Naming Jack the Ripper: The Biggest Forensic Breakthrough Since 1888

by Edwards, Russell

  For Sally,

  Alexander and Annabel

  * * * *

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  1 From Birkenhead to Brick Lane

  2 A Murderer Strikes in Whitechapel

  3 A Nameless Midnight Terror – The Deaths of Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman

  4 A Murderer Interrupted – The Death of Elizabeth Stride

  5 From Hell – The Death of Catherine Eddowes

  6 Murder Most Ghastly – The Death of Mary Jane Kelly

  7 The History of the Shawl

  8 Finding Human Blood

  9 Finding DNA

  10 Narrowing Down the Suspects

  11 Who Was Aaron Kosminski?

  12 Catching the Ripper

  Conclusion

  Acknowledgements

  Appendix

  Index

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  It was Saturday, 17 March 2007, St Patrick’s Day. Not that I was even aware of the saint’s day: the date had a much greater significance for me. It was the day that I attended an auction, the first I had ever been to. A day that started with great excitement and determination, and ended in desperate disappointment.

  Why was this auction so important to me? To a casual observer, the catalogue produced by Lacy Scott & Knight, a firm of auctioneers, for the sale that day in Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, was fairly standard: antiquarian books, ceramics, jewellery, clocks, paintings, plenty of Victorian and Edwardian mahogany furniture. At another time in my life, when I was dabbling in antique furniture, I would have enjoyed browsing through the lots.

  But today there was only one item I was interested in, and it was definitely the star item of the day, with an entire page of the catalogue devoted to it. It was an old, silk shawl, damaged, with pieces missing. I’d been to see it the day before, and had been struck by how beautiful it was, much more so than I expected: the centre panel was plain silk, and at either end there were broad panels intensely patterned with flowers, Michaelmas daisies predominantly, in gold and red. On one side it was brown with patterned edges, and a wide border at each end of blue with the flower pattern, and on the other side a lighter brown with blue ends. Even to my untutored eye it was clearly very old.

  But its significance was far more than its age. This is what the catalogue listing said:

  Lot 235: A late 19th Century Brown Silk Screen Printed Shawl decorated with Michaelmas daisies, length 8ft (with some sections cut and torn).

  Unlike the tables and pictures that filled the rest of the list, there was no estimated price given. It simply read: ‘Est: please refer to auctioneers.’

  I had done just that. When I saw the shawl on the previous day, when auctions normally hold a viewing day for potential buyers, the auctioneer had told me the reserve price, and I had been surprised by how low it was: definitely within my budget.

  On another page, with a large photograph of the shawl, the catalogue read:

  Provenance: According to the vendors’ family history this shawl is purported to have been removed from Jack the Ripper victim Catherine Eddowes body by his great great uncle, Acting Sergeant Amos Simpson, who was based near Mitre Square in the East End of London. However, there is some controversy surrounding the authenticity of this story and interested parties are advised to do their own research before bidding. The shawl spent some time in the Metropolitan Police Crime (Black) Museum and in 2006 was subject to inconclusive forensic testing for a programme on Channel 5.

  The story of the shawl is discussed at length in Appendix One of Kevin O’Donnell’s book The Jack the Ripper Whitechapel Murders based on research by Andy and Sue Parlour: a copy is available on demand in the office.

  So there you have it. If genuine, this was one of the few physical remains from the scenes of the crimes committed by Jack the Ripper as he terrorized the streets of London, and carved his way into the British psyche. Everyone has heard of Jack the Ripper. Not many know the full story, but everyone has a vague impression of dark, foggy streets in Victorian London with a mad serial killer on the loose, attacking and viciously mutilating his prostitute victims. It is perhaps the greatest, most famous unsolved crime in the world, the one that draws tourists from across the globe to the streets of London’s East End.

  Of course, the catalogue was careful to make sure that the claims for the shawl were muted. There was no proof it had belonged to the victim Catherine Eddowes, just a long family history. But, still, there was a good chance. I had done some research, I believed it was genuine, and I wanted it. I wanted it very badly. I was nursing a nugget of information about the shawl that only I knew, a secret that made it much more important to me, and one I believed would add a great deal to what little we know about Jack the Ripper.

  I set off for the auction early. It started at 10 a.m., and my wife Sally and I were living with our toddler son Alexander in Newmarket, only twenty-five minutes away. She didn’t come with me: she doesn’t share my fascination with the Ripper story. I dressed casually, keen not to draw attention to myself, but smartly enough to show that I was serious. I expected a large crowd, and I was right: the huge barn of an auction room, the size of a football pitch and crammed with furniture, was packed with people, and I guessed at least some of them were there for the same item as me. National and local newspapers had carried stories about the auction, so there was bound to be a high level of interest. Before the sale started a bemused assistant from the auction firm was holding the shawl up high so that a crowd gathered round him could look at it: he clearly could not understand the massive interest in this old, damaged piece of material.

  I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The auction started, and as lot after lot went by I realized nothing much was being sold: clearly, not just some, but the bulk of people in the crowded room were there for the shawl. I was worried, I felt sure it would soar way above its reserve, and in my mind I saw it reaching a sum of £150,000 or more. Was I prepared to go that high? Yes, I wanted it so badly I would have paid whatever it took to get it.

  As the morning dragged on, I noticed that Stewart Evans, one of the world’s leading authorities on the Ripper case and a collector of true-crime ephemera, was there. I had seen him on television being interviewed in various documentaries about the subject so I decided to ask him for his opinion on the shawl, without revealing my own interest. He chatted happily about the Ripper story, but seemed to be dismissive about the authenticity of the shawl.

  ‘It’s not for me,’ he said, ‘I’m only here to see who it goes to. Nobody should buy it.’

  I felt he might be bluffing, trying to throw me, and anyone else who was drawn to listen to him, off. He looked at me keenly, and I was sure he was sizing up whether or not I was going to rival him in the bidding.

  With half the auction lots sold, a lunch break was called. I wasn’t interested in eating: my stomach was lurching at the thought of what was to come. I made my way to the office to have a look at the book that was mentioned in the catalogue. When I got there I found a small group of people gathered round a very tall man who was holding up the book, and expounding on the shawl and its history. I realized this was Andy Parlour, whose research for the appendix was the crucial part of the book in terms of the shawl. He was enjoying telling everyone about it, so I asked a few superficial questions: I didn’t want to show my hand, but I wanted to hear everything he could share. Luckily, like Stewart Evans, Andy did not need much encouragement to talk. Every so often I said something like, ‘That’s interesting, mate,’ just to keep him g
oing.

  I found it hard to believe that I was actually in the same room as this man, who was a specialist on the shawl, and Stewart Evans, a top expert on the whole Ripper story. And every so often I reminded myself that I knew something about the shawl that everyone else had missed, even the guys who had given years of research to the subject.

  When the auction resumed I decided to stand at Stewart Evans’s shoulder, thinking that he was definitely going to bid, and I’d wait until he did before I joined in. The auction room had been noisy all morning, people chatting and moving about, but when ‘Lot 235’ was bellowed across the room, a deep hush fell. The assistant gestured to the shawl, now locked in a glass cabinet at the front of the room.

  I cannot remember the first bid: who made it or how much it was for. But bids were soon coming from all parts of the room and the price was shooting up. I couldn’t see who was bidding. There were three phone lines accepting bids, and the auctioneer was going with practised speed between the phones and the room. I can remember thinking, ‘This thing is going to go for millions.’

  Every now and then the auctioneer, who knew of my interest, would glance at me to see if I was going to join in. But I was hooked on waiting for Stewart Evans to bid, and kept watching him. The auction rapidly ran through, and before I realized it the auctioneer was saying, ‘Final bids.’ Again he looked at me, again I wavered and did nothing. I was still expecting a bid from Stewart Evans, and when none came I froze. A combination of nerves, and a fear that, if he was not bidding perhaps he was right to believe the shawl was worthless, gripped me.

  ‘No more bids. The item remains unsold.’

  There were groans around the room. Despite the frenzied bidding, the reserve had not been met. People had waited all day for this, and now they were disappointed. The spectacle was over, and the whole event had been a waste of everyone’s time.

  ‘Lot 236’ the auctioneer called, as a rosewood tea caddy went under the hammer. But nobody was paying any attention. Little knots of people drifted out of the saleroom, sharing their frustration with each other. Others pushed past and left alone, the feeling of being let down etched on their faces.

  Nobody was more disappointed than I was.

  What had I done? Had I just lost out on owning one of the most vital pieces of tangible evidence from the most famous murder mystery of all time? Or had I had a narrow escape, saving me from spending thousands on what was little more than a whim?

  When I had told Sally how much I was prepared to put up for the shawl she had laughed, and made me promise that if it turned out to be worthless, I’d give her exactly the same amount of money to spend as she wished. At least I was spared that!

  But the money I had saved did nothing to make me feel better. Like everybody else, I headed wearily towards my car empty-handed; I felt defeated. All I could think was ‘What have I done? What kind of idiot am I, to be struck dumb at the vital moment?’

  It affected me badly and that night I didn’t sleep. The terrible feeling of failure stuck with me through the following Sunday and I continued to beat myself up over it. I talked to Sally, who sympathized, but could not really understand my pain.

  But when Monday morning came, I had a revelation: perhaps all was not lost. I had tried hard to convince myself that buying the shawl could have been a mistake: Stewart Evans didn’t want it, nobody else was willing to pay the reserve and perhaps they were right – the shawl was just a pointless piece of old fabric that had been imbued over many years with a family myth.

  But I knew something they didn’t. As I’ve said, I had my own reason for believing the shawl was hugely significant, perhaps the key to the whole Ripper case. I could not talk to anybody about it because at this time I knew nobody who shared my interest, and I certainly did not want to alert the ‘Ripperologists’, people like Stewart Evans who devote themselves to studying the case, and are acknowledged experts. What I knew was too precious to share with the world at this stage. So despite my doubts, the importance of the shawl would not be challenged: I still believed in it.

  I decided that morning to call the auction rooms to see what would happen to the shawl. Thankfully the auctioneer remembered me and told me that it was to be returned to the vendor. I asked him if he thought the owner would be interested in selling it to me if I offered to pay the reserve price. I was told to wait by the phone. The auctioneer wanted to call the vendor there and then. A few tense minutes later, the phone rang and the auctioneer’s voice came through.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘If you can meet our fee and pay the reserve, the shawl is yours.’

  I was elated. It had crossed my mind that somebody else might have tried the same thing, but it seems I was the only one. I had, provisionally, bought it. The relief that flooded through my body was immense.

  ‘I’m going to need a letter of provenance. I need the history of this from the owner, in writing,’ I said.

  It was very important for me to establish as much information as possible about how the shawl had come down through his family.

  But the deal was done, and I put the phone down in a much happier mood than I had been in since the auction.

  I had to wait for the letter to arrive with the auctioneer, which took a few days. It was a strange feeling, knowing that this thing was mine, but I could not confidently believe it until it was there in my hands. As I waited in limbo I was riddled with doubt – what if the vendor had changed his mind? I couldn’t stop going over my secret, and wondering what would have happened if somebody else had stumbled on it before I did. As it turned out, my life would have been a whole lot different.

  I went to collect the shawl on 2 April 2007, just over two weeks after I first saw it. I picked up a banker’s draft from a branch of my bank in Bury St Edmunds, and walked to the auction house, aware of my own heartbeat. As I saw the people of Bury St Edmunds going about their daily lives, it felt surreal that I was going to collect something that meant so much to me and that could have so much historical significance, and yet nobody else shared my excitement.

  I was kept waiting at the auction house, they weren’t ready to hand over my precious purchase. The auctioneer asked why I hadn’t made a bid for the shawl on the day, and I explained I felt too nervous, with all eyes focusing on the item, and I was waiting for the right moment, but that moment never came.

  He smiled, no doubt used to customers suffering auction nerves, but also possibly thinking that I had played a long game, and never intended to put myself out in public as the purchaser of the shawl. I wish I had been that clever! Eventually he passed me a large piece of card folded in half and taped with yellowing Sellotape.

  Within it was the shawl, wrapped in red tissue paper. On the card was the name and profession of the previous owner, David Melville-Hayes, along with the inscription: ‘Shawl in two pieces (1) approx 71ins by 24ins, (2) approx 24ins by 15 ins.’ I was also handed the letter from Mr Melville-Hayes, and was immediately struck that it was written on an old typewriter, which somehow added to the huge sense of history I already had.

  ‘Keep in touch and let us know how you get on with the thing, won’t you?’ the auctioneer said as he shook my hand.

  ‘Of course I will, my pleasure,’ I replied.

  I walked back to my car, carrying the inauspicious-looking parcel, and feeling immensely pleased with myself.

  I knew I was only at the beginning of my own personal crusade to unmask the Ripper. But the journey had begun.

  CHAPTER ONE

  FROM BIRKENHEAD TO BRICK LANE

  The story of Jack the Ripper is well documented. Whole libraries have been written about it, countless theories have been expounded, television documentaries and feature films have been made. It is the greatest true crime mystery ever, world-renowned, lingering in the collective imagination, a constant source of fascination. There are serial killers with much bigger death tallies, even some just as vicious in the way they dispatched their victims. But none, ever, has held the public
interest in the same way as this case. In a short killing spree in 1888, Jack the Ripper carved his way into history as surely as he carved up the unfortunate women he came across as he prowled through the Whitechapel alleys and passageways.

  Many people have tried to solve the case, both at the time and in the years since. I am the latest in that long line: but unlike anyone before me, I believe I have incontrovertible proof, the kind of proof that would stand up to any cross-examination in a courtroom today.

  I am not the most likely of candidates to solve this puzzle: in fact, I stumbled into it almost by chance. But I believe it was my ability to think laterally that helped me to see a link that nobody else had spotted. With no background as a researcher, I have had to learn as I go along, and I have been down countless blind alleys. I have been rebuffed, discouraged, and at times I have given up entirely. But the project niggled, and I never completely let go of it.

  I don’t come from London’s East End, so I have no direct connection with the history of the crimes: I was born and grew up in Birkenhead. We started out as a regular family: Mum, Dad, me and my sister living in a council flat in a tower block in a tough area. But by the time I was four my parents had split up. They both went on to marry again, and through Mum’s new partner I acquired a stepbrother and a stepsister, and through Dad’s I gained another stepbrother, stepsister, and then a half-sister. So it was always a complicated, fragmented upbringing, and the greatest stability in my childhood came from my grandmother, who lived across the road from us when we moved, when I was five, to a two-up, two-down terraced house, with a toilet out the back, and weekly trips to the public baths for a bath.

  After my stepfather accidentally set fire to the house while cooking, we were rapidly moved to a council estate. But I always gravitated back to my grandmother, and by the time I was thirteen I was staying with her every Tuesday night and from Friday through to Sunday. I am sometimes asked how I first became interested in crime, and I believe it dates back to my early childhood. My mum and stepfather were often working: they ran market stalls. My sister and I were looked after by a succession of teenage babysitters, and my grandparents, and they didn’t insist on early bedtimes: we stayed up watching Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy, The Wolfman and other horror movies. At the same time I was collecting and painting small plastic models of monsters and characters from horror movies.