The Ripper Secret

by The Ripper Secret (retail) (epub)

  Chapter 20

  Friday, 7 September 1888

  Whitechapel, London

  The Metropolitan Police had not had a good week. There had been three brutal murders in Whitechapel since the beginning of April, one certainly the work of a gang of young thugs, but the other two apparently carried out by a single, sadistic and virtually invisible killer. Unsurprisingly, the London press had continued to take a very keen interest in the killings, and even more interest in the continuing and obvious inability of the Metropolitan Police to solve the crimes and catch the perpetrator.

  Initially, some newspapers had speculated that all three murders had been the work of the same man or men, but by the time that details of the killing of Mary Ann Nichols had become widely known, almost all the papers had begun subscribing to the view that the first murder was so different in character to the second and third killings that a different group of people, with the emphasis on the plural, must have been responsible for Emma Elizabeth Smith’s killing. By the end of that week, Smith’s murder was old news, and reporters from all the papers were convinced that a single deranged individual was haunting the streets of London, stalking prostitutes, and then brutally despatching them with his knife.

  And what was also becoming clear was that a very different mood now prevailed in the Whitechapel area. The first reaction of the local residents to the killing of Emma Elizabeth Smith had been curiosity, as much as anything, because murder was such a rare crime in that part of London. Then, when Martha Tabram was found slaughtered, probably many people believed that it was likely she had had a disagreement with a client, possibly involving the payment for her services, or even the nature of those services, and had paid the ultimate price for not delivering the goods, or perhaps for delivering goods which did not meet the client’s expectations.

  But with the killing of Mary Ann Nichols, everything had changed. Now everybody knew that prostitutes – and possibly other women, respectable women, as well as unfortunates – were at risk from the lone killer lurking somewhere in their midst.

  One of the local papers – the East London Advertiser – expressed the change in feelings almost poignantly. The editorial read: ‘The crowds of people which have since daily assembled at the scene of the murder have been reduced to a condition of almost abject terror. They have talked almost in whispers, and a panic-stricken cry has gone up from the inhabitants and tradesmen in the neighbourhood of Buck’s Row for more police protection.’ Another paper, the Daily News, noted that: ‘Very rarely has anything occurred even in this quarter of London that has created so profound a sensation.’

  And there was another component to the stories printed in the newspapers which added a further dimension of horror to the two killings.

  The inquest on Mary Ann Nichols had opened the day after her murder, on 1 September, and had been presided over by the Coroner for the South Eastern District of Middlesex, Wynne Baxter. The senior Metropolitan police officer in attendance was Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline.

  The inquest began with identification evidence supplied by a very tearful and emotional Nelly Holland, and also by William Nichols, the dead woman’s estranged husband. Then the inquest moved on to a description of the finding of the body of the victim outside the entrance to the stable in Buck’s Row. This was provided by the two cart drivers – Charles Cross and Robert Paul – who had first found the body, but who had been uncertain whether the woman was alive or dead.

  Then Constable 97J John Neil took the stand to describe his own separate discovery of the dead woman on his regular beat, and the actions which he had taken immediately afterwards.

  But the bulk of the police evidence was given by the senior officer who had been placed in charge of the case, Inspector Joseph Helson. He began with a description of the victim.

  ‘The victim’s name was Mary Ann Nichols,’ he said. ‘She was forty-three years old, a short woman with brown eyes, dark-brown hair turning grey, and she was missing five of her front teeth.’

  He went on to describe the clothes that the dead woman had been wearing, and confirmed the actions which he had taken at the scene when he had arrived at Buck’s Row.

  ‘Were you able to form an opinion as to what the victim might have been doing in that part of London in the early hours of the morning, Inspector?’ the coroner asked.

  Helson shook his head slightly.

  ‘Obviously, sir, we cannot be certain, but from the information we have been given by people who knew the victim, and from her dress and appearance, we believe that she was a member of the lowest possible class of so-called “unfortunates”. It appears that she was forced into prostitution simply by her desperate economic circumstances, and had been reduced to selling her body for the price of a bed in a doss house, because she had no other way of raising the necessary funds.’

  ‘And if this supposition is correct, Inspector,’ Wynne Baxter continued, ‘it would be your opinion, I presume, that the reason this unfortunate woman was in the vicinity of Buck’s Row was that she was seeking a client to raise the money she needed to purchase a bed for what was left of that night?’

  ‘That is what we believe, sir, yes.’

  ‘And if she was unsuccessful in her quest, then presumably she would have been forced to sleep on a pavement somewhere?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  But it was the medical evidence given by Dr Llewellyn, who had been called to examine the body found in Buck’s Row, and who had also carried out the autopsy, that was to send shockwaves through London’s population.

  ‘Please state your name and qualifications for the benefit of the jury.’

  ‘My name is Rees Ralph Llewellyn, and I am a medical doctor with a surgery at a number 152 Whitechapel Road.’

  ‘And can you please describe what happened on the morning of Friday, the 31st of August this year, Dr Llewellyn?’

  ‘Of course. At approximately twenty minutes to four that morning a man who identified himself as Police Constable 96J John Thain knocked on my door and summoned me to the scene of a suspicious death – in fact he told me that a woman had been found with her throat cut – in Buck’s Row. I got dressed as quickly as I could and made my way there, arriving at the address at about four o’clock in the morning. When I arrived, I was directed to the body of a woman which I noted was lying beside the closed entrance door of a stable. I carried out an initial examination on the spot, and determined that life was extinct.’

  ‘And you then made arrangements to have the body transported to the mortuary?’ Wynne Baxter suggested.

  ‘Those arrangements were made by the police, sir, but otherwise that is correct.’

  ‘And did you then carry out a post-mortem examination?’

  Llewellyn nodded.

  ‘But I should also add that later that same morning I was urgently summoned to the mortuary by Inspector John Spratling. He had not been present at Buck’s Row when I was at the scene and before the body was removed, but he had inspected the corpse at the mortuary afterwards, and he was both surprised and concerned at what he had found. You will understand, sir, that I was unable to carry out a full examination of the corpse at the scene. I was summoned there merely to confirm that the victim was dead, a fact which was self-evident in view of the injury to her throat. But the inspector, when he had begun removing the woman’s clothing in an attempt to find some means of identifying her, had discovered that although her throat had undoubtedly been cut, her torso had also been savagely mutilated. I carried out a cursory examination of the body with him at that time, and later carried out a post-mortem.’

  Wynne Baxter made a number of notes on the paper in front of him.

  ‘Now can you please tell the jury exactly what injuries you found on the body.’

  Llewellyn turned slightly to face the twelve men who comprised the inquest jury.

  ‘The wound which would undoubtedly have been fatal was to the woman’s neck. Her attacker had sliced the blade of his knife
through her throat twice. The first cut was on the left-hand side of her neck, just below the line of the jaw, but after cutting for only about four inches, her attacker then made a second and longer circular incision, all the way around her neck. The force behind the second cut was so great that it reached her vertebrae, and severed all the other tissues of her neck. Both of these cuts were made from her left-hand side to her right, suggesting either that the attacker was right-handed and standing behind her or, more likely, that the wounds were inflicted while she was lying on the ground by a person kneeling at her right-hand side.’

  ‘Just a moment, doctor,’ the coroner interrupted. ‘We have already heard from the police evidence that there was comparatively little blood found at the scene. Surely if the arteries in her neck had been severed there would have been a very considerable outpouring of blood?’

  ‘I was coming to that, sir, but you are quite correct. The arteries were severed – in fact, she had almost been decapitated – but the blood loss was comparatively modest. When I examined the woman’s face during the post-mortem, I noticed extensive bruising around the nose and mouth, and it is my belief that she was suffocated before her killer wielded his knife. It is certain that she would have been unconscious before her throat was cut, and very probably already dead, and it is for that reason that there was so little evidence of blood around her body. There was also a complete absence of defensive wounds on her hands and arms, which again suggests that she was unconscious or dead before the mutilations were carried out.’

  ‘And can you describe these mutilations?’

  Llewellyn looked down at his notes to refresh his memory before he replied.

  ‘The principal wound was to the front of her abdomen. Her attacker had driven the knife into the left-hand side of her body and then dragged the blade downwards with a sawing motion to cut through the skin, subcutaneous fat and muscle as far as her groin. He then made a number of other slashes, some quite deep, across her abdomen, and also drove the point of the knife twice into her genitals.’

  His calm recitation of the appalling injuries Mary Ann Nichols had suffered silenced the inquest.

  ‘I also examined the victim’s clothing at the mortuary, and I believed that her killer probably cleaned the blood from the blade of his knife on her clothes before making good his escape from the scene.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Llewellyn. Was it, in your opinion, a frenzied attack, or do you believe that the killer was working to some kind of plan?’

  Llewellyn shook his head.

  ‘That I cannot say, sir, but it was certainly an extremely brutal assault. Could I also add that this attack must have taken place in almost complete darkness, and I am certain that the murderer would have been carrying out these actions in great haste because of the possibility of discovery. I therefore believe that he must possess a certain amount of rough anatomical knowledge.’

  ‘Do you mean to suggest that the assailant could have some form of medical training?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Llewellyn replied. ‘Rather, I am suggesting that he would have the same degree of knowledge that would be possessed by, for example, a slaughterman or a butcher or anyone else with some experience of the internal organs of either human beings or animals.’

  Wynne Baxter nodded.

  ‘In this regard, doctor, I’m inclined to agree with you.’

  The verdict of the inquest jury was entirely predictable – murder by person or persons unknown – but it was the closing remarks made by Dr Llewellyn in his evidence, remarks that had then been endorsed by the coroner, which were the most sensational, even if they were immediately widely misreported.

  Suddenly, and without any real evidence, the people of Whitechapel seemed to assume that the killer was a doctor, a healer of the sick somehow gone bad, and the fear quickly spread of a sinister figure in black haunting the cobbled and smog-laden streets, and lurking in the gloomy shadows of Whitechapel, clutching a medical bag which contained the sharpened steel weapons of his lethal trade.

  And this idea was given added force when the people of Whitechapel realized that the site of Nichols’s murder was only about one hundred yards from the looming bulk of the London Hospital. Within a very short time, anyone who was seen carrying anything like a medical bag through the streets was regarded by the residents with enormous suspicion, and in some cases such men were harassed and followed.

  But they were all, of course, entirely innocent.

  * * *

  Alexei Pedachenko read the latest newspaper reports with interest. The way that suspicion had fallen on members of the medical profession amused him, but at the same time he acknowledged the essential truth of what the doctor had reported at the inquest and what the newspapers were now saying because he was, by training, a surgeon, though he hadn’t practised that particular trade for many years.

  He had planned on waiting a little longer before he acted again, because he’d expected that it would have taken the newspapers rather more time to whip up the feelings of hysteria and fear which were now clearly prevalent throughout Whitechapel. But he sensed that the time was right to strike again, to fuel that hysteria, which would in turn place even more pressure upon the commissioner when he returned to London – a return that was now imminent. And if he made the next killing as spectacular as he could, that might force Warren’s hand almost immediately.

  If it went according to plan, Pedachenko hoped he might be able to leave Britain, with the menorah, within the next couple of weeks.

  Saturday, 8 September 1888

  Whitechapel, London

  Annie Chapman had been born Eliza Anne Smith, probably in London, in about 1842 or 1843, though her date of birth was uncertain. Commonly known as ‘Dark’ Annie Chapman, she was also occasionally referred to as Annie Sivvey or Annie Sievey, a reference to the trade followed by her common-law husband, who was a sieve maker and also known, because of his profession, as Jack Sievey. For the previous two years, she had also had an on-going relationship with a man named Edward or Ted Stanley, who was a bricklayer’s labourer.

  She had been married in May 1869 to a man named John Chapman, who was a coachman in Windsor, and the couple set up home in Bayswater, and then moved to Berkeley Square. By 1881 they had moved out of London to Clewer in Berkshire. They had two daughters, one of whom had died in 1882 of meningitis at the age of twelve, while the other lived in France, and a crippled son who was in a charitable school. The marriage had then failed, the breakup probably initiated by the family tragedies, but then fuelled by Annie Chapman’s intemperate drinking habits – she was particularly fond of rum – though her husband was also a heavy drinker.

  Chapman wasn’t an ‘unfortunate’ in the usual sense of the word. She was actually only an occasional prostitute, a woman who didn’t take to the streets unless her financial situation left her with no other viable option. She was not a physically attractive woman, being fairly stout, and quite short, only five feet tall, with curly dark-brown hair beginning to turn grey, a fair complexion, blue eyes and a distinctive large and thick nose. She was also missing two teeth from her lower jaw – dental hygiene was rudimentary even in the best areas of London.

  She had spent the previous years living in the Dorset Street area of Whitechapel in various doss houses, and for the last few months had been a resident of Crossingham’s Lodging House located at 35 Dorset Street. People who knew her described her as a quiet and friendly woman, comparatively refined bearing in mind her disadvantaged situation, who was quite well spoken, almost never used bad language, and was generally thought to be very respectable.

  After her separation from John Chapman, Annie had been in receipt of a regular allowance from him of some ten shillings every week, but this payment had ceased abruptly in December 1886, when he died suddenly. The loss of this quite substantial source of income hit Annie Chapman hard, when she realized that in the future she would have to support herself through her own efforts. As her separation from the sieve maker occu
rred at about the same time as John Chapman died, it’s possible that her appeal to Jack Sievey disappeared along with her allowance and the measure of financial stability that this had provided for the couple.

  In an attempt to raise money, she embarked on a number of different ventures, including selling matches and flowers in the streets as a hawker, and making various items of crochet work, antimacassars and the like, which she would attempt to sell around the Dorset Street area. Her sister claimed that Annie had recently asked to borrow a pair of her boots so that she could walk from London down to Kent to try her hand at hop- picking.

  She was, by most accounts, a decent, hard-working and industrious woman, at least when she was sober. She was also a regular visitor to a Friday market in Stratford where she would offer for sale whatever items she had available. But a perhaps inevitable consequence of her raising money on a Friday was that she would usually be drunk on the following day.

  Early in the afternoon of Friday, 7 September, Chapman had returned to 35 Dorset Street and asked the deputy if she could sit in the kitchen for a while.

  ‘You can stay here for a short time, Annie, but you know the rules,’ the deputy, Timothy Donovan, replied. ‘And where have you been all this week?’

  ‘I’ve been in the infirmary. I haven’t been well, and I don’t feel well now.’

  What Annie Chapman said to Donovan was actually true, and she hadn’t been making an appeal to his good nature, not that such an appeal would be likely to sway the deputy. The rules in lodging houses in those days were simple, rigid and inviolable. If a person didn’t have enough money to pay for a bed, they would be turned out into the street in the early hours of the morning.

  The fact was that Annie Chapman had just spent several days in the infirmary after having been involved in a brawl with a woman named Eliza Cooper, who was another hawker, and who also lodged at 35 Dorset Street. The argument had started over a piece of soap which Annie had borrowed from Cooper and given to her companion Ted Stanley for him to wash with, and this apparently simple and inconsequential loan had culminated in a vicious fight at the Britannia public house on the corner of Dorset Street and Commercial Street.