The Big Book of Jack the Ripper

by The Big Book of Jack the Ripper (retail) (epub)

  “Is she bleeding?” Caroline asked. “Unconscious?”

  “Anyone screaming so loudly must be near death.”

  She nearly smiled. She’d seen this many times before—a young man on the edge of fatherhood, terrified by the powerful forces of labor overtaking his wife. Caroline took up her bag of medical tools, which felt unusually light in her hand. The one she’d used for years, given to her by her mother who’d trained her, had recently been stolen and all of her implements with it. She had yet to replace many of them.

  When she arrived at their home, she found his wife was alone and writhing on the bed, her waters already broken.

  “Where’s your womenfolk?” she asked.

  “My wife’s mother intended on birthing the baby,” he said. “But she died two weeks ago. We’ve got no one.”

  “I’ll need your help then.”

  He’d been a worthy assistant, for a man. But the night had been endless, the day eternal, and still, there was no baby.

  “Something must be wrong, how could it take so long?” he’d asked several times.

  “This is her first child, Mr. Levy. It takes time. Only God can say with certainty when a baby will arrive.”

  Caroline and Mr. Levy spent the hours ministering to the laboring woman’s needs, massaging her feet and lower back, doing what they could to make her comfortable.

  Now, finally, the baby was coming. Caroline alerted Mr. Levy. “Hold up her legs!”

  The woman hunched forward, straining hard. Caroline counted to ten. “Very good, Mrs. Levy, you may rest,” she said. “It shan’t be long now.”

  When at last the baby slid from his mother’s body, he was silent and still; his skin tinged a bluish-gray color. Judging by his small size, he’d come early, but Caroline reckoned he’d survive. She turned him onto his stomach, resting him against her splayed palm while she tapped his back. All at once he let out a lusty cry and his nervous parents wept with relief.

  “His name is Louis,” Mr. Levy said. “After my father.”

  —

  It was nearing four in the morning when Caroline made her way home along Buck’s Row, content with the knowledge that she’d delivered another life into the world. She couldn’t know the child’s destiny, but his parents appeared to love him and she hoped he’d thrive in spite of his simple origins in London’s East End.

  On the far side of the street, a school dominated the landscape and just in front of it, a crowd had gathered. Recognizing several of her neighbors standing on their tiptoes as they tried to see what happened, she hurried over and caught the attention of her friends, Emily Holland and Mary Kelly. Emily was crying.

  “What is it?” Caroline said, grabbing Emily’s hand.

  “Polly’s been murdered!” Mary said.

  Caroline caught her breath. “Are you certain it’s Polly?”

  Emily nodded. “I saw her for myself. Oh Lord, forgive me, I should’ve never let her go out alone last night!”

  Caroline squeezed through the bystanders to where Polly’s body lay. In the darkness, she could surmise little about the condition of her remains, but noticed her skirts were raised up around her waist, leaving her bottom half exposed.

  “You must let me see to this woman,” she said to the bobby standing guard. She knew most of the men who patrolled the area but had never seen this one before. The name “Stubbs” was displayed on his uniform jacket.

  “Go on and join the others, missus,” he growled. “This ain’t no penny show.”

  “I’m a midwife, Constable Stubbs. I know her. She’s—she’s my patient.”

  There was some truth to this, though she’d never delivered Polly of a child. Mary, Emily, and Polly were prostitutes, and frequently visited Caroline for ailments suffered as a consequence of their profession.

  “Like I said, move along. We’re waiting on the real doctor.”

  Frustrated, Caroline returned to her friends. “You must tell me what you know,” she said.

  “The lodging house deputy turned her away when she couldn’t pay the fourpence for her bed last night,” Emily said. “You know Polly. I saw her at about half past two this morning and she told me she’d earned her doss money three times over but spent it all on drink. I begged her to come home with me but she’d have none of it. Said it wouldn’t be long till she was back.”

  “Did anyone see her after that?”

  “Not that I know. To think, I might’ve been the last one to see her alive!”

  “Except for the killer,” Mary said.

  “Oh Mary,” Emily said. “Don’t say such things!”

  The doctor arrived with a second police constable, PC Neil, who’d patrolled the beat for several years. The crowd clamored around the body, hoping for a glimpse of something titillating while Caroline pushed her way forward, wanting to hear what the doctor had to say.

  “Get these people out of here,” the doctor hissed. As the PCs proceeded to disperse the group, he knelt down and felt one of Polly’s legs. “Still warm,” he said, to no one in particular. “Couldn’t be dead for more than half an hour.”

  PC Stubbs grabbed Caroline’s arm, pulling her back. “You again? Thought I told you to leave.”

  “And I told you that Polly Nichols was my friend. I want to know what happened to her.”

  “You’ll find out when you read the newspapers, same as everyone else. If you don’t vacate the area we’ll take you in to the station.”

  She made a final appeal to PC Neil, who knew her reputation in the neighborhood.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Farmer,” he said. “You’d better do as PC Stubbs says.”

  Just as Caroline decided it was in her best interest to go home, an inspector had come to take a description of Polly’s corpse. As she stepped away from the scene, she heard him say, “My God, doctor. This woman’s been disemboweled.”

  —

  After Polly’s killing, there was much speculation about who’d committed the Whitechapel Murders.

  Emily and Mary were adamant that Leather Apron, an obscure character who’d long extorted money from area prostitutes and other vulnerable citizens, was the killer. The name alone was enough to inspire fear throughout the East End, yet nobody seemed to know exactly who he was, or if he even existed. Nevertheless, the gangs that claimed to work for this bogeyman had only to utter his name in order to get results.

  Caroline was skeptical. “Why would Leather Apron suddenly come out of the shadows and start killing after all these years?”

  “Maybe Martha and Polly owed him money and they couldn’t pay?” Mary replied.

  “Wouldn’t he just send one of his thugs to break their fingers, same as usual?”

  Then, in the wee hours of 8 September, Annie Chapman’s body was found on Hanbury Street, her throat and abdomen carved open and her intestines pulled out. The killer had removed her womb, taking it with him as a macabre souvenir.

  A freshly laundered leather apron was found near her corpse.

  The newspapers’ disclosure of the leather apron served only to stir the already simmering pot of anti-immigrant sentiment in Whitechapel, heating it to a full boil in the days after her murder. Obviously, the culprit was a Jew—no Englishman could be responsible for such barbaric crimes. Or so thought the British populace.

  Caroline, who’d brought many Jewish and immigrant babies into the world, couldn’t bring herself to believe that a person’s nationality had any bearing on whether they were capable of such savagery. Until someone came up with real evidence pointing to a Jew as the killer, she would look elsewhere for the culprit.

  There were other theories, of course. The suspicion that the killer was a member of the medical profession, or at least had knowledge of anatomy, troubled Caroline the most. She hadn’t known Annie Chapman, but upon reading the details of her slaying in the evening newspaper, her eyes welled up. How could someone who’d sworn their oath to take care of others betray it in such a horrifying way?

  A fierce protective in
stinct rose within her. These women might’ve been sinners, but none of them deserved such a brutal punishment. Poverty turned souls desperate and the East End had more than its share of both. Too many of its inhabitants starved in the streets, reduced to selling their flesh in order to secure shelter for the night. Martha, Polly, and Annie were but a few.

  In her work, she saw the penalties wrought by prostitution daily: unwanted pregnancy, venereal disease, and assault. Now, murder. She vowed to do something.

  —

  In the early morning hours of 30 September, Caroline received word that Ruth Graves was ready to have her baby.

  She set off toward their address in Fairclough Street, not getting very far before a woman’s voice broke through the quiet night air. The sound, something between a gasp and a scream, chilled her, and she stopped walking. There was a whisper of movement as a murky figure slipped behind the large wooden gate at the entrance to Dutfield’s Yard. She dashed over, and, finding the gate unlocked, she entered the yard, tripping over something in the darkness. She fumbled in her pocket for a match and lit it.

  A woman lay on her side, facing the wall. She’d been slashed across the neck. The blood, still pulsing, poured out onto the ground beneath her. Caroline felt her wrist for a heartbeat. Nothing. The match burnt down, flickering out, and she lit a second one, holding it up to inspect the rest of the yard. It appeared empty, but she couldn’t escape the peculiar feeling that someone was watching her.

  She thought she’d seen someone creeping through the gate and into the yard, but had she been mistaken? Had he actually been escaping?

  The clop of hooves and wheels crunching across the ground commanded her attention. A cart driver had entered the yard, his pony shying to the right.

  “You, there!” he shouted, struggling with the reins. “What have you done?”

  The match burned Caroline’s fingers and she tossed it to the side. “She’s dead,” she said. “Stay here with her while I find a bobby.”

  “How am I to know you didn’t do this yourself?”

  “Wait or don’t wait, I’m going. There’s no time to spare!”

  She ran into the street, ignoring the driver’s protests. She spotted a bobby in the distance, walking in the opposite direction. She started after him and, in her haste, nearly collided with PC Stubbs as he rounded the corner.

  “Watch it!” he said.

  “There’s been another murder,” she said, pointing. “Over in Dutfield’s Yard.”

  He broke into a run and she followed him. By this time, a crowd had gathered, their lanterns illuminating the scene. There was so much blood that Caroline couldn’t imagine there was a drop left in the poor woman.

  “I’ve seen her about,” one man said. “Name is Liz Stride.”

  “Back away, everyone,” PC Stubbs said, removing his own lantern from his belt. At his first sight of Liz Stride’s damaged body, he shook his head and cursed. He turned to Caroline. “What did you see?”

  “I heard a noise—I went to see to it and found her here. I thought I saw someone entering the yard but it was too dark to know for sure. She was already dead when I arrived.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “Yes.” Knowing she could do nothing more for Liz Stride, she continued, “I’m on my way to a birth. If I’m no longer needed here, I’ll be on my way.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’re a witness and you’ll remain here until someone can transport you to the station.”

  “But, sir, they’re waiting on me.”

  His only response was to put her in handcuffs.

  —

  As PC Stubbs pulled Caroline toward the Bishopsgate Police Station, the jailor, PC Hutt, was just releasing another inmate, a woman named Catherine Eddowes. “Good night, ol’ Cock,” she said, waving over her shoulder.

  “Pull to it, Kate,” he replied, then turned his attention to PC Stubbs. “What ’ave we ’ere?”

  “There’s been another Whitechapel murder,” Stubbs said. “Found this one at the scene, acting suspicious.”

  “Suspicious?” Caroline said. “I only wanted to help!”

  “Put her in a cell to wait for Inspector Abberline.”

  “Can you at least remove these handcuffs?” Caroline asked.

  Stubbs looked to Hutt for guidance and he nodded. Stubbs removed the handcuffs, leaving her wrists sore.

  PC Hutt led her to one of the two empty cells located in the far corner of the station. She sat on the hard bench and thought about the baby that was coming. Without her, there’d be no one to deliver it. She hoped that Inspector Abberline would arrive soon so that she could report what she’d seen and be off.

  When he finally did come, there were two men with him. To her surprise, he carried a carpetbag in his hands. Caroline recognized it immediately.

  “My bag!”

  Abberline raised an eyebrow. “We’ll get to that later, Mrs. Farmer. These are Inspectors Reid and Drake. We understand that you witnessed the murder of Elizabeth Stride earlier this evening.”

  “I didn’t see it happen,” she said. “I was on my way to a confinement and heard what sounded like a scream. I went to see about it and found a woman’s body.”

  “Did you know who she was?”

  “No. Only later did I hear someone say her name was Liz Stride.”

  “A cart driver, Mr. Diemschutz, claims he came into the yard and found you touching the body. Do you have an explanation?”

  “I was feeling her wrist for a heartbeat.”

  “How would you know to do that?”

  “I’m a midwife. In fact, I’m needed at a birth this very moment. I’ve told you everything I know—please dismiss me so that I may see to my patient.”

  Inspector Abberline raised her bag up. “Where do you think we found this, Mrs. Farmer?”

  “I don’t know. I’m only glad to have it back.”

  “When was it last in your possession?”

  She thought for a moment. “It was stolen from my person at the beginning of August. I haven’t seen it since then.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Quite. I reported the theft to this very station.”

  “Will you see about that?” Abberline asked Inspector Reid. He returned his attention to Caroline. “We found the bag at the scene of Annie Chapman’s murder. Have you any guess as to how it got there?”

  “I’ve no earthly idea,” she said.

  “Is it possible that you left it behind?”

  She was suddenly apprehensive. How guilty she must appear from his perspective! Not only had she been at the scenes of two of the murders, as a midwife, she had medical knowledge, especially as it pertained to women. And her profession required her to be out on the streets at all hours of the day and night, alongside the prostitutes, criminals, and God knew who else. If her clothing should sometimes have blood on it, it was easily explained—it happened often in the execution of her duties.

  Her unease turned to fear as she realized that the murderer himself must’ve been the thief who stole her medical bag. Had he used the very same tools to kill that she had used to minister to his victims?

  Inspector Reid returned to his place beside Abberline. “There’s no record of the theft,” he said.

  “I did not kill these women!” she said. “My life’s work is to assist them, to protect them!” Her voice grew quiet. “It’s the only thing I’m fit to do.”

  A great commotion ensued, interrupting Caroline.

  “Come quick, Inspector,” PC Hutt shouted. “There’s been another woman murdered.”

  Catherine Eddowes, the woman Caroline had seen leaving the police station, had been slaughtered in Mitre Square.

  —

  Just days after the murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, the killer began his taunts, sending the first letter to Scotland Yard:

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so cl
ever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again.

  He’d signed it Jack the Ripper.

  Given that Catherine Eddowes’s murder had occurred while Caroline was incarcerated—an ironclad alibi if ever there was one—the authorities conceded that she wasn’t the culprit. They took their time about releasing her, however, waiting until mid-afternoon the following day. She traveled immediately to the Graves’ residence, praying that she wasn’t too late.

  Mr. Graves himself opened the door, looking haggard. It appeared he’d had an even worse night than Caroline had.

  “Mr. Graves,” she said. “I’m sorry for the delay. I’m here to check on your wife and child.”

  “We’ve no need for you now,” he said, his eyes tired and devoid of emotion. “The baby is dead.”

  He closed the door in her face.

  —

  The morning newspapers reported her arrest and subsequent release, but the damage was done. Her reputation was ruined. The people who’d known her since childhood, whose own children she’d helped bring into the world, crossed the street when they saw her coming. Mothers with babies due refused to admit her when she came to check on them. The prostitutes she’d advised and treated, often at no charge, wouldn’t so much as say hello to her. Only Mary and Emily remained loyal friends.

  Caroline didn’t fear the Ripper. She despised him. He’d taken everything from her—including her cherished medical bag—and had likely tried to frame her for his murders. The only thing that stood between her and the hangman’s noose was the Ripper’s own folly when he’d murdered Catherine Eddowes while she’d been in jail.

  With these most recent killings, she became even more determined. If she couldn’t aid and protect the neighborhood’s women as a midwife, she would do it by putting an end to this ogre’s killing spree.

  —

  Alas, her initial investigation attempts proved unsuccessful. In the first, she approached two women standing on a street corner, both well worn and obviously destitute.