” she said.
He winced at the first contact, then relaxed somewhat as she continued dabbing the wound. He settled himself, allowing her ministrations to soothe him. Then, all at once, his hand shot up and grabbed her wrist.
“Stop,” he said.
She held her breath. “Did I—did I hurt you?”
“No. It’s just that—I’m sorry. It’s been many months since I’ve been touched so tenderly. My wife died in July.”
She took shallow breaths as she tried to make sense of his words. July. That was just before the Ripper killings started. Was that what had set him off? Simple grief?
“I’m very sorry fo
r your loss,” she said, her voice weak. “My husband died four years ago.”
“Then you know how it feels, don’t you?” He looked at her now, his eyes showing neither kindness nor sorrow. Just emptiness.
No, she thought. I don’t know how it feels. Because I would never turn to violence in order to heal my broken heart, no matter the circumstances.
“I’m nearly done here. I just need to prepare a fresh bandage.” She used the bag to conceal her hands while she poured chloroform onto the torn scarf. In one swift motion, she pressed it over his nose and mouth.
“I believe this belongs to you,” she said, holding his head against her breast tightly as he struggled. “This is for every one of those women you killed. You will die here, Jack the Ripper, and no one will ever know your true name. That’s what the letters were all about, weren’t they? Notoriety. Infamy. You’ll die an anonymous wretch, but the names of your victims will be known forever.”
When he lost consciousness, she eased him off of the chair to the floor, rolling him onto his side. She placed a bucket next to him and, using the scalpel, she slit his wrist deep enough to sever the artery. Before she could contain it, it sprayed across her face and onto the wall.
Swallowing back her bile, she cut his second wrist and let him bleed out into the bucket. Within minutes, the ripper known as Jack was dead.
—
The next day, the newspapers and broadsheets reported the suicide of PC Thomas Neil of Division H of the Metropolitan Police:
PC NEIL WAS DISTRAUGHT DUE TO THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE IN JULY
East End gossip spread that the constable’s wife killed herself when she’d learned he’d given her a venereal disease, rendering her unable to bear children. It seemed that PC Neil enjoyed the company of many of the prostitutes working his beat in Whitechapel, suffering the consequences and inflicting them upon his poor wife. Killing the women he held responsible for his loss was his recourse.
Emily had helped Caroline to drag the Ripper’s body out to the street and stage the suicide scene. These women, who’d been friends for so many years, swore on the soul of their dear departed Mary that no one would ever know their secret.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 93