by Nell Peters
down under – means her insides is done for. I seen it before, many a time.”
It was taking too long – she wanted to be gone, to face whatever fate awaited her...if anything.
If there was a God, which she doubted, she’d take her punishment in hell eternal. After all, she’d lived a hell on earth for most of her life.
OCTOBER 22ND 1839
“Mama! Mama! Please wake up.” Though Ernestine pulled sharply at her mother’s night robe, she didn’t stir, nor make a sound.
The bedroom door opened - Aunt Wilhelmina entered with a candle, looking vexed, “Hush child, hush – you’ll wake the whole house. Now, whatever is the matter?”
Ernestine started to cry, “Mama will not wake and I think she must be ill, Aunt – see how pale she looks.”
Uncle John blustered in to join his wife, “What is it, Mrs Smegglethwaite? What’s ado at this ungodly hour?”
Wilhelmina moved hesitantly toward the bed to touch Lady Dixon’s cheek with her fingertips. Feeling the icy cold of the flesh, she snatched her hand away again.
“We should fetch the doctor, Mr Smegglethwaite and no delay, though I fear we are too late – and that child should not be here, in the presence of the dead or dying. Call Jenkins to take her away, if you would be so kind.”
Minutes later, Ernestine was dragged from her mother’s side, screaming, “Mama! Mama – please wake up, you are frightening me. Don’t let them take me away, please Mama, please! Wake up, do!”
NOVEMBER 12TH 1888
To The Central News Agency
Gentlemen
I, Ernestine Mary Elizabeth Victoria Smegglethwaite-Dixon am unable to commence this missive with the words, ‘being of sound mind and body’, for alas I acknowledge that to be a wicked untruth.
However, in my rare moments of lucid consideration, I have come to recognise the importance of leaving behind me a sworn and written account of my life of fifty-eight long years, in which to explain the circumstances of my downfall and my further descent to the life of a gutter person, from which there seemed no possible escape.
I must add to that the title murderess of six persons of low birth, who were mere exemplars amid more than a thousand, of the sordid side of life whom I, to the most part, hold responsible for my family’s woes and tribulations. It was women of the gutter such as these who turned the head of my dear father so that he lost his fortune and died penniless. It is upon these hapless creatures that I have inflicted the ultimate punishment;
On 7th August 1888, I sought out and killed Martha Tabram.
On 31st August 1888, I sought out and killed Mary Ann Nichols.
On 8th September 1888, I sought out and killed Annie Chapman.
On 30th September 1888, I sought out and killed first Elizabeth Stride and then Catherine Eddowes.
On 9th November 1888, I sought out and killed Mary Jane Kelly.
Whilst I cannot find it in my heart to deem those women of easy virtue blameless, may a compassionate God grant eternal rest upon their souls.
And may that same God, if he exists, look kindly upon me, when presently I throw myself upon his mercy. Nonetheless, I fully accept that my punishment should justly be to rot in hell and damnation forevermore, the state of which will not be dissimilar to many years of my existence thus far.
I mean to facilitate delivery of a detailed account of my life and what I have done into the hands of Dr Robert Anderson, Head of the Metropolitan Police Criminal Investigation Department at Great Scotland Yard, to do with as he thinks fit. I firmly believe him to be a learned and fair man, who will perceive through his intelligence that my confession is offered in good faith and truth to protect the innocent, especially the Jews. Unfounded suspicion has at recent times been cast upon this most industrious of races, as well as other unfortunate individuals, by common vigilantes, whose actions I comprehend were fuelled by fear and a need for self-protection.
Your task, dear gentlemen of the agency, is I beseech you, to announce to the world and most especially to residents of the area of London known as Whitechapel that those unfortunate women who are driven to ply their trade at night, oft fuelled by the demon alcohol, are now safe from the monster that has moved with stealth amongst them – I am no more.
Yours most humbly,
Ernestine Smegglethwaite-Dixon.
NOVEMBER 13TH 1888
Taking advantage of the milling crowd and general confusion, the cabbie led his horse away, the damaged Hansom dragging along behind tilting on its axle. He meant to be off the Commercial Road before an officer of the law appeared on the scene and took him to task…or worse.
Ernestine watched him go – it was of no consequence, as he had served his purpose well.
She wasn’t dressed as a lady and hadn’t been so for many years, due to her increasingly impoverished circumstances – clothed as she was in greasy tatters, none of these folk would suspect for one moment she was of high birth. Her body would be stolen away, sold to one of the hospitals for dissection and medical research with no questions asked – a windfall for some lucky soul.
Not even a pauper’s grave for her remains.
No matter. She willed for the black angel to come quickly and take her…it was surely her time now?
Jack Spangle spotted the dispersing crowd and was curious. A shiny penny felt hot in his hand where his fingers gripped it safely to his palm – it was his reward for taking a parcel over to the Embankment, which was a long walk when your hand-me-down shoes didn’t fit and had large holes in the soles. But he’d taken the money and promised…
He thought he recognised the corpse on the cart, thrown in with a bundle of firewood and a sack of flour that had more than likely been stolen from under the nose of some careless bakery worker.
It was her! He was sure of it – it was the old woman they called Quack Ernestine, who’d got some sort of medical know-how from nursing during the Crimean War, with that Florence Nightingale. Quack Ernestine would always try her best to cure the ills of her neighbours for a farthing.
Or nothing if they couldn’t pay – which most of them couldn’t.
It was Quack Ernestine who had given him the penny – and the package – and made him swear on his mother’s life that he’d deliver it that very afternoon to Great Scotland Yard.
But Jack didn’t have a mother…and now the old woman was dead, what could it matter?
He stood back, ripping knotted string from the brown paper parcel. Inside, there were just pieces of paper; lots and lots of pieces of rough paper. There were words written on the sheets, of course, but Jack couldn’t read – nor even write his name.
He walked on a few streets and stopped to warm himself by the brazier of an old crone selling roasted chestnuts. She gave him one to watch her pitch while she slipped into the pub for a halfpenny’s worth of gin.
While she was gone, Jack fed the papers into the fiery coals and watched them burn.
