The Ripper's Victims in Print

by Rebecca Frost

  It is important for Cullen, as it is for many authors, to stress the similarities between the Ripper’s victims rather than their differences. Authors must do this in order to explain why these women—and only these women, whether they choose to add to the victims or disregard Elizabeth Stride—were killed. This not only allows them to point to their choice of identity for Jack the Ripper, but also to reassure audiences that the danger of the East End is not one they themselves ever need to fear. If the Ripper could kill Amazon Queens along with the other flotsam, then hardly anyone could be safe. If, however, that Amazon Queen was simply a younger and prettier version of the flotsam, but of the same class and occupation, then her death can be equated with theirs and just as easily dismissed.

  Situated Empathy for the Dehumanized

  Robin Odell’s 1965 book Jack the Ripper in Fact and Fiction contains a wide array of terms to describe those living in the East End, and especially the prostitutes themselves. At times the prostitutes—along with pickpockets and other low members of society—become strange hybrids, “human vultures who preyed on honest men’s money.”21 They are not only animals, but those who simply wait and watch for others to die, seeking out weakness and thus needing no real power of their own. Alternately, prostitutes are “on the prowl after midnight,”22 now stalking a more active prey but still being associated more with animals than humans. In more modern crime narratives, it is the serial killer himself who stalks his prey, but in this case the victims—these prostitutes—are somehow seeking out those even weaker and lesser than they are. Odell continues the previous theme of calling them “broken wrecks of women,”23 although he does not rely nearly so heavily on seagoing metaphors in the process. Once again they are no longer women, but some form of remnant of a woman, no longer complete or whole. All of this comes along with the usual terms of unfortunate, street-walker, lady of the pavement, harlot, and prostitute of the lowest kind.

  Who does Odell suggest murdered and butchered the women who fit all of these phrases? Like Stewart before him, Odell names an occupation rather than a specific name, although his choice is that of a Jewish slaughterman or shochet. He explains that a shochet would have the rough anatomical knowledge apparently required for the mutilations performed by the Ripper, and explains how the kosher slaughter of an animal must be performed with a quick slice of the throat and followed with an inspection of the animal’s internal organs to be sure that it is fit to eat. What Odell does not explain is why a shochet would choose human vultures, broken wrecks, and ladies of the pavement, since it seems doubtful that they would pass the same inspection given to the animals. After all, one of the Ripper letters claims that a piece of kidney from Catherine Eddowes was fried and eaten.

  Odell takes more time to describe the general condition of the East End to his readers, both to situate the victims clearly and to show how a shochet would have been a respected, trusted member of society who would not have aroused their suspicions. In fact, he suggests that the women would have been amused at a shochet who sought their services. He considers that these women were neither foolish nor willfully stupid when they continued to ply their trade even during the heyday of the murders, explaining that desperation would have driven them to the streets to find money for their beds simply because they would not have been allowed to remain indoors without the coins they earned. Odell reminds readers that “the East End streetwalkers of that time cannot be measured in present-day terms of human conduct”24 because the conditions in which they lived were so far removed from those experienced by contemporary readers.

  Against this background, a Mary Ann Nicholls who was estranged from her husband and living in various doss houses is in a position to be more sympathetic than a Mary Ann Nicholls who is given no historical placement. Her progression from the wife of William Nicholls, who is only able to forgive her when he looks down upon her mutilated corpse, indeed becomes a “tragedy of a broken life”25 and not a woman to be scorned. Part of this tragedy is indeed her drinking, but Odell does not dwell upon the breakdown of her marriage or even mention any children. Polly is simply murdered for the sad—yes, tragic—reason of not having the pennies to buy a bed for the night, with no judgment being passed as to why she found herself broke. She simply drifted from doss house to doss house until she met the Ripper and, being the first victim, would not even have known that there was such a man to watch out for.

  Annie’s biography is similarly brief, but not quite so positive. While nothing is mentioned about how Polly was treated by her fellow East Enders, Annie received a poor reception, Odell argues, because of her middle-class background. Annie was a woman who had once been respectable, married to a veterinary surgeon, and had wound up in the East End after what Odell describes as a slow decline. This may have taken as long as the four years between her separation from that husband, who presumably has the last name of Chapman but is not given a first name, since only the end points of this descent are given. What happened to her three children is as much of a mystery as what happened to her husband.

  Odell states that Annie’s “intemperate habits and ill-health made her look ten years older”26 of her actual age of thirty-seven, although he does not go into details of her health. Her drinking, however, is a continual problem, since she was turned out of her lodging house on her last night because she had spent her final pennies on drink. She is perhaps even foolish enough to have gone from pub to doss house hoping that she would be allowed to say even without the coins in hand. Annie, despite living in a similar predicament as Polly, has her drinking emphasized. This, along with the fact that she did not seem to have many friends—and had even had a violent quarrel with a fellow prostitute shortly before he death—makes her a less likable character.

  “Long Liz” is indeed sympathetic despite her descent into prostitution because Odell relates the sinking of the Princess Alice as an understandable reason for it. When the ship sank, it took her husband, a carpenter with whom she had previously run a coffee shop, and three children. In this case there is no mention of any other children and thus Elizabeth appears to have lost her entire family in a single day. As “one of the few rescued”27 she could be understandably wracked with guilt and grief. The deaths of her husband and children could easily explain why she walked the streets of the East End.

  In spite of her occupation and her emotional state, Odell does not depict Elizabeth as a drunk. He even states that she was sober the last time that Michael Kidney saw her. Presumably she had some money on the night of her death, since she had done some cleaning in her lodging house and been paid for it. Despite her position in life, Elizabeth still seeks out work that does not involve walking the streets, although it seemed to do her no good. Odell does not tell us whether she tried to find a room for the night, so we do not know if she was also kicked out for a lack of money or if she simply had not decided to turn in yet. He mentions that she was seen in the kitchen earlier in the evening, but it is not certain that she went out with the intent of seeking a client—even though witnesses report her talking to and kissing men. Still, Elizabeth’s loss of husband and children was out of her control and she is simply doing what a widowed Victorian woman must do to survive.

  Catherine Eddowes’s relationship status is more questionable. Although she had been living with a man named John Kelly, he knew her as Kate Conway, presumably married to—or having once been married to—a man named Conway. Conway himself does not surface and this relationship is not explained, although Conway must have presumably been out of Catherine’s life before she took up with Kelly. Why he remained with her for seven years when she was clearly addicted to drink and looked seventeen years older than she really was is left open to interpretation. For Odell, Kelly and Michal Kidney are side characters who barely deserve a mention, much less a motive or deeper consideration. Even their reactions upon finding out that Elizabeth and Catherine were murdered go unrecorded.

  On the last night of her life Catherine was arrested for being inc
apably drunk and, upon being released, almost immediately crossed paths with the Ripper. Here Odell makes an interesting example of her character. He points out—quite reasonably—that readers may wonder why a woman would willingly go with a stranger to the darkest part of a square, especially in the wake of previous murders. Catherine would not have known of Elizabeth’s death, since it happened so shortly before her own, but Mary Ann and Annie had been fully discussed in the daily newspapers. Odell argues that readers should not label her as foolish, but instead should remember that “East End prostitutes were not motivated by ordinary standards of conduct and judgment.”28 He judges that, for Catherine, this was not a time for caution but one of desperation. Although it is not stated whether she had any money on her that night, Odell decides that she must not have, because only a great need for coins would have driven her to go with a stranger. Catherine is, after all, a known prostitute and drunkard, but she was not a known half-wit.

  Mary Jane Kelly’s age and looks are duly noted, but she, too, is a known prostitute and drunkard. Like Annie, she is “alienated from her fellow whores”29 due to a history that did not begin in the East End. Mary wandered from her birthplace in Ireland to Cardiff, the West End, and France, and it was only in Ireland—likely due to her young age—that Odell does not mention her work as a prostitute. Like Elizabeth, she turned to the trade after the death of her husband, but she began it in locations that were clearly higher class. This Mary—or Marie Jeanette, as of course she liked to be known—sank quickly from her higher position, helped along by drink and the need to earn money to buy more.

  Like Elizabeth and Catherine, Mary had a long-term beau. In this version, she and Barnett live a comfortable life for about eighteen months, with nary a single quarrel until she invited a friend to stay with them. Apparently they did not even argue about her drinking habits, despite the fact that they were meant to have brought her so low. Perhaps Barnett drank just as much as she did, or he may have earned enough so that the pair had enough expendable income to finance her habit. It is unclear whether this Barnett was the sole source of income because she had ceased prostitution as well as drinking, or if she had continued both—and whether Barnett knew or approved of either.

  Although this is where Odell ends his retelling of the murders, he continues to speak of the conditions under which these women lived and relate to the lives of prostitutes as a whole. There is the irony of the meat tea the Lord Mayor of London gave on the same day as Mary’s murder, feeding “three thousand of the poorest inhabitants in all of London,”30 an act Odell mocks. As much good press as the Lord Mayor may have gained, this was undercut not only by the reports of Mary’s death as well as the fact that he happened to serve the poor a single meal in which portions were clearly limited. Whatever happiness and excess those three thousand experienced, it was only temporary.

  Odell once again emphasizes the desperation that he says drove Catherine to walk with a client on the last night of her life, reminding readers that “[t]he necessity of their often impoverished plight forced them to walk the streets even during the terror of the autumn of 1888.”31 Women on their own who did not have the pennies for a bed would have been forced to walk the streets at night anyway, even if this did not mean they were specifically looking for a client at the time. They could hardly have spent the night in a pub, even if one were open, considering the lack of money, even if the presence of so many others would have been safer. It is thus understandable that women would have been out and about, although for Odell, the understanding ceases when it comes to taking such a client into a secluded location if he seemed at all suspicious.

  Odell does not make a list of the signs he himself would brand suspicious, but presumably a seasoned prostitute would have her own list and do well to heed it. It is thus understandable for Catherine to have gone with a man upon her release from jail, and perhaps also that she would have sought out the darkest and most secluded corner of Mitre Square with her client, but once again the reader is faced with possibilities. Is Catherine foolhardy—or still drunk—enough that she overlooked or ignored such signals? The East End was poorly lit, so she might have been unable to see any signals that were present. Or, perhaps, most dangerously, there were in fact no signs.

  The pursuit of the real name of the Ripper is in fact a quest for signs. There is the belief that a man who would wander the East End streets at night, brutally mutilating the women he killed, could not have been a normal chap. Something in his life must have been noticeably out of the ordinary and, presumably, threatening. If his victims had been given absolutely no warning, then there would have been no way they could have protected themselves or prevented their own deaths. If they were given no warning, then these women were guilty only of prostitution—or perhaps even solely of being on the street alone at night. If there was nothing about the Ripper to have indicated that he was different from any other man, then there would be no way in which women at the time—or even women today—might be able to identify and avoid the threat. If the Ripper is simply a nobody sort of man, then the threat could be anywhere.

  There is, perhaps, a bit of hope, because the women in question were indeed prostitutes. As Odell explains, “All men were the same to them.”32 With a sigh of relief, readers can argue against the theory that Mary Ann, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Mary must have missed the signs. Perhaps they were not in the practice of carefully scrutinizing the faces of potential clients, in case that might drive them off. Any skittish behavior might have been interpreted as a reaction to negotiating with an East End prostitute, an act which many men might not wish to draw attention to. If these women simply accepted all men as the same and failed to look for any difference in this particular specimen, then the blame is once again back on their shoulders and any reader would be safe as long as she took a moment to look fur such deviant signs herself.

  Doctor, Lawyer, Shochet, Ripper

  Unlike the Ripper narratives of the 1920s and 1930s, these books do not repeat the same suspects except to disprove them. Matters and Woodhall both argue for a Dr. Stanley whose selection of victims led him closer to the one woman he sought. He murdered prostitutes in the East End because he was searching for one of them and did not wish to leave a trail that would alert her in advance. Stewart’s Ripper, while lacking the pseudonym, continued the theme of revenge. His midwife Ripper had herself been wronged by an East End prostitute, and thus the victims she sought were women of the same class and profession who sought her care. These Rippers chose their victims for these very specific reasons.

  It is difficult for a suspect who is mad to be shown to so carefully choose his victims, as in the complicated tale of McCormick’s Pedachenko. Even the figures of M. J. Druitt and Odell’s unarmed shochet are not necessarily sane, nor driven by something as relatable as revenge. It is perhaps understandable enough when violent crime is enacted against the very people who wronged the criminal, the same way children will lash out at those who have hurt them. These directed acts of revenge have their limits and their reason. Madness has no reason.

  Mary Ann, Annie, Liz, Kate, and Mary Jane are now no longer representatives of the person who harmed the Ripper, but become victims because of their occupations. These Rippers do not wish to kill East End prostitutes specifically, but have chosen East End prostitutes because of the ease of getting them alone in a secluded area. There is indeed media attention in the wake of the killings as newspapers compete with headlines and details in order to sell more copies, but the Ripper has indeed chosen people near the bottom rung of society, and it is difficult to be entirely sympathetic to women who sell their bodies and then spend those few coins on drink instead of a bed.

  Whatever public reactions happened during the murders, it was not enough to stop the Ripper until he quit of his own accord. There was no easy solution to keep such women off the streets—indeed, there were not enough lodging house beds to hold all the homeless in the district—and, as we can see, there was difficulty in expla
ining why such women would still be out and about even during the height of the murders. Those who never had to contemplate spending the night without a bed could not understand why such women would apparently make the choice to spend their money on the apparent luxury of alcohol instead of the necessity of shelter. The East End prostitute was far removed from the general population in her own time, and has since become even more distant from the contemporary reader. Distance is a barrier to empathy.

  These Ripper narratives of the 1950s and 1960s suggest that the Ripper’s victims were not chosen for a specific reason other than the ease and lack of consequence of murdering them. There is no theme of revenge of the earlier decades, and no overarching conspiracy theory that follows in the 1970s. It is simply that the lives of East End prostitutes matter just enough to make headlines if their corpses have been mutilated properly, but not enough to inspire identification between them and a reader who would then fear for her own life.

  • FOUR •

  Royals, Freemasons and Schemes

  Presenting Victims in the Conspiracy Theories of the 1970s

  Ripper authors of the 1970s found themselves with a new focus that very nearly took attention away from the Ripper himself, much less his victims. In November 1970, an article appeared in The Criminologist in which Thomas Stowell, CBE, FRCS proposed his own theory about the Ripper’s identity. Although the article itself refers to his suspect solely as S, Stowell provided numerous details about his suspect to the point where others loudly identified him. Stowell died within days of his article’s publication, denying these accusations.