by Paul Roland
The street is oppressively dark, though at present the gloom is relieved somewhat by feebly lighted shopfronts. Men are lounging at the doors of the shops, smoking evil-smelling pipes. Women with bare heads and with arms under their aprons are sauntering about in twos and threes, or are seated gossiping on steps leading into passages dark as Erebus. Now round the corner into another still gloomier passage, for there are no shops here to speak of. This is the notorious Wentworth Street. The police used to make a point of going through this only in couples, and possibly may do so still when they go there at all. Just now there are none met with. It is getting on into the night, but gutters, and doorways, and passages, and staircases appear to be teeming with children. See there in that doorway of a house without a glimmer of light about it. It looks to be a baby in long clothes laid on the floor of the passage, and seemingly exhausted with crying. Listen for a moment at this next house. There is a scuffle going on upon the staircase – all in the densest darkness – and before you have passed a dozen yards there is a rush down-stairs and an outsurging into the street with fighting and screaming, and an outpouring of such horrible blackguardism that it makes you shudder as you look at those curly-headed preternaturally sharp-witted children who leave their play to gather around the mêlée. God help the little mortals! How can they become anything but savages, “pests of society,” the “dangerous classes,” and so on? How black and unutterably gloomy all the houses look! How infinitely all the moral and physical wretchedness of such localities as these is intensified by the darkness of the streets and the houses. It is wise and astute of Mr. Barnett to give emphatic expression to the cry that has so often been raised for “more light” for lower London. If in this one matter of light alone, the streets and houses of the West End were reduced to the condition of the East, what would life become there? Oh, for a great installation of the electric light, with which, as the sun goes down, to deluge the streets and lanes, the dark alleys and passages, the staircases and rooms of this nether world. Homes would become cleaner, and more cheerful and attractive; life would become healthier, whole masses of crime would die out like toadstools under sunlight, and what remained would be more easily dealt with. The Cimmerian darkness of lower London indoors and out constitutes no small part of its wretchedness, and the brilliant lighting of the public-house gives it much of its attraction. Even the repute of many of these shady localities is due in great measure to their impenetrable gloom after nightfall.
It is a relief to get out of this vile little slum and to work one’s way back into the life and light of the great highway, with its flaunting shops, its piles of glowing fruit, its glittering jewellery, its steaming cook-shops, its flaring gin-palaces and noisy shows, and clubs and assembly rooms, and churches and mission halls, its cheap jacks and shooting galleries, its streaming naphtha lights and roar and rattle, and hurrying throngs and noisy groups, and little assemblies gathered together under the stars and the street-lamps to listen to some expounder of the mysteries of the universe or of the peculiar merits of a new patent pill. Here are the newspaper contents-bill spread out at large with some of the newsvendor’s own additions and amplifications, telling of new murders or further details of the old ones. The young man with a bundle of papers under his arm is evidently on the friendliest of terms with the neighboring shoeblack. One or the other of them has picked up half a cigar, and the two are getting alternate pulls at it with evident enjoyment. Up in a retired corner there is a little mob gathered round an almost inanimate-looking figure beating out with a couple of quills what he takes apparently to be music from a sort of home-made dulcimer. A few yards farther on, a boy without any legs is the object of attention; and next comes a group thronging curiously round a four-wheel cab. Nothing can be seen, but as the vehicle drives off towards the hospital and the mob disperses it is generally understood that “she has been knocked about.” The only question about which there seems to be any uncertainty is as to whether she is nearly dead or only very drunk.
A few yards further on there is a waxwork show with some horrible pictorial representations of the recent murders, and all the dreadful details are being blared out into the night, and women with children in their arms are pushing their way to the front with their pennies to see the ghastly objects within. Next door is a show, in which ghosts and devils and skeletons appear to be the chief attractions; and near at hand is a flaring picture of a modern Hercules performing within.
Out again into the great thoroughfare, back a little way past the roaring salesman and the hideous waxwork, and round the corner. This opening here, where the public-house, the bar of which looks to be full of mothers with children in their arms, blazes at the corner, leads down to Bucks Row. Nobody about here seems at all conscious of the recent tragedy, the only suggestion of which is a bill in the public-house window, offering, on behalf of an enterprising newspaper, a reward of a hundred pounds for the conviction of the criminal. A little way down out of the public-house glare, and Bucks Row looks to be a singularly desolate, out-of-the-way region. But there is a piano-organ grinding out the “Men of Harlech” over the spot where the murdered woman was found; women and girls are freely coming and going through the darkness, and the rattle of sewing-machines, and the rushing of railway trains, and the noisy horseplay of a gang of boys, all seem to be combining with the organ-grinder to drown recollection and to banish all unpleasant reflection. “There seems to be little apprehension of further mischief by this assassin at large,” was an observation addressed to a respectable-looking elderly man within a few yards of the house in Hanbury Street, where the latest victim was found. “No; very little. People, most of ’em, think he’s gone to Gateshead,” was the reply.’
Chapter 3: Forensic Files
The myth of Jack the Ripper came into existence on the morning of 27 September 1888. Prior to that date the deaths of Martha Tabram, Polly Nichols and the earlier, unrelated slaying of Emma Smith had all been attributed to an anonymous fiend known only as the Whitechapel Murderer. But as soon as T.J. Bulling, the editor of the Central News Agency (a clearing house for correspondents), opened a letter addressed to ‘The Boss’ written in red ink he knew that the British press had a name that would capture the public imagination and sell newspapers in unprecedented numbers.
‘Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t 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 gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the 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 proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope. ha ha The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the Police officers just for jolly, wouldn’t 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.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Don’t mind me giving the trade name’
The following was written vertically as a postscript:
‘Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now ha ha’
Genuine message from the Ripper or a waste of police time? Most experts doubt the authenticity of this correspondence
The choice of name suggested that its creator was an educated man who hid his intelligence behind contrived grammatical errors. The inspiration for the appellation was obvious. The newspapers had been describing the murderer as ripping the bodies while Jack was a traditional name for the more colourful characters of English fiction. Jolly Jack Tar was a generic name for all sailors, the public hangman was
traditionally referred to as Jack Ketch, a mischievous rogue would be called Jack the Lad and there were numerous villains synonymous with daring exploits who thumbed their noses at authority such as Spring-heeled Jack and Jack Shepherd the highwayman, who repeatedly escaped from Newgate prison. Clearly its creator was intent on giving the murderer a more romantic image. Only an irresponsible journalist would have no reservations about re-inventing a depraved serial killer as a daring rascal. The murderer is more likely to have viewed his bloody spree in vainglorious terms, perhaps as a holy crusade to rid the world of disease-riddled ‘undesirables’. He would have been insulted to think that the more popular press viewed him as a music-hall villain.
The public seemed to want every gory detail.
A second letter
On the Monday morning following the murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes the Central News Agency received a second letter in the same handwriting postmarked October 1:
‘I wasn’t codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip. youll hear about saucy Jack’s work tomorrow double event this time. Number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. Had no time to get ears for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.
Jack the Ripper’
Knowing that they would not be able to prevent the letters from being published, Scotland Yard circulated copies to every police station with instructions that they should be put on display in the hope that someone might recognize the handwriting. The result was a flood of crank correspondence from all over the world by unstable individuals and malicious hoaxers who thought it would be fun to taunt the police.
One of the factors that casts doubt upon the authenticity of the first two letters is the fact that the writer did not send the victim’s ears to the police as he promised even though he had sufficient time to do so. Furthermore, the second letter did not predict the double murder committed on Sunday 30 September as is commonly thought. The letter was apparently posted on either Sunday night or Monday morning when the whole district would have been electrified with news of the killings at Berner Street and Mitre Square.
Modern London police officers John Douglas and Mark Olshaker dismiss the letters out of hand, as did their predecessor Sir Charles Warren. ‘It’s too organized, too indicative of intelligence and rational thought, and far too “cutesy”,’ declare Douglas and Olshaker. ‘An offender of this type would never think of his actions as “funny little games” or say that his “knife’s so nice and sharp”.’
The third taunt
A third communication was received by the Central News Agency on 5 October.
‘Dear Friend,
In the name of God hear me I swear I did not kill the female whose body was found at Whitehall. If she was an honest woman I will hunt down and destroy her murderer. If she was a whore God will bless the hand that slew her, for the women of Moab and Midian shall die and their blood shall mingle with the dust. I never harm any others or the Divine power that protects and helps me in my grand work would quit for ever.
Do as I do and the light of glory shall shine upon you. I must get to work tomorrow treble event this time yes yes three must be ripped. will send you a bit of face by post I promise this dear old Boss. The police now reckon my work a practical joke well well Jacky’s a very practical joker ha ha ha Keep this back till three are wiped out and you can show the cold meat
Yours truly, Jack the Ripper
Despite the boast there was no triple murder, which suggests that the author was not the killer – but if he was not, then why make the boast?
It is very likely that the agency’s own journalists were responsible for writing the three ‘Dear Boss’ letters, probably Bulling and his boss Charles Moore, who were suspected by Scotland Yard of having perpetrated the hoax in order to keep the story simmering and the newspaper proprietors eager to retain their agency’s services. If so, they can be credited with creating one of the most enduring trade names in history, but also with having wasted considerable police resources which were diverted from the investigation in the mistaken belief that this was a genuine communication from the murderer. Both men were shrewd enough to realize that a killer attracts little public interest until the press attach a sinister soubriquet to capture the imagination – a strategy which is as true today as it was 100 years ago.
Sir Robert Anderson was in no doubt that the letters were a hoax and even accuses an employee of the agency in his memoirs:
‘The Jack the Ripper letter which is preserved in the Police Museum at New Scotland Yard is the creation of an enterprising London journalist.’
Sir Melville Macnaghten came to the same conclusion:
‘In this ghastly production I have always thought I could discern the stained forefinger of the journalist, indeed, a year later, I had shrewd suspicions as to the actual author! But whoever did pen the gruesome stuff, it is certain to my mind that it was not the mad miscreant who had committed the murders. The name “Jack the Ripper”, however, had got abroad in the land and had “caught on”; it riveted the attention of the classes as well as the masses.’
Macnaghten’s suspicion appears to be borne out by crime writer R. Thurston Hopkins, who in 1935 wrote:
‘It was perhaps a fortunate thing that the handwriting of this famous letter was perhaps not identified, for it would have led to the arrest of a harmless Fleet Street journalist. This poor fellow had a breakdown and became a whimsical figure in Fleet Street, only befriended by staff of newspapers and printing works. He would creep about the dark courts waving his hands furiously in the air, would utter stentorian “Ha ha ha’s,” and then, meeting some pal, would buttonhole him and pour into his ear all the “inner story” of the East End murders. Many old Fleet Streeters had very shrewd suspicions that this irresponsible fellow wrote the famous Jack the Ripper letter, and even Sir Melville L. Macnaghten, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, had his eye on him.’
Of all the police officials involved in the case only Chief Inspector John George Littlechild was brave enough to name the journalist the Yard thought responsible for the ‘Dear Boss’ letters, but this may have been because Macnaghten and the others were reluctant to risk being sued for libel by accusing the journalists in print, whereas Littlechild named them in a private letter to journalist George Sims.
‘With regard to the term “Jack the Ripper” it was generally believed at the Yard that Tom Bullen [Bulling] of the Central News was the originator, but it is probable Moore, who was his chief, was the inventor. It was a smart piece of journalistic work. No journalist of my time got such privileges from Scotland Yard as Bullen. Mr James Munro when Assistant Commissioner, and afterwards Commissioner, relied on his integrity.’
From Hell
So the mystery of the ‘Dear Boss’ letters appears to have been resolved. However, there was a fourth piece of correspondence which could possibly have been sent by the killer. In contrast to the ornate copperplate script used in the first two letters the fourth is an almost illegible scrawl which is far more suggestive of a deranged mind. Unlike the first three, it was not signed Jack the Ripper. It was sent on 16 October to George Lusk, the head of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, in a small box with what the sender claimed was a section of Catherine Eddowes’ kidney. Dr Thomas Openshaw of the London Hospital established that it was a human adult kidney and Dr Brown the police surgeon stated that it exhibited signs of Bright’s Disease from which Eddowes was known to have suffered. It was also reported that the kidney had 5cm (2in) of renal artery attached which matched the 2.5cm (1in) that remained in the corpse. Significantly, the organ had been preserved in spirits rather than in the formalin that hospitals used for specimens, making it unlikely that it was a hoax perpetrated by medical students.
The text of the accompanying letter made disturbing reading:
From hell
M Lusk Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you, tother piece I fried an
d ate it was ver nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer,
Signed
Catch me whenYou can
Mishter Lusk
However, a recently rediscovered contemporary interview with City Police surgeon Dr Brown contradicts the accepted view that the kidney belonged to Eddowes.
‘There is no portion of the renal artery adhering to it, it having been trimmed up, so consequently, there could be no correspondence established between the portion of the body from which it was cut. As it exhibits no trace of decomposition, when we consider the length of time that has elapsed since the commission of the murder, we come to the conclusion that the probability is slight of its being a portion of the murdered woman of Mitre Square.’