by Rule, Fiona
Less than a quarter of an hour later, PC Edward Watkins walked into Mitre Square on his usual beat and discovered the body of a woman who had been savagely attacked. Her throat had been cut, her face disfigured and her skirts were drawn up round her waist, revealing the fact that she had been disembowelled. Watkins raced over to a nearby warehouse to call for help. Catherine Eddowes had become the Ripper’s penultimate victim.
Due to the location in which the body was discovered, Catherine Eddowes’s murder fell under the jurisdiction of the City Police, rather than the Metropolitan Police (who had been responsible for the other murder enquiries). The City Police Officers were determined not to be outwitted like their Metropolitan colleagues and immediately launched an exhaustive search of the area. The Metropolitan Police were kept informed of developments and just before 3am, PC Alfred Long stumbled across the first real clue.
PC Long had been walking his beat along Goulston Street, a road that ran north from Aldgate, up towards the Dorset Street area. On passing a block of Model Dwellings, he noticed a blood-stained piece of material in the passageway. On picking it up, PC Long noticed that the blood was still wet. Above the spot where the material had lain was a chalked message that read ‘the Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.’ The material was promptly taken to the mortuary and it was found to have been cut from Catherine Eddowes’s apron. After six murders and months of frustration, the police had their first clue.
The City and Met Police’s confidence in their chances of apprehending the elusive murderer was temporarily boosted by the discovery of the piece of apron. They now knew that the assailant(s) had fled towards Spitalfields once they had committed the dreadful atrocities on poor Catherine Eddowes. The chalked graffiti on the wall of the Model Dwellings was another matter entirely. Both police forces were undecided as to whether it was pertinent to the murder inquiry or simply a racist message scrawled on the wall by a disgruntled local, intolerant of the area’s newest immigrants. However, given the fact that race relations in the district were currently at boiling point, the Met police thought it best to wash the graffiti away before it was seen by the locals. Thus what could have been an indispensable clue was erased before it could even be photographed.
Concentrating their efforts on the discovery of the piece of apron, the police made their usual rounds of all the homes and businesses in the area to ascertain whether anyone had seen or heard anything suspicious on the night of the murder. Given the response from their previous enquiries, they might have guessed that nobody had noticed anything untoward.
As the police’s frustration at the lack of progress in any of the murder inquiries grew, so did the frustrations of Londoners, particularly those living in the East End. Men in the area formed vigilante groups, the most well known of which was the East End Vigilance Committee, headed by a builder from Mile End named George Lusk. Soon after the murder of Catherine Eddowes, Mr Lusk was the recipient of a bloody parcel containing a portion of kidney that the sender claimed belonged to the murdered woman. Accompanying the kidney was a letter from the supposed murderer within which he admitted to eating the other half. The sheer sensationalism of this admission caused many people involved with the case to suspect that the letter was the work of either an enterprising journalist or a medical student with a fondness for sick jokes. However, it was never disproved that the kidney came from Catherine Eddowes.
The parcel containing the kidney was by no means the only piece of correspondence that was sent. The day before the murder of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, Tom Bulling of the Central News Agency passed a letter on to the police that had been received two days previously, on 27 September. The letter was addressed to ‘The Boss’ and had been posted in the EC (East Central) district of London. It read as follows:
‘I keep hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron [Piser] gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work my last job was, I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now, I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send them to the police officers just for jolly wouldnt you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance, good luck.’
The police took especial notice of this particular letter due to the line about clipping the lady’s ears off; a portion of one of Catherine Eddowes’s ears had been severed and was subsequently found in the folds of her clothing. However, the extent of Catherine’s facial injuries had been so great that it was quite possible that the cutting of her ear had not been intentional. Further, the severed portion of ear had been left at the scene and not sent to the police as promised in the letter.
While this letter turned out to be nothing more than yet another piece of correspondence to be considered by the police, to the press it was a gift from the heavens. Since John Piser had managed to prove his alibi for the nights of the Nichols and Chapman murders, the press had been forced to stop referring to the murderer as ‘Leather Apron’. The letter gave them a name that, in journalistic terms, was simple, chilling and utterly appropriate. So much so that to this day it sends a shiver down the spine of children and adults alike. The letter was signed ‘Jack the Ripper’.
Back in Dorset Street, the reportage of what was rapidly becoming known as ‘the double event’ had left the residents in shock. Elizabeth Stride had been a regular inmate at Jack McCarthy’s lodgings at number 38 and her boyfriend Michael Kidney still lived there. No more than a month previously, long-term Dorset Street resident Annie Chapman had also fallen victim to the ghoul now referred to as the Ripper. The prostitutes that inhabited the lodging houses and courts along this Godforsaken street were literally in fear of their lives. However, many had no choice but to carry on working. They reasoned that it was better to take one’s chances with a couple of punters each night than to sleep rough. That said, the night-times were terrifying for all the prostitutes that worked the streets of Spitalfields and Whitechapel.
The women sought regulars as much as they could, but not enough money could be earned from these men to pay for a bed for the night and obtain the alcoholic fix most of them required in order to function. Every new punter was treated with fear and suspicion. The murdered women had met their ends in close proximity to homes and places of entertainment but no one had heard them cry for help. There was no such thing as a safe place to take a punter. The vigilante groups were of little help as they couldn’t be in more than one place at a time and the same went for the police.
In this atmosphere, it might be reasonable to assume that, in the absence of any other form of security, the prostitutes would have turned to each other for help. However there are no known reports of the women keeping an eye on one another. Being a prostitute in 19th century East London was indeed a lonely, dangerous profession.
At number 13 Miller’s Court, things were not going so well for Joe Barnett and Mary Kelly. The catalyst for the breakdown in their relationship seems to be the fact that some time in the mid-summer of 1888, Joe lost his steady job as a porter at Billingsgate fish market. No contemporary documents give any clues as to why Barnett found himself out of work. However, he had been employed by the market as a licensed porter since the late 1870s so if he was sacked, it seems fair to assume that he must have committed a major offence.
The two main offences resulting in instant dismissal from Billingsgate Market at the time were theft or drunkenness. Given that no contemporary reports suggest Barnett had a drink problem, it is more likely that he was caught walking out of the gate with som
e of the stock in his pocket. That said, Barnett may not have been sacked at all. During the mid-to-late 1880s, the economy was in recession and therefore it is not inconceivable that Barnett was simply made redundant.
Whatever the reasons for Joe Barnett losing his job, the fact remained that he was jobless and he could not afford to provide for Mary Kelly. As autumn drew closer, Barnett and Kelly fell increasingly further behind with the rent. It might be reasonable to assume that their landlord Jack McCarthy would have been less than sympathetic to their plight. After all, he was in the business of letting rooms in return for money and could be forgiven for throwing out any tenants that could not pay their dues. In actual fact, Jack McCarthy was very sympathetic to Mary and Joe’s impecunious situation and let them continue living in the room, despite the fact that their rent payments were at best erratic, at worst non-existent.
Jack McCarthy’s behaviour towards Mary and Joe suggests one of three things: firstly of course, McCarthy may have felt sorry for them and charitably let them continue living in the room rent free. However, this is most unlikely. Secondly, he may have given Kelly more rope than other tenants because of a long association with his extended family. Perhaps, but in his line of work, McCarthy could hardly afford to be sentimental. Thirdly, and most likely, McCarthy saw the opportunity to make more money from the situation. In full knowledge of Kelly’s erstwhile profession, he put her back on the streets, turning tricks in lieu of rent. This third option is backed up by the fact that by the end of the summer, Mary Kelly was indeed working as a prostitute once again.
Joseph Barnett was horrified that his longstanding ladyfriend was having to prostitute herself in order to keep a roof over their heads and the situation dealt a heavy blow to his already dented self-esteem. As the fear and hatred for the Ripper seeped through the once-safe streets and courts of Spitalfields, Mary and Joe’s relationship began to fall apart. As Joe frantically looked for work in vain. Mary drank herself into the stupor necessary to pick up any man who would pay her for sex.
The drink made her loud and aggressive and the couple began to fight. In mid-October, they broke two panes of glass in one of their windows during an altercation, thus making them more indebted to McCarthy, who saw no reason to repair them until his tenants paid up. Consequently, the windows remained broken. As the weather got colder, Mary and Joe stuffed rags into the jagged holes in an attempt to keep out the bitter draught.
As Mary brought men home at all times of day and night, Joe Barnett became more and more uncomfortable living in 13 Miller’s Court. In an attempt to bring in more money (and possibly to drive Barnett away) Mary brought other prostitutes into the room and also made no secret of the fact that she was seeing her previous beau, Joseph Flemming. As the situation came to a head, Joe Barnett saw all too clearly that he had to leave. On 30 October, he packed up what few possessions he had and paid for a bed at a lodging house in New Street, Bishopsgate. Without knowing it, Mary Kelly had lost the man who might have been able to save her life.
Although forced to leave, Joe Barnett was a stubborn man and refused to completely finish his relationship with Mary Kelly. While he continued his search for full-time work, he took whatever casual jobs came his way. Any money he had left after paying for his lodgings was given to Mary. It seems that Joe Barnett was reluctant to burn all his bridges regarding this relationship and no doubt hoped that one day he would be able to win Mary back
On the evening of Thursday 8 November, Joe decided to pay one of his regular visits to 13 Miller’s Court. He arrived at the room a few minutes before 7pm and found Mary with her fellow prostitute and occasional room-mate, Maria Harvey. The three chatted for about half an hour and then Maria left, giving Joe the opportunity to speak to Mary alone. Exactly what was discussed following Maria Harvey’s departure will never be known, but whatever the topic of conversation, the erstwhile couple did not spend long alone together and Joe Barnett left the room at about 7.45pm. It was the last time he would see Mary Kelly alive.
After Joe’s departure, Mary readied herself to go out. The November evening was cold and wet thus making it a bad night to pick up casual business on the street. This was the type of evening when the streetwalkers found trade most hard to come by. Few men were about in the streets and even less wanted to disappear down a dank back-alley for a knee-trembler. Girls like Mary, who had their own rooms in which they could entertain their ‘guests’ were a more popular choice on cold rainy nights, despite the fact that they cost more. The only down-side to this from Mary’s point-of-view was that McCarthy would be able to see exactly how many tricks she turned that night because she had to walk right past the front door of his shop in order to get to her room.
At 11.45pm, Mary Ann Cox, a prostitute living at 5 Miller’s Court, was making her way back to her room when she saw Mary Kelly and a man disappearing down the alley in the direction of number 13. As she followed, Cox noticed that the man was carrying a quart can of beer. She also realised that Mary Kelly was very drunk, having probably spent the best part of the evening in the pub. The couple closed the door to number 13 and almost immediately, Mary began to entertain her guest with a rendition of ‘A Violet Plucked from Mother’s Grave’, a popular Irish folk song. Over the next hour, Mary Ann Cox passed through the court twice and noticed that Kelly was still singing. It seemed that her companion had eschewed the traditional services of a prostitute in favour of a vocal performance.
Shortly after Mary Ann Cox’s departure from the court, Kelly’s neighbour Elizabeth Prater returned home. However, before she made her way to bed, she went into McCarthy’s shop and remained there for some minutes. There is little doubt that Elizabeth Prater was also a prostitute, so it is highly likely that, in a similar arrangement to Mary Kelly, McCarthy had put her to work on the streets until she could afford to pay her rent by more salubrious means. Her visit to the shop at this late hour was quite possibly to pay her landlord, thus avoiding being woken up by one of his rent collectors the next morning. During her time in and around the shop, (which amounted to about half an hour), Elizabeth Prater claimed she saw no one go in or out of Miller’s Court. Neither did she notice any light coming from Kelly’s room as she went upstairs to bed. As she heard no noise from Kelly either, Elizabeth Prater assumed that she had gone to bed.
But Mary Kelly had not gone to bed. Desperate for rent and/or drink money, she had left her room in search of more business. At 2pm, a man named George Hutchinson was walking down Commercial Street when he was accosted by Kelly, who wanted to borrow 6d. Hutchinson, who lived close by and knew Kelly reasonably well, had no money to spare and told her so. Unperturbed, Kelly went on her way and soon met another man who had been walking a short distance away from Hutchinson. The man tapped her on the shoulder, said something to her and the pair burst out laughing. He then put his arm around her and the pair made off in the direction of Dorset Street.
As he watched them, Hutchinson noticed that the man was carrying a small parcel secured by a strap. No doubt alerted by the newspaper illustrations of ‘Jack the Ripper’ carrying his knives in bags or packages, Hutchinson decided to follow the couple in order to make sure that Mary came to no harm. The couple turned into Dorset Street, stood at the corner of the court for a few minutes, then disappeared into room 13. Still worried, Hutchinson decided to hang around and watch for when the man came out. However, after waiting for three quarters of an hour, the inclement weather got the better of him and he went off in search of shelter.
Some time between 3.30 and 4am, Elizabeth Prater was awoken by her pet kitten. As she turned over to go back to sleep, she heard a woman cry out ‘oh, murder!’ However, cries such as these were as frequent along Commercial Street then as car alarms are today. Consequently, Elizabeth Prater ignored it and went back to sleep. Over at 2 Miller’s Court, Sarah Lewis sat in a chair wide awake. She had come to the room about an hour before in order to seek sanctuary from her husband, with whom she had been arguing. 2 Miller’s Court was rented by he
r friend Mrs Keyler and was only a short distance from her lodgings in Great Pearl Street. As Lewis tried to doze off in the cold, damp room, she too heard a cry of ‘murder’. Like Elizabeth Prater, she ignored it.
What remained of the night passed by with little incident. Jack McCarthy shut his shop at around 2am and made his way to bed. By 5am, men began leaving Miller’s Court on their daily trip to seek work at the Docks. A few hours later, their wives and partners began to stir. The shutters on McCarthy’s shop windows came off and another day began. But this day was unlike any other. On this day, the names of Mary Jane Kelly, Jack McCarthy and Joe Barnett and the miserable thoroughfare of Dorset Street would be written into history and become forever linked with the squalor, depravation and hopelessness that was Spitalfields in 1888. As Jack McCarthy took the shutters from the windows of his miserable little shop on that rainy morning in November, little did he know that he and his hopeless, poverty-stricken tenants would become part of a mystery that would engross inhabitants of countries around the globe into the millennium and beyond.
At 10.45am, McCarthy gave up on Mary Kelly delivering her night’s earnings personally and sent one of his rent collectors, a man named Thomas Bowyer, into Miller’s Court to find her. Bowyer made his way through the narrow archway that ran between numbers 26 and 27 Dorset Street, into the mean little court. He turned and knocked on the door of number 13. There was no answer and no sign of movement inside the room. Bowyer knocked again, then walked around the side of the building to peer through the window. The view through the first window was obscured by a thick, heavy piece of material so Bowyer put his hand through the pane of glass that had been broken some weeks previously and pulled it aside.