Jack the Ripper: From the Cradle to the Grave

By Peter Rutt

Youve never read a Ripper book like this. Christian was born in 1852. He carried out a sexual attack on a local girl and so fled to London to avoid being lynched. He and best friend Jimmy became trainee surgeons with a nefarious organization (The Firm). Both men fell in love with the same woman. Christian later illegally married her and further on became a whoremaster. In 1888, after he found out his wife had had a long sexual affair (and a child) with his best friend, his drug use and rage led him to release his wrath upon the prostitutes he formerly protected. Lauretta his wife kept a diary writing about him realizing she was married to Jack the Ripper. After he brutally murdered numerous women usually for a reason as it was not random, he realized there was one loose end: Jimmys son. Thus, members of The Firm were hired to murder him secretly and dispose of the body. In 1913, the Ripper died after suffering via a STD. After his death, his family found a stash of money in his favourite armchair. His family lived on without him, and Lauretta (the hero) didnt pass over until 1934.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481798969

Peter Rutt

Peter Rutt, a security supervisor in Stevenage, Hertfordshire (in the United Kingdom) loves, history, true crime and anything odd. He has written short stories – some humorous, some not – and an unpublished book, Man Of Two Worlds, which is an eye-opening semi-biography. He lives in Bedfordshire with his wife, Morag.

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© 2013 by Peter Rutt. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9895-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9894-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9896-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1       Birth

2       The Early Years

3       London Bound

4       The Art of Concealment

5       Mr B—Protection and Reward

6       Respectability and Identity Theft

7       Secrets

8       1888

9       More Victims

10       End of an Era

11       Secrets That Go to the Grave

12       Explanation and Information

13       Why Didn’t the Police Catch Him?

14       The End for Now…

15       The Transcriptions

Figures

This book is dedicated to all the victims and their families and all those negatively affected by the Ripper before, while, and after he earned that name.

Acknowledgements

My wife, Morag, for putting up with me

Brian, for all your early help and insight

Dave Annal, for your accurate ancestral research

Ancestry websites

Friends of Highgate Cemetery

Rita Haylock

John Goodwin

Penny Maine

Introduction

This book is about the true Jack the Ripper, a man who reportedly stalked and killed prostitutes on the streets of Whitechapel in East London. This string of murders was later declared the autumn of terror in 1888. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more to the story than what history has depicted.

To gain a clear insight into this huge case, my first job was to remove a mountain of myth, conjecture, and hearsay to uncover the bare bones of the case. After that, I cross-referenced the work of three trusted sources famous among those studying the Ripper. The first was The Complete Jack the Ripper written by Donald Rumbelow. The second was The London of Jack the Ripper: Then and Now penned by Robert Clack and Philip Hutchinson. Finally, I added certain elements from a website called Casebook: Jack the Ripper. The latter dabbles in a lot of conjecture and theory, but there are little gems among the fakery in the jewellery box—the hard part was realizing what was real and what was not.

Despite this large fountain of information, it soon ran dry when I realized the esteemed authors couldn’t ascertain the Ripper’s name because they didn’t know who he was. At that point, the writers would entertain conjecture. The answer to the conundrum, however, began to fall into my lap in 2008. I won’t explain just now, but the full account of how and why this book came into being is set out in Chapter 12 (after the story finishes)—there is far too much to place in this introduction.

Followers of the infamous story will know about female victims who were unnamed (such as the dismembered body dumped in Pinchin Street and the body in the vault at New Scotland Yard while the building was being constructed). For the first time, I will name them. I will also explain Jack’s link with female bodies he arranged to have dumped in the River Thames. Newspapers at the time never reported or suspected he was the culprit, but now that he has been unmasked it, I can confirm is his handiwork that caused their carcasses to be discarded in the murky depths.

Many people believe he was killed, committed suicide, or was admitted into a lunatic asylum, but the truth and documentation prove otherwise. Many people believe he was a local serial killer who stalked random victims. This is not true either. Some of the girls knew one another, and in one case, implicated another who might expose his true identity or his link to The Firm where he was employed. There were no random killings—each one was murdered for a reason, and that rationale is revealed in the story.

Did the authorities know him? The evidence I uncovered suggests some members of Parliament knew him. But not all and sundry were aware of this man.

Computer generated software likenesses of certain people are included, and they will illustrate what the Ripper and others actually looked like—at least as close as the software will allow. Furthermore, photographs were taken in 2011 of his former residences. Those buildings are still standing as of the time this book went to print, and those pictures have been included. No photographs or drawings of the known victims are included in the book, but the Casebook: Jack the Ripper website offers some pictures. I also own a black and white photograph of the Ripper and his family, plus another black and white copy of his children, originally taken in 1892. Both were kindly sent to me via email by the last existing grandson of the Ripper. I have not included those photographs because I agreed not to print or publish them without his and his family’s permission.

Unfortunately, there is no longer physical or documented proof to label this man (or any other man) Jack the Ripper. At the time, however, there was… which you will read about later.

I have tried to allow this story to flow in chronological order from the information I gleaned. You will find that the style of the narrative seems to insinuate it is fiction, but I assure you, this tangled—sometimes horrid—story is unfabricated. It reaches into the depths of human depravity, and you will enter the world of Victorian prostitutes and other crime-ridden businesses. Actually, that is where the Ripper story begins. This book is not for the faint-hearted. I am at pains to add that there is no pretend hero battling the forces of evil because such an idea would undermine the truth of the matter. Nevertheless, you will discover an unlikely true hero in this story: a very strong woman.

The depth of the characters in some cases is thin. That is to say, I haven’t developed their characters and invented a load of traits because this story should stay true to the reality of what was going on. In short, I would be remiss to make something up just so I could have a ready answer if a question were posed.

Not all the existing evidence that has been used to describe the serial killer is accurate, and I have corrected much of it to make this story true. Other documents I referenced add weight to the story and remove some of the theory from the case.

I ask you to begin this book with an open mind devoid of preconceived notions. Forget about what you have already read regarding the Whitechapel killer because nobody knew who he was or his name. The fabric of life weaves and undulates throughout, but the routine does settle down into a pattern. And in this case, the facts present a story—and it’s time this one started.

1

Birth

May of 1851

See anything you like? asked Daisy as she sidled up to a corporal who sported a red uniform. Regulars in the dingy pub in Harrogate, North Yorkshire ignored the overused line, and hearing prostitutes say it didn’t seem strange. Only frequenters who were from somewhere outside the local area were beacons of light. And in such cases, the prostitutes were like moths to a flame. Daisy leant forward so the large-chinned corporal in his late thirties could get more of an eyeful. She displayed her curves in all the right places. Her rotten teeth—or what was left of them—didn’t deter her mark. Despite his bleary, drunken smile, Daisy took his expression to be a grimace.

Would you buy a lady a drink, my dear? asked Daisy. He did: a large measure of gin. When a corporal’s mate overheard the prostitute, he muttered, There’s no lady in here tonight. But his words were drowned out by loud chattering. Belching tobacco smoke pervaded the air. The smoke mingled with a sweet aroma of weed, and the combination made a heady mix.

The barman peered through the clouds of pipe smoke and asked whether she was with him. He replied, Yesh!

She sidled up to her target and ran her fingertips through his matted hair, which ran from left to right in a thin wave. And then she gently pushed his lightly coloured ginger strands upward and moulded the clump into a shape that looked like a dunce’s hat! The corporal preferred blonde-haired women, but as none were to be had, he made do with Daisy, a brunette. He was taken aback by her advances to some degree because he preferred to do the chasing, but once they drained their drinks, she took him by the hand and guided him outside.

The weather was relatively calm, but a brisk, seasonal wind picked up occasionally (as was typical for the middle of May). They stumbled into a wooden barn that was adjacent to the pub. She carried on, encouraging the corporal until they were halfway into the wooden structure that normally housed horses but was empty that night. The only light emanated from the pub, and the beam shone through a narrow window and lit a small corner of the barn. After agreeing on the cost—the going rate—he paid in advance. Daisy turned her back on the corporal, leant forward, and lifted her many skirts until they were almost over her head. After that, she slid down her large knickers until they reached her ankles. Her bare, milk-white legs shone in the light afforded by the window to her right. After scrabbling to take enough clothing off to have sex, the corporal stumbled forward with an erection. After numerous attempts to penetrate her, Daisy reached round and guided his penis where it needed to go. His manhood slid all the way in quite easily, and so began a brief sexual union.

After two minutes of sliding in and out, grunting, moaning, and heavy breathing, the corporal ejaculated inside Daisy. She was relieved because the skirts were starting to suffocate her and her back was aching. After finishing, he withdrew from Daisy and collapsed on his knees—the exertion had overwhelmed him. He tried to work out how to get back to the barracks. Daisy unrolled her knickers from behind her and pulled them up. This action was followed by a whoosh! It was the sound of Daisy’s skirts being pushed back so they fell into place behind her. She held out her hand for payment again, hoping he was too drunk to remember paying her. The corporal fished the coins out of an inside pocket, and without the glib remark that he might say when sober—he handed it over. He was not sure at first whether he had paid her, and he started to scratch his head… and then his longer-than-average chin. Without another word, Daisy walked out of the draughty barn.

She looked around for somewhere to urinate. She always urinated after having sex because she honestly believed she would not become pregnant if she managed to flush out the semen. She disappeared into the dark, found a spot, crouched, pulled aside her knickers, and weed hard and fast so that every last drop of him (she hoped) would be gone. Once completed, she walked to the main through road, hailed a cab, and made haste for home (the village of Ripley in North Yorkshire). She was looking forward to her single bed within the single-storey abode in the middle of the row of three cottages.

By day, Daisy sold matches in Leeds, Harrogate, or Knaresborough. By night again, she plied her trade away from where she lived with the hope that no one would recognize her. Ironically, a small number of men who lived in Ripley sometimes frequented Harrogate pubs to see prostitutes. Daisy knew some of them, but her trust was not misplaced—she knew they would not tell anybody in Ripley about their sexual shenanigans.

A fortnight later, the corporal was on the prowl again in Harrogate, looking for some female company. He promised himself he would stay sober and alert to find another woman. He searched in several pubs and private parties for any woman who would not repel his advances. After scouring pubs, back streets, and dark alleys, he was about to give up when he spotted a lone figure waiting under a small tree that was lit by a gas light. She was by the roadside.

The woman called herself Lilly, but Martha was her real name. This woman was of Irish dissent, and had had only one customer that evening, as she waited impatiently for a cab to take her home to Ripley. She had run away from her husband who she left behind in Redcar due to his drunkenness and cruelty. She still bore the bruises on her face that she had tried to cover in pastes given to her by neighbours. It had been a few weeks since she walked out on him and she would never forgive him for beating her while pregnant. She lost the twins she was carrying. Martha thought she would never go back to him. The smartly dressed corporal in his red uniform noticed she was attractive. His eyes lit up. He strode up to her, and with little or no small talk, asked whether she wanted to earn some money by acquiescing to paid sex. Martha looked at him and found him to be repulsive. She thought his chin looked odd as it jutted out; it made him look a little freakish. She declined and stated that she was tired and wanted go home. He was not used to being turned down by a whore, so he became enraged. He was just about to beat her for her remark when a cab led by a scampering horse approached Martha and the corporal. Feeling it would be his last chance, he tried to drag her away from the lamplight and into the darkness, but she dug her heels into the moist grass and thwarted his attempt. The cab approached as she broke free, ran into the road, and jumped up and down while frantically waving her arms. The cab came to an abrupt halt. The corporal emerged from the darkness and looked indignant. The driver asked Martha whether the red-uniformed officer was with her.

No, he is not, replied Martha defiantly as she boarded the small compartment. The driver glared down at the corporal letting the officer know he would not be able to board the cab.

Where to, love? enquired the driver.

Ripley village, please, responded Martha. She was too afraid to look at the corporal who stood only a metre away from the cab door. The driver gave a short lash with his reins, and the cab began to speed away.

Unknown to Martha and the driver, the corporal ran behind the cab, quickly caught up, and boarded. He hung on to a lip on the rear of the roof of the carriage that housed the single passenger. He hung there for what seemed like a long time before he managed to find a foothold.

The cab slowed down when Martha instructed the driver where to pull up to her temporary lodgings. The red-uniformed officer thought he looked conspicuous as they approached street lamps in Ripley Village square. He silently jumped and peeled away into the darkness as the cab driver stopped next to a pathway. The officer’s face was red with the exertion, but he was smiling and salivating because he intended to have sex with her. He was enjoying the hunt (as he saw it). He watched from undergrowth as his quarry disembarked her ride and made haste for home. He would have followed, but the cab driver was still there. The driver waited until she disappeared from view or entered her lodgings, which irked the officer—he was growing impatient with every second that passed. Finally, the cab driver departed, and the corporal grabbed his chance and emerged from his hiding place. After that, he jogged down the darkening pathway. There were three detached, single-storey cottages, all enwrapped in a cloak of darkness. He wondered which one she had entered. And then doubts set in. He thought, Maybe she has a husband or another man in the house. But he dispelled the first idea. Maybe she has a child, too. As he wrestled with possibilities he hadn’t considered before, a faint glow from a candle shone from a side window of the furthest cottage and interrupted his thoughts. The corporal’s eyes widened as he made a beeline for the ill-defined glow. The light caused long shadows to be cast onto the pathway before being blotted out by the high hedgerow opposite the cottage. To the corporal, the shadows appeared to dance like slithering demons. The movement of the shadows was caused by a draft that made the flame twist and turn. He shook his head to drive the demonic thought away.

Crouching down below the lit window, he carefully and slowly raised his body until his eyes were peering into the partially lit room. There was a single bed, an unlit fireplace and mantle, and a low cupboard where the candle stood in a holder by a washbowl and jug. No person could be seen. He moved to the right of the window and stood. Using his hands, he felt along the wall as he looked for the entrance. As he silently inched along, he felt the surface turn inwards towards another window.

On the other side of the window, Martha walked in her long, white nightdress. She was carrying another candle, and she passed the window—momentarily illuminating the corporal, who stood like a deer trapped by oncoming coach lights. She didn’t see him. He carried on walking sideways while placing his palms on the surface of the wall until he reached a corner. When he rounded the corner, he could make out a doorway. The excitement caused him to rush forward in anticipation. In doing so, he stubbed the big toe on his right foot on a raised flagstone in front of the door. He quietly cursed and bit his tongue as he hopped on one foot. He was hoping nobody heard him swear. Another two windows were lit by the candle flame. His big toe was still throbbing, but he gave the door a wide berth and stood by the first window. He took a cursory glance at the lounge area, and then he shuffled past until he was in between the two windows. Again, he took a cursory glance in the next pane. At last, he saw his quarry. Her nightdress hung down to her ankles, and she had a woollen shawl wrapped round her shoulders. Her image was lit by the dying embers of a small fire. Although most of the coal had been burned (leaving slightly sooty air), there was enough light to show the gawping officer her feminine curves. The sight caused the corporal to feel a tightening in his pants.

His quarry rubbed the palms of her hands quickly before collecting the candleholder and retracing her steps. The watching corporal followed his sexual-conquest-to-come through the long lounge, through a connecting door, into a hall opposite the only front door, and into the only bedroom. Once Martha snuffed out the candlelight, the corporal decided to bide his time.

He paced up and down the muddied path, growing anxious. He felt his need had to be satiated; he would not let it drop. Being turned down by a whore was an affront he was not prepared to accept in Victorian Britain. He thought his friends back at the barracks would be impressed by his daring.

Although virtually pitch black, his eyes had become accustomed to the shapes in the dark. He slowly turned his attention to the outside doorknob which he fumbled for in the blackness and still of night. The doorknob seemed stiff at first, but slowly and surely, the harder he turned it, the further it rotated. Eventually, he heard a faint click. He inched open the heavy wooden door and waited to see whether Martha would appear as he stood on the doorstep like a statue. Only his eyes moved. He slowly lightened his grip on the doorknob, turning it back until it stopped moving. He placed the palm of his hand against the rough, wooden surface and pushed the only entrance door until it was at its full opening. He was thankful it did not creak. After surveying the hall that contained an unlit candle in a holder upon a table by the furthest wall, he was convinced Martha would not appear. He lit the candle by striking a match he had on his person and turned his back on the hallway. After that, he carefully closed the door. Click. He turned his attention to the door on his left, which was the bedroom. Knowing it took him a full five minutes to disrobe, he set about doing so as quietly as he could. He never took his eyes off the door to the left. As the candle flame flickered, he looked down at his now-exposed, erect manhood and grinned—he thought he was well endowed.

Collecting the candle and holder, he patted a couple of paces in bare feet over to the door on the left. Again, using his left hand, he slowly turned the bedroom entrance doorknob. It creaked noisily, and the noise seemed amplified in the modest hallway. He waited, but there was no response on the other side of the door. He recomposed himself and continued to apply pressure to the doorknob. Each movement elicited a squeak or creak. But he cracked on regardless, and he became impatient with himself as a nervous sweat developed on his brow. His erection began to wane due to the anxiety-inducing task of keeping quiet. At that moment, he had a short moment of ambivalence. But what he saw as forbidden fruit on the other side of the door drove that thought away as quickly as it had developed.

The doorknob was at full unlock; it would not turn any more. He gingerly inched open the bedroom opening and peered into the gloom. No movement could be seen. Not letting go of the doorknob, he carefully pushed the thin wooden door open enough to step into her bedroom. Sweat continued to run down his face. In a moment of forgetfulness, he released his grip on the doorknob and mopped his brow with his left hand. As he did so, the mechanism inside the knob clanged noisily. The corporal clattered the candleholder on the mantle to his right. The two noises stirred Martha. The officer felt he had to take his chance immediately. Adeptly, he patted over to the right side of the bed by the small cupboard and pulled the thin bedding sheet that covered Martha away.

She was awake, and her eyes widened as she took in the image of the naked corporal bearing down on her. Before she could muster a scream, a large hand was forcefully placed over her mouth. As the scrabbling began, the naked officer tried to subdue his quarry by placing the weight of his frame on her thin body. A finger on the corporal’s left hand slipped into Martha’s mouth during the melee, and seizing her chance, she bit it with all her might. He released the hand (stifling a yelp), but before she could scream, she felt a punch to her left cheekbone, which took all the fight out of her. The corporal did not care about noise; he was about to conquer the prostitute who had turned down his advances. He violently entered her between the legs—again placing the injured hand over her mouth—but Martha had no more energy in her. The pressure of his weight on her, his penis inside her, and a punched face… all that was too much to fend off. She passed out. The officer kept going. Believing she would not scream meant he could prop himself up with one elbow so both arms were on either side of Martha’s head. This action released his weight from her slim frame to a certain extent. The officer’s rape reached its zenith when he finally ejaculated inside the prone woman. Satiated, he withdrew. He was pleased with his night’s work.

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