The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper

by James Carnac

  It’s an image even more difficult to accept for those who know anything about Hulme Beaman. One anecdote told by his niece is particularly revealing about his character: “He was a very sensitive man who could not bear horrors,” she said, and went on to describe how S. G. fainted at a family meal when someone described a gruesome local accident. So, do we really have an extraordinary novel written utterly against the character and entire literary oeuvre of Sydney George Hulme Beaman, or do we have something else, something genuinely intriguing? Did James Willoughby Carnac really exist, or is that a pseudonym chosen by the writer of the manuscript, or bestowed on him by Hulme Beaman?

  Or are we looking at something more complex, such as a genuine confession wrapped to look like fiction by Hulme Beaman or somebody else?

  It is for you to decide.

  —

  Paul Begg is an eminent crime historian and a noted authority on Jack the Ripper. He was given the manuscript to read in 2010 and has written an extremely detailed analysis of it, going into details on the questions it raises as well as giving background information on the time and the characters involved. This analysis appears at the end of the book in Appendix 1.

  The Autobiography of James Carnac

  Explanatory Remarks

  As executor of the will of the late James Carnac I feel it incumbent upon me to preface the extraordinary narrative comprising the body of this manuscript by a few words of my own. Primarily I desire to emphasize that which will, no doubt, be obvious; namely: that I can produce no evidence touching the truth or otherwise of what Mr. Carnac calls his autobiography. I can accept no responsibility whatever for his statements. His confession, or claim, to the authorship of those atrocities which horrified London in the year 1880 is not, I should imagine, susceptible to proof; though one or two of the incidents he records—apart from the actual atrocities—I know to be true. And the confession—if it can be so regarded—is valueless, I understand, from a legal standpoint inasmuch as it is unwitnessed; I do not feel constrained, therefore, to place it before the police authorities.

  I must admit to great diffidence in even attempting to obtain publication of the manuscript; first, because it is not unlikely that any publisher to whom I submit it may regard the whole thing as a hoax either on my part or on the part of Mr. Carnac—though it is difficult to understand why Carnac should have devoted the final periods of his life to a compilation designed to identify himself, untruthfully, with the most atrocious assassin of modern times; but secondly, and of more importance, is the fact that, in my estimation at least, the narrative is in very questionable taste. Had this been a confession couched in terms of contrition it would, I think, have been more acceptable, but it clearly is not. Throughout the whole runs a streak of cynical and macabre humour or facetiousness which I find rather distasteful. To me who knew the man, this is typical of him, and I can appreciate that if he was “Jack the Ripper,” his terrible atrocities would have been carried out exactly in the spirit which his style of writing suggests.

  My personal view, for what it is worth and after carefully studying the manuscript, is that James Carnac was in actual fact “Jack the Ripper”; but with that belief I must couple the conviction that on one point at least he was insane. I will not labour this, but I feel sure that a similar opinion will be formed by other readers of the manuscript.

  In common with other associates of Carnac I always regarded him as unpleasantly eccentric. He held, we were frequently reminded, unorthodox and peculiarly offensive views on certain vital matters. I know that to speak thus of a man recently dead is to be deplored, and I should not do so were it not that the statements made or implied in his own manuscript render any reservation on my part unnecessary.

  As he shrewdly surmised, we ascribed his cynical outlook on life to his physical disability; for he had lost a leg in early manhood (as he explains in his manuscript) and on this account we made many allowances for his vitriolic tongue.

  The manuscript came to me, as Carnac’s executor, with his other effects; it was enclosed in a sealed packet and attached to the exterior of this was a letter requesting me to send the packet unopened to a certain firm of literary agents. Clearly I could not fulfill this wish blindfolded; I could not accept the responsibility of parting with a package of unknown contents without sanction of the probate authorities. Such a course might have entailed unforeseen legal complications. I therefore opened the package and read the contents; and since it appeared to me to have little intrinsic value, I decided I could not shirk that other responsibility imposed by my acceptance of the executorship.

  I propose therefore to consult with the literary agents whose names were specified by Carnac with a view to at least attempting to fulfill his wishes regarding publication.

  In conclusion I should say that I have, after due deliberation, removed and destroyed certain portions of the manuscript which contained details particularly revolting to me. I have little medical knowledge, but these passages were, apart from the general tone of the manuscript, sufficient to convince me that if the narrative is to be accepted as a truthful autobiography the writer must be regarded unquestionably as suffering from a form of insanity.

  Apart from the deletions to which I have referred this narrative is presented exactly in the form in which it came to me, even to the cynical dedication.

  H.B.

  Dedicated with admiration and respect to the retired members of the Metropolitan Police Force in spite of whose energy and efficiency I have lived to write this book.

  Part 1

  Preface

  When a man has attained to any degree of note or notoriety, he becomes afflicted by the itch to write his autobiography. I question whether the months of labour involved in carrying out such a task are often justified by the result, unless we regard as that result the mere satisfaction achieved by the autobiographer in writing continuously about himself to the extent of some seventy thousand words. So few of these autobiographers have anything of interest to say apart from the more or less technical interest attached to the narration of the steps and line of conduct which led the subject to eminence.

  It is true that certain autobiographers may mildly amuse us by retailing the witty thing Sir Herbert Tree—or some such famous person—said to the autobiographer, and so forth; or it may pander to our love of scandal by vilifying the autobiographer’s contemporaries. But, on the whole, I feel that the frame of mind in which the autobiographer sets about his thankless task is the frame of mind in which the club bore button-holes me and tells me of the wonderful things he has done, the witty things he has said and what a clever fellow I must understand him to be.

  Why then am I setting to work, at the age of nearly sixty-nine, to write my autobiography? Mainly, I think, because I have been nursing an exciting secret for forty years; I have had to guard that secret during my lifetime but there is a certain satisfaction in feeling that I can arrange for its disclosure after my death. And there have been so many speculations regarding the identity and motives of Jack the Ripper that I feel it to be almost a duty finally and definitely to put those questions to rest. And I may also be influenced by another matter. In several of the numerous articles which have appeared from time to time Jack the Ripper has been dogmatically described as a homicidal maniac; this statement has been made so often, in fact, that its truth seems now to be almost universally assumed. I recently observed an article in a popular encyclopaedia which refers to: “Jack the Ripper, a homicidal maniac who…” etc. It may be that I grow touchy as the years increase, but I must admit that statements of this nature tend to irritate me.

  The fact of this matter is that the writers of articles on Jack the Ripper—and I have heard that a story about him need never remain unsold—have either too much imagination or no imagination at all. In the former category are those who weave theories of extraordinary ingenuity; in the second are those who, being unable to apprehend any human actions w
hich depart from their own standard of smug normality, fall back upon the old phrase—a homicidal maniac.

  Forty years have elapsed since a mention of Jack the Ripper was sufficient to cause a shudder, not only in the East End of London, but in all parts of this country. A shudder based not altogether upon a horror of murder—as it is technically called—for many murders have been committed which have aroused no more than a rather pleasant excitement; but based more upon a shrinking awe of the unknown. For J.R. was not only a killer; he was a mysterious and bizarre killer, and in his efficiency (though I say it myself), his ubiquity and yet his uncanny invisibility, he appeared to the popular imagination to embody in his unseen personality the attributes of a ghoul. From my own recollection of the period I am able to say that, incredible as it may now seem, J.R. was actually regarded as a supernatural being by the less enlightened members of the community.

  Now when a personality takes on this apocryphal aspect it is very difficult for the ordinary unimaginative person to conceive of him as a human man who was born, eats, loves and laces his boots. He cannot realize that that being has his thoughts and feelings and his own personal perception of the universe; being incomprehensible, the unknown must be a maniac.

  And so it may come as a surprise to some that J.R. was a human man and that what he did was due to reactions which simply differed in some respects from the reactions of his fellows.

  —

  I need hardly say that my name is not Jack. I have given some thought to the question whether I should disclose my name at once or reserve it as a bonne bouche for the end of the record. But I have decided, mainly by the thought that I may never live to complete the work, to enjoy in imagination the sensation which the early mention of my name will afford to my associates. My name is James Willoughby Carnac.

  “What, our Carnac!” I can hear old So-and-so saying at the club. “It can’t be!” And then he will scrabble over the pages until he perceives my portrait (which I hope will be reproduced in the book). “Why it is!” he will cry. “But it can’t be! This is a joke. Why, I have sat opposite Carnac in this smoking-room every day for years!”

  But I assure you, my dear old friend So-and-so (I feel it would be unfair to specify your name and so fling your body to the reporters), that it is no joke. At least, not the kind of joke you have in mind. You may hardly be able to credit it at first, perhaps because you have read that J.R. was a homicidal maniac, and old Carnac was obviously sane. Why, he could play bridge! But, leaving out this question of lunacy, surely you must realize that J.R. did actually exist? That he met people; sat next to them in trams and theatres; bought things in shops. And he became prominent only forty years ago, you know. What possible reason can you have for assuming that he did not live out his three score years and ten? People do; you are no spring chicken yourself, my dear So-and-so, if you will forgive my mentioning it.

  When you have read this account and discovered that it contains nothing incongruous nor, in fact, anything you cannot yourself confirm with a little trouble, will you, I wonder, feel horrified? No; I suspect your sensation will be pride. You have had the extraordinary privilege of talking almost daily to J.R. for nearly fifteen years without knowing it; what a topic of conversation is now presented to you!

  I think, by the way, I should enclose with my manuscript a request that the six complimentary copies, which I understand are usually presented to an author by his publisher, be sent to the club. Otherwise my autobiography may never penetrate to that backwater.

  —

  Since this autobiography will not be published until after my death I can allow myself entire freedom in writing, bearing in mind, however, that convention has set certain bounds upon what is permissible. This book is not intended to be read aloud to the family circle, but on the other hand I do not want it impounded by the police. But although I may have to touch delicately upon one or two matters, there is this point: I have no relatives and no one need suffer, therefore, as a result of the obloquy which (society being constituted as it is) will attach to my name. And I have been careful not to refer by name to any person who is, to my knowledge, at present living.

  As regards the ultimate publication of the manuscript: this has cost me much thought. But I am not without resource and a little ingenuity will, I think, overcome the difficulty. After all, there are such things as literary agents, and if my executor does not get involved over some difficulty with probate I see no reason why the plan which I have dimly evolved should not be successful. At least the manuscript should get as far as a publisher’s office if my executor honourably fulfills my instructions and does not allow curiosity as to what it is he is dealing with to master him. As to any profits arising from publication, these must go with my other assets which, having no relatives, I am leaving to a charitable institution connected with animals. At least that has been my intention; but recently it has occurred to me to alter my will and to leave everything to the Police Orphanage. The idea rather appeals to me.

  —

  Before closing this somewhat rambling preface it is necessary for me to say a few words regarding conversations in this book. Truthfully to reproduce these verbatim after a lapse of forty or fifty years is obviously impossible; but a book devoid of conversational matter is, to my mind, dull; it lacks anything approaching vividness. The conversations here are therefore “reconstructed,” being based upon the gist of the matter spoken of and clothed in the characteristic dictions of the people concerned as I recall them. In some special instances, however, the words actually used have remained fixed in my memory despite the passage of years; Mrs. Nicholl’s remarks about her canary, for example. And when I mention Martha Tabron’s ejaculation of “Oo Gawd!” which she managed to utter through my clenched fingers when the light caught the blade of my knife, I am reporting actual fact. She said exactly that, no less and—no more.

  —

  And a last word to the general reader. This is not put forward as a work of literature, but simply as a record of the main incidents of my early life. I make no pretence to any literary ability, and skilled writers are not made at the age of sixty-nine.

  Chapter 1

  I was born at Tottenham, at that time a new suburb—if, indeed, it could have been called a suburb of London at all. My first childish recollections of the place are associated with bricks and mortar and muddy gashes cut into the green fields; our own house was, I think, quite a new one. It was a double-fronted, semi-detached house, the last of a row of six; its left side adjoined a field owned by a dairy farmer and into this field small parties occasionally came to picnic, lighting furtive fires in dangerous proximity to our wooden fence. When detected, the picnic parties were chivvied from the field by the farmer with whom my father was glad to co-operate fearing, as he did, that sooner or later his fence would be set on fire. This disaster never, in fact, happened; but many were the arguments carried on over our fence. Several of these ended by my father dousing the illegal fire with a pail of water and on such occasions I felt that only the intervening fence saved my father from savage reprisals at the hands of the trippers. I learned to view with excited anticipation the advent of strange parties to our neighbour’s field.

  My father was a doctor who, no doubt, considered he was exercising wise foresight in renting a house in what appeared to be a rapidly expanding district. But in spite of this his practice was, I now know, but a small one for many years; not until relatively late in life was he ever free from grave financial anxiety.

  Our house was built on the plan held, in those days, to be convenient. It contained three reception-rooms and a comparatively large number of bedrooms of small size, the builder, presumably, being determined to make adequate provision for the results of the procreative enterprise common at that period. As our household was limited to myself and my parents, a large proportion of the rooms was never used.

  The lower front room on the left-hand side of the entrance-h
all, or “passage,” was utilized by my father as a surgery; the room behind it which communicated by folding-doors was fitted up as a dispensary. Into this room I was strictly forbidden to enter under any circumstances, but secret violation of orders had shown me that it contained shelves bearing innumerable bottles of varying size and fascinating appearance. The not unpleasant smell which proceeded from this Blue Beard’s chamber permeated the whole of the lower floor and could occasionally be detected in the upper rooms.

  My father, as I first remember him—if such a definite term can be applied to so indefinite a thing as the gradually dawning perceptions of a child—was a tall, thin man, wearing a fair moustache which extended into “mutton-chop” whiskers. Later he adopted gold-rimmed spectacles, for his eyes were weak and his sight was probably affected by his habit of poring over a microscope during his periods of evening leisure. When I cast my mind back to those very early days I picture him crouching over the recently cleared tea-table, one side of his face red from the reflected light of the fire, the other green from the illuminated shade of an oil-lamp standing beside the microscope down which he was peering. Or I see him fiddling with small tweezers and little circles of almost incredibly thin glass, or with a glass tube, drawing up drops of dirty-looking water from a collecting-bottle which, to my eye, contained nothing else but green weed. When, these drops being placed in a reservoir slide under the microscope, I was sometimes invited to look, I would never believe that the strange, moving creatures which swam across my field of vision had come from the bottle. My father’s proficiency in producing these things from nothing at all astonished me and yet, somehow, it did not carry with it increased feelings of pride in him; in some curious way I acquired the idea that the talent he displayed in this magical procedure was one inherent in all adults.