Because Catherine Eddows was seen with a man just before her murder, it was theorized that before she was locked up, she had made an appointment to meet a client in Mitre Square. Such a suggestion seems unlikely if not absurd. She was with Kelly until 2:00 P.M. She was drunk and in jail until 1:00 A.M. It is hard to believe she promised a customer a late-night rendezvous when quick sex could be bought during day hours, too. There were plenty of stairways, tumbledown buildings, and other deserted shambles where hidden activities could go on. Even if Catherine had made the “appointment” while she was drunk, there is a good chance she would not have remembered it later. It is simpler to assume that while she may have headed toward the City in search of business, she had no particular client in mind but was looking for the luck of the draw.
The Acting Commissioner of the City of London Police, Henry Smith, who may have been as tenacious as Captain Ahab was in his hunt for the great white whale, probably didn’t anticipate that the fiend would surface in his own neighborhood and get away with murder for a hundred years. As usual, Smith was sleeping poorly in his quarters at Cloak Lane Station, built into Southwark Bridge on the north bank of the Thames. A railway depot was in front and vans clanked and rattled at all hours. The furrier’s business behind his rooms gave off the stench of curing animal hides, and he had not a single window he could open.
Smith was startled when his telephone rang, and he groped for it in the dark. One of his men told him there had been another murder, this one in the City. Smith dressed and hurried out the door to a waiting hansom, “an invention of the devil,” as he called it, because in the summer he was miserably hot, and in the winter he froze. A hansom was designed to carry two passengers, but this early morning the one Smith climbed into carried the superintendent and three detectives in addition to himself. “We rolled like a seventy-four [a warship] in a gale,” Smith recalled. But “we got to our destination—Mitre Square,” where a small group of his officers stood around the mutilated body of Catherine Eddows, whose name they did not yet know.
Mitre Square was a small, open area surrounded by large warehouses, empty houses, and a few shops that were closed after hours. During the day, fruit vendors, businessmen, and loiterers filled the Square. It was entered by three long passageways, which at night were thick with shadows barely pushed back by gaslights on the walls. The Square itself had only one lamp, and it was some twenty-five yards from the dark spot where Catherine was murdered. A City Police constable and his family lived on the other side of the Square, and heard nothing. James Morris, a watchman stationed inside the Kearley & Tonge Wholesale Grocers warehouse, also in the Square, was awake and working and heard nothing.
It seems that once again, no one heard a sound when the Ripper butchered his victim. If times sworn to can be trusted, Catherine Eddows could have been dead no more than fourteen minutes as P. C. Edward Watkins’s beat brought him back into Leadenhall Street and then into the Square. He could walk his beat in twelve to fourteen minutes, he testified at the inquest, and when he passed through the Square last at 1:30 A.M., there wasn’t the slightest hint of anything out of the ordinary. When he shone his bull’s-eye lantern into a very dark corner at 1:44 A.M., he discovered a woman lying on her back, her face to the left, her arms by her sides with the palms turned up. Her left leg was straight, the other bent, and her clothes were bunched up above her chest, exposing her abdomen, which had been cut open from just below the sternum to her genitals. Her intestines had been pulled out and tossed on the ground above her right shoulder. Watkins ran to the Kearley & Tonge warehouse, knocked on the door, and pushed it open, interrupting the watchman, who happened to be just on the other side, sweeping the steps.
“For God’s sake mate, come to my assistance,” Watkins said. Watchman Morris stopped sweeping and fetched his lamp as an upset Watkins described “another woman cut up to pieces.” The two men hurried out to the southwest corner of Mitre Square, where Catherine’s body lay in a pool of blood. Watkins blew his whistle and ran up to Mitre Street, then to Aldgate, where he “saw no suspicious person about,” he recalled at the inquest. He ran and blew his whistle until he found two constables and told them, “Go down to Mitre Square. There has been another terrible murder!”
Dr. Gordon Brown, the police surgeon for the City Police, arrived at the scene not long after two o’clock. He squatted by the body and found next to it three metal buttons, a “common” thimble, and a mustard tin containing two pawn tickets. Based on body warmth, the complete absence of rigor mortis, and other observations, Dr. Brown said that the victim had been dead no longer than half an hour, and he saw no bruises or signs of struggle or evidence of “recent connection,” or sexual intercourse.
Dr. Brown was of the opinion that the intestines had been placed where they were “by design.” This may be too complicated when one considers the circumstances. In both Annie Chapman’s and Catherine Eddows’s cases, the Ripper was in a frenzy and could scarcely see what he was doing because it was so dark. He was probably squatting or bent over the lower part of the victim’s body when he slashed and tore through clothing and flesh, and it is more likely that he simply tossed the intestines out of the way because it was certain organs he wanted.
Police and newspaper reports vary in their details of what Catherine Eddows’s body looked like when it was found. In one description, a two-foot segment of colon had been detached from the rest and was arranged between her right arm and body, but according to the Daily Telegraph, the piece of colon had been “twisted into the gaping wound on the right side of the neck.” It was fortuitous that City Police Superintendent Foster’s son, Frederick William Foster, was an architect. He was immediately summoned to draw sketches of Catherine’s body and the area where it was found. These drawings depict a detailed and disturbing sight that is worse than any description at the inquest.
All of Catherine Eddows’s clothing was cut and torn open, blatantly displaying a body cavity that could not have been more violated had she already been autopsied. The Ripper’s cuts opened the chest and abdomen to the upper thighs and genitals. He slashed her vagina and across the tops of the thighs as if he were reflecting back tissue in preparation for dismembering her legs at the hip joints.
The disfigurement to her face was shocking. Peculiar, deep nicks under both eyes were similar to artistic accents Sickert used in some of his paintings, particularly the portrait of a Venetian prostitute he called Giuseppina. The most severe damage to Catherine Eddows’s face was to the right side, or the side exposed when the body was discovered, the same side of Giuseppina’s face that has disturbing black brush strokes reminiscent of mutilation in a portrait of her titled Putana a Casa. A morgue photograph of Catherine Eddows resembles Giuseppina; both had long black hair, high cheekbones, and pointed chins.
Sickert was painting Giuseppina in the years 1903-04. My search through letters and other documentation and my queries to Sickert experts produced no evidence that anyone who might have visited Sickert in Venice had ever actually met or seen the prostitute. Sickert may have painted her in the privacy of his room, but I have yet to find any evidence that Giuseppina existed. Another painting of the same period is titled Le Journal, in which a dark-haired woman has her head thrown back, her mouth open, as she reads a journal that she bizarrely holds high above her stricken face. Around her throat is a tight white necklace.
“What a pretty neklace I gave her,” the Ripper writes on September 17, 1888.
Catherine Eddows’s “pretty neklace” is a gaping gash in her throat that is shown in one of the few photographs taken before the autopsy and the suturing of the wounds. If one juxtaposes that photograph with the painting Le Journal, the similarities are startling. If Sickert saw Catherine Eddows when her throat was laid open and her head lolling back as shown in the photograph, he could not have done so unless he was in the mortuary before the autopsy or was at the crime scene.
Catherine Eddows’s body was transported by hand ambulance to the mortuary on
Golden Lane, and when she was undressed under close police supervision, her left earlobe fell out of her clothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BEYOND IDENTITY
At 2:30 that Sunday afternoon, Dr. Brown and a team of doctors performed the postmortem examination.
Other than one small fresh bruise on Catherine Eddows’s left hand, the doctors found no other injuries that might have indicated she fought with her assailant, or was struck, yoked, or thrown to the ground. The cause of her death was a six- or seven-inch cut across the neck that began at the left earlobe—severing it—and terminated about three inches below the right ear. The incision severed the larynx, vocal cords, and all deep structures of the neck, nicking the intervertebral cartilage.
Dr. Brown determined that Catherine Eddows had hemorrhaged from her severed left carotid artery, that death “was immediate,” and that the other mutilations were inflicted postmortem. He believed there was only one weapon, probably a knife, and it was pointed. Much more could have been said. The autopsy report indicates that the Ripper cut through Catherine’s clothing. Considering the many layers she was wearing, this poses questions and difficulties.
Not just any type of cutting instrument could be used to cut through wool, linen, and cotton, no matter how old and rotted some of the fabrics might have been. I experimented with a variety of nineteenth-century knives, daggers, and straight razors and discovered that cutting through clothing with a blade that is curved or long is tricky, if not treacherous. The blade would have to be very sharp, strong, and pointed. The best choice, I found, was a six-inch dagger with a guard that prevents the hand from slipping down the blade.
I suspect the Ripper didn’t actually “cut through” the clothing, but rather stabbed through layers and tore them open, exposing the abdomen and genitals. This is a variation of his method and worth analyzing, because it does not appear that he cut, stabbed, or tore through Mary Ann Nichols’s or Annie Chapman’s clothing. One simply can’t be certain of the details in earlier cases. Records appear to be incomplete and possibly were not meticulously made or kept at the time.
Although the City would come no closer to capturing Jack the Ripper, it was better equipped to handle his carnage. Catherine Eddows’s records are surprisingly well preserved and reveal that the examination of her body was very thorough and professional. The City Police had certain advantages, not the least of which was learning from recent, much-publicized mistakes. City Police had a substantially smaller, wealthier jurisdiction to control, a suitable mortuary, and access to superb medical men. When Catherine was transported to the mortuary, the City Police assigned an inspector whose only responsibility was to look after the body, clothing, and personal effects. When Dr. Brown performed the autopsy, he was assisted by two other physicians, including the Metropolitan Police surgeon, Dr. George Phillips. If one assumes that Catherine was the first victim whose clothing was “cut off” instead of pushed up, the change of MO shows an escalation in the Ripper’s violence and confidence, as well as a heightened contempt and need to shock.
Catherine’s body was almost nude, her legs spread, and she was butchered in the middle of a sidewalk. The blood flowing out of her severed carotid artery seeped under her and left an outline of her body on the pavement that was visible to passersby and trodden on the next day. The Ripper struck practically within view of a watchman, a sleeping constable who lived on the Square, and a City officer whose beat took him past the murder scene every twelve to fourteen minutes. The damage the Ripper inflicted on Catherine’s body required not so much as a glint of surgical skill. He simply slashed like mad.
The cuts to her face were quick and forceful, the slices to her lips completely dividing them and cutting into the underlying gums. The cut to the bridge of her nose extended down to the angle of her left jaw and laid open her cheek to the bone. The tip of the nose was completely severed, and two other cuts to the cheeks peeled up the skin into triangular flaps. The damage to her abdomen, genitalia, and internal organs was just as brutal. The incisions that laid her open were jagged and were mixed with stabbing injuries. Her left kidney was removed and taken, and half of her uterus was sloppily cut off and taken as well.
She had cuts to her pancreas and spleen, and one in her vagina that extended through her rectum. Hacks to the right thigh were so deep they severed ligaments. There was nothing careful or even purposeful in the damage. The intention was mutilation, and the Ripper was frenzied. He could have done this damage to Catherine Eddows’s body in less than ten minutes—maybe as few as five. It was requiring more daring and savagery to achieve the same thrill. The Ripper’s “catch me if you can” taunt seemed to be straining to the limit.
Artist, critic, and Sickert supporter D. S. MacColl once wrote in a letter that Walter Sickert “will over calculate himself one day.” Sickert didn’t, at least not during his lifetime. Law enforcement was not equipped to follow the forensic and psychological traces he left each time he killed. In today’s investigations, evidence collection would have been conducted in a way that would have seemed to the Victorians like some fantasy out of Jules Verne. Catherine Eddows’s crime scene was a difficult one because it was outdoors in a public place that would have been contaminated by the multitudes. The lighting was terrible, and the sensationalism of the crime would have caused police to fear further contamination by the curious who were certain to gather—even long after the body had been removed to the City mortuary on Golden Lane.
The most important piece of evidence in any homicide is the body. All evidence connected to it must be preserved by any means possible. At this writing, were Catherine Eddows’s body discovered in Mitre Square, the police would immediately seal off the scene, radio for more troops to secure the area, and contact the medical examiner. Lights would be set up, and rescue vehicles would arrive with emergency lights flashing. All avenues, roads, and passageways leading to the crime scene would be barricaded and guarded by police.
A detective or member of a forensic unit would begin videotaping the scene from the outer perimeter, again aware of bystanders. It is quite possible—in fact, I would bet on it—that Sickert showed up at every crime scene and blended into the crowds. He would not have been able to resist seeing the reaction of his audience. In a painting of his called The Fair at Night, Dieppe, the scene he depicts looks very much like what one might have expected to see when spectators surrounded the East End locations where the murders took place.
The Fair at Night, Dieppe, circa 1901, shows a mob of people from the rear, as if we are looking through the eyes of an observer who is standing some distance behind the curious crowd. Were it not for what appears to be a carousel tent intruding into the painting from the right, there would be no reason to think the scene has anything to do with a fair. The people don’t necessarily seem interested in the carousel, but in the activity occurring in the direction of tenement housing or row houses.
Sickert painted The Fair at Night, Dieppe from a sketch. He drew what he witnessed until he was in his sixties. Then he began to paint from photographs, as if the more his sexual energy waned, the less he felt the compulsion to go out and experience his art. “One can’t work at all over 50 like one did at 40,” Sickert admitted.
A fair or carnival is exactly what the Ripper’s crime scenes became, with boys hawking special editions of newspapers, vendors arriving with carts, and neighbors selling tickets. The International Working Men’s Educational Club on Berner Street charged admission to enter the yard where Elizabeth Stride was murdered, thereby raising money to print its socialist tracts. For a penny, one could purchase “A Thrilling Romance” about the Whitechapel murders that included “all details connected with these Diabolical Crimes, and faithfully pictures the Night Horrors of this portion of the Great City.”
In all of the Ripper’s murders, no footprints or tracks leading away from the bodies were ever found. It is hard for me to imagine that he didn’t step in blood when pints of it were spurting and flowing from the f
atal injuries he inflicted on his victims. But these bloody footprints would not have been visible without the aid of alternate light sources and chemicals. Trace evidence would have been missed, and one can be certain that the Ripper left hairs, fibers, and other microscopic particles at the scene and on his victims. He carried trace evidence away with him on his person, footwear, and clothing.
The Ripper’s victims would have been a forensic nightmare because of the contamination and mixture of trace evidence—including seminal fluid—from multiple clients, all of it exacerbated by the women’s pitiful hygiene. But there would have been some substance, organic or inorganic, worth collecting. Unusual evidence may very well have been discovered. Cosmetics worn by a killer are easily transferred to a victim. Had Sickert applied greasepaint to darken his skin, had he temporarily dyed his hair, or had he been wearing adhesives for false mustaches and beards, these substances could be discovered by using a polarized light microscope or chemical analysis or spectrophotofluorometric methods, such as the Omnichrome light, that are available to forensic scientists today.
Some dyes in lipsticks are so easily identifiable by scientific methods that it is possible to determine the brand and trade name of the color. Sickert’s greasepaints and paints from his studio would not have eluded the scanning electron microscope, the ion microprobe, the X-ray diffractometer, or thin-layer chromatography, to list a few of the resources available now. Tempera paint on a 1920s Sickert painting titled Broadstairs lit up a neon blue when we examined it with a nondestructive alternate light source at the Virginia Institute of Forensic Science and Medicine. If Sickert had transferred a microscopic residue of a similar tempera paint from his clothing or hands to a victim, the Omnichrome would have detected it and chemical analysis would have followed.
Portrait of a Killer Page 26
