The Art of Murder

Chapter 36

To Mrs Sonia Thomson 15 October 1888 Now, Sonia… I hope you won't mind my being so informal, dear lady. It's just that, well, I feel we have grown to know each other quite well. I learned much about you from your loquacious husband, and you know more about me than anyone else ever has. Anyway, I have come to the part of my story in which I was finally able to put my ideas into action.

There is almost always a moment before beginning a new work in which there is a flutter of anxiety, a brief tremor of uncertainty. Can I do it still? Can I create? I'm sure I'm not the only artist or writer who has ever experienced such a thing. But, strange to report, on the morning of 31 August this year, less than two months ago, I felt no such trepidation. Indeed, I was so involved with my plans, so excited by the prospect of beginning my masterpiece, that I experienced none of the nervousness I might have expected.

I considered my notes and preliminary sketches. The first victim: Mary Ann Nichols. Forty-three years old, five feet two inches, dark hair, grey eyes. A mother of four. Separated from her husband William. Well known locally as a 'bride' of no fixed abode. I checked my watch. It was 1.34 a.m. I pulled on my overcoat, picked up my bag and stepped out into the rain.

Heading straight for the Pav, I found the streets quiet. The music hall was closing up, but the brothel was open still. I took the stairs slowly and waited in the anteroom. It was empty and quiet. I picked up a newspaper and started to read. I knew Mary Ann worked here three nights a week. I had studied her routine and knew what to expect. At 2.15 she emerged from one of the rooms along a corridor to my left. As she strode by, I looked up. She was shorter than I had remembered and looked sick, malnourished. She eyed me lasciviously and paused beside me. 'Just finished tonight, darlin',' she said, smiling, her pale lips pulled back over crooked incisors, the front two upper and lower teeth missing. 'But I could spare time for you, sweetheart… if you're interested?'

I shook my head and returned to the newspaper.

'Suit yerself.'

She headed for the stairs and I heard the clink of coins as Mary Ann tossed them merrily in the air as she walked. She was clearly pleased with her evening's work. Perhaps she had made enough to cover the fourpence she needed for a bed in the lodging house she frequented at 18 Thrawl Street.

I waited a moment before I carefully folded the newspaper, stood up and followed her down the stairs. Emerging on to Whitechapel Road, I just caught sight of my prey as she turned a corner into a narrow side street. I had an idea where she was headed. I quickened my pace and reached the corner just in time to see the woman duck into a narrow doorway that I knew led to a drinking den run by a tough Irishman named O'Connor, whom I had already had the misfortune to meet during the course of my research.

I decided to wait in the narrow street, standing silently in the shadows. There was only one way in and out of O'Connor's place, and so I knew Mary Ann could not slip away without my seeing her. Thankfully, the rain had stopped and I was so charged up with excitement and expectation that the time seemed to pass quickly. And, sure enough, after half an hour the woman reappeared with a man on her arm. She was giggling drunkenly. The man looked more sober, but a little jumpy. He was young, pale-faced, with large, nervous eyes. I watched the pair turn into the lane in the opposite direction to Whitechapel Road. Keeping to the shadows, I followed as silent as a mouse.

I was soon lost in the back lanes, a maze of narrow streets and alleyways where the houses crowd in and shut out the sky. I had been in the East End for several weeks by this time, but was still unable to stomach the horrendous stench of the place. In these confined parts, where the roads ran with excrement and rats larger than some cats I've seen dashed through the shadows, the smell was almost overpowering.

It was also very dark. The only light came from the moon high overhead. But that was little more than a pallid, sickly yellow semi-circle streaked with cloud. My senses were heightened by excitement and honed by my many previous nocturnal adventures. I could hear the couple a few yards ahead of me, their breathing and the few words they exchanged.

They stopped and so did I. I heard the rustle of clothing. From the shadows, I could just make out two indistinct shapes. Mary Ann was leaning against the wall, her hands above her lowered head. Then came a few muffled groans. Words of encouragement from Mary Ann followed by a low growl. More rustling of clothes, a giggle, and then footsteps retreating along the passageway. Very quietly, I slipped my bag to the floor, unlatched the clasp and withdrew an eight-inch blade.

The cloud over the moon broke, and for a moment, the cobbled lane was lit up. I could see the woman adjusting her skirts. She looked up as the sliver of moonlight cast its tawdry gleam over walls wet with rain that had fallen earlier. I caught a glimpse of the side of Mary Ann's pale, pock-marked face. She had no idea I was there until I grabbed her from behind. With my left hand at her throat, I pulled her head back and drew the edge of my knife over her skin. As it slid from left to right, I pulled the metal back towards me, scything into flesh, right down to the vertebrae. I have no recollection of the journey from Buck's Row, the alley in which I had dispatched my first whore, to my lodgings on Wentworth Street. No matter how hard I try, I cannot visualise anything from the moment Mary Ann's body slid to the floor until I found myself washing my hands and face in a bowl of water I had filled before leaving the room hours earlier. I recall gazing at my reflection in the tiny chipped mirror I used to shave with, which stood propped up behind the bowl. My blondish hair was plastered to my forehead, cheeks flushed. My eyes peered back at me, unnaturally black, the pupils huge. I glanced at the red water, and for an instant I was no longer in the filthy, low-ceilinged room over a corn-chandler's shop in Whitechapel. I was a small boy again, bent over a desk in my father's study, my mother's crimson handkerchief an inch from my nose. I found my face in the mirror again and produced a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat's.

I could not sleep. Instead I sat close to the window, listening intently to the sounds of the neighbourhood awakening to a new day, waiting for the first indications that the prostitute's body had been found. Around six o'clock I heard a commotion, the shriek of a police whistle. Checking myself in the mirror, I straightened my tie, pulled on my hat, tucked my sketchpad under my arm and stepped out into the breaking dawn.

There were two men in black suits crouched down beside the body and a policeman standing a few inches away from the dead woman's head. The officer looked up as I turned into Buck's Lane, and as I approached the two men beside Mary Ann's corpse turned to me in unison.

'And what can I do for you?' the policeman asked. 'This is a crime scene. Were you not stopped by one of my men?'

I produced a piece of folded paper from my jacket pocket and handed it to the officer. It was a letter of introduction from Archibald. 'I'm a newspaper artist,' I said. 'Harry Tumbril.'

The policeman glanced at the letter and sniffed. 'All right,' he mumbled. 'Keep out of everyone's way.'

I nodded and strode along the side of the narrow lane to get a better view. They had turned the woman over on to her back. The gash in her neck looked unnaturally red in the morning light. The blood at her throat had dried. It was now thickly encrusted, like a crimson rope or some bizarre necklace. Her skirt was up and her undergarments rent. I could see two deep cuts along her torso.

'How long has she been dead?' I heard the policeman addressing one of the other two men.

'A few hours, I would say. She's as stiff as a board.'

I pulled out my sketchpad and started to draw. 'My God! The poor unfortunate young woman,' Archibald exclaimed as he held the pad at arm's length. We were standing in his office on Pall Mall. 'But that said, these are quite wonderful, Harry.' He looked me up and down, his face full of admiration. 'It's just… I don't know, old man. It's so damned hard to imagine what sort of bastard would do this, don't you think?'

I nodded. I was beginning to feel tired. Glancing at a clock on the wall, I noticed it was almost midday. I had not slept for more than twenty-four hours. The huge excitement I had felt, and which had kept me going, was fading. I still felt exhilarated, that much is irrefutable, but the heart-pounding thrill of standing beside those foolish plodders in Buck's Row as I sketched my victim and they pondered the manner of her death was beginning to give way to fatigue.

'So what do you say we pop along to the Reform? Have a glass or two?'

I shook my head. 'Not today, thank you, Archibald. Have to say I'm a little weary.'

He frowned and then his expression slid into a smile. 'Quite understand,' he said, and placed a hand on my shoulder. I shuddered involuntarily, but Archibald did not seem to notice. Squeezing my shrinking flesh, he added, 'You get along home. Have a good rest, Harry. I'll get these pictures into the evening edition.'

I felt uncommonly tired. Once I'd reached Wentworth Street I simply collapsed on to my bed and slipped into a dreamless, undisturbed sleep. When I awoke it was dark outside and quiet. I pulled my watch out and was staggered to see it was almost ten in the evening.

Now, if you'll please excuse me, Sonia, I must explain a few more things before I proceed with my story. I need to say a word or two about how an artist works. For I realise I have been steaming ahead, forgetting that you are but a simple woman who knows nothing of such things.

The fact is, an artist must employ a structure. By this I mean that for a work to be successfully executed, there have to be rules, guidelines. There must be discipline. Without this, art is mere anarchy and therefore valueless. I would go so far as to say that what distinguishes a true artist such as myself from a mere dauber is the way in which one such as I approaches each piece: with rigour and intelligence. And this was certainly how I approached my masterpiece. I had decided before initiating a single stroke of the knife that I would kill four women, and had developed a detailed plan of campaign. I had the names of my victims and a sizeable dossier on each of them gathered from weeks of research. I knew their movements and their habits. I knew their associates, and I knew a fair amount about the background of each of the ladies. I also knew exactly how I was going to arrange the representation of their corpses on canvas and what the incidental details captured in the pictures would be. Lastly, I had selected the colours I would be using. I had prepared the paints and the canvases. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Now, having said all that, art, be it painting, sculpture, music, even the written word, is not an automatic process. It is not a rigid, inflexible thing. It is organic, alive, ever-changing, vital and unpredictable. The crucial element of the unexpected is what makes the role of creator so satisfying. So, I had my plans… only to see them dissolve and be washed away by the irresistible force of spontaneity. Perhaps I was overwhelmed by the thrill of it all. Maybe I had begun to loosen my creative control. It doesn't matter. The simple truth is that as I woke up in that fleapit of a room I felt the unquenchable desire to kill again… and right away. I deliberated over my disguise. It was essential to get it just right, not only for my own protection but because I wanted everything to be correct and precise in order to satisfy my artistic sensibilities. I had procured a black wig which fitted snugly over my own hair. I exchanged my usual suitably ragged top hat for a fashionable brown deerstalker. I applied colour to my face to darken my naturally pale complexion, and glued on, with great delicacy, a black-and-grey-flecked beard and moustache. Looking in the mirror over the wash bowl, I spent a few extra moments perfecting the line of the beard around my lower lip and positioning the deerstalker just so. At length, smiling at my reflection, I felt ready for anything.

Elizabeth Stride was to be my second victim. She was forty-seven, five foot tall and plump. A mother of three, she was a stereotypical Whitechapel whore who was fond of her drink and had ended up separated from her husband, estranged from her children, and living in a doss house in Spitalfields. I knew just where she would be that night. Just where she was every Tuesday and Thursday evening: on the corner of Hanbury Street and Spital Street.

I walked north along Osborn Street. A hansom passed me, splashing water over my boots, but I barely noticed. Turning into Hanbury Street, I saw Elizabeth some fifty yards ahead of me. She was leaning against a brick wall. She had a small bag in her hands and was swinging it: left, right, left, right. Coming closer, I could hear her voice. She was singing something I half-recognised from the Pav, a silly musical hall ditty. ' Oh! Mr Porter, what shall I do? I want to go to Birmingham. And they're taking me on to Crewe. Send me back to London, as quickly as you can. Oh! Mr Porter, what a silly girl I am! '

'Good evening,' I said.

She seemed startled. My approach must have been quieter than I had realised. But then I could see she was drunk and caught the tang of gin on her breath. She pushed herself away from the wall and gave me a practised solicitous smile, an action she could perform no matter how drunk she was. 'Well, good evenin' to you, guvna,' she slurred. 'And what may I be doin' ya for?'

I gave her a brief encouraging smile. 'Well, I have a vivid imagination.'

'Lovely,' she replied, and, taking my hand, pulled me along a few paces until I found myself in a narrow alley that stank of fish and cabbage. 'Over 'ere,' Elizabeth said, and I felt her fingers slip from mine. I could only just make out her shape in the gloom. But then her silhouette appeared with a sallow light behind it from a gas lamp set in a tenement window.

It started to rain and I felt water spatter my face. 'Over 'ere, darlin',' I heard the woman say, and her fingers closed around my privates. I gasped and felt a sudden wave of nausea. I reached my right hand into my jacket and extracated my favourite knife.

Elizabeth glanced down, saw the steel glinting in the dim light. 'Oh, no!' she mumbled, and then her face froze as I covered her mouth with my left hand and slid the metal between her legs. Pulling the blade away, I spun her round and brought the knife up to her throat, ran it across her neck and let her slump back as her warm blood ran over my fingers and down my wrist.

I had plenty of time, having decided days earlier exactly what I was going to do with the material at my feet. In the event, it did not take as long as I had anticipated. I made the incisions across Elizabeth's face, cutting the shape of a triangle on each cheek. I then set about the torso, opening her up and removing her womb. I draped a length of her intestine over her left shoulder and took out the right kidney. Pocketing this last item, I checked that no one was close by. I heard nothing. Standing up from my crouching position, I stretched, releasing the tension in my back. It ached rather. Removing a piece of chalk from my trouser pocket, I walked over to the brick wall a couple of yards from where Elizabeth Stride's feet lay. On the wall I wrote a message: 'The Juwes are not the men that will be blamed for nothing'. Stepping back, I surveyed my evening's work in the pale glow cast from the tenement.

I was back on Osborn Street in a moment. Pulling my hat low over my brow, I strode along the wet street, heading south towards Whitechapel Road. Within two minutes, I was at the corner of Wentworth Street, turning towards my lodgings on the left no more than twenty yards down the road.

Two police officers were walking towards me. I don't know why, but I overreacted. Perhaps it was simply the fact that I had just dispatched a woman and ripped her open. Or maybe it was because I had one of her kidneys in my pocket, oozing blood into the fabric of my coat. I turned as casually as I could and walked back towards Osborn Street, then, dodging the passing carriages, I reached the far side and afforded myself a glance backwards. The policemen were nowhere to be seen.

I was on Old Montague Street. I knew it well from my researches. Twenty yards beyond the busy junction with Osborn Street there was a narrow lane on the left that led to Finch Street. I ducked into the inky dark, letting the sounds of the late-night revellers, the braying of horses and the splashing of water on brickwork fall behind me.

Ten yards along the lane, I could barely see my hand when I held it in front of me. I crouched on the ground close to the left-hand wall of the lane. Withdrawing the bloodied knife from my coat, I quickly gouged a hole in the filthy wet dirt. I used my fingers to scoop out the soil, then plunged my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the grey kidney. It felt like a fat sausage before it is placed in the pan. I let it fall into the soil and then used both hands to shovel the dirt back over it. I patted the ground flat, wiped my palms together and rose to my feet.

I walked back the way I had come, guided by the widening funnel of light between the lane's brick walls. Emerging on to Osborn Street, I kept my head down. A voice startled me. 'Watch out!' Glancing up, I was just in time to see a hansom cab bearing down on me. I reacted with amazing alacrity, stepping back and missing the oncoming horse's hoofs with barely an inch to spare. Water splashed my trousers and boots and I almost tripped over the high kerb.

Now, let me ask you this, dear lady: do you believe in serendipity? I always have. It is a mercurial force, but one that is nevertheless very real. Well, whether or not you believe it to be a part of the flux of Nature, I myself experienced a serendipitous moment as I caught my balance and steadied myself while the hansom rushed past me and the cabbie bellowed a malediction. The third woman on my list, Catherine Eddowes, was standing directly opposite me, on the far side of the street, soliciting for business.

Catherine, you may remember, worked at the Pav. She was, you will recall, the woman your husband was with the night I first met him. She was dressed in green and black, and on top of her long auburn hair wore a black bonnet trimmed with green velvet. She was clearly drunk, swaying unsteadily on the narrow pavement. I watched her as she tried her luck with a passer by. When the gentlemen rejected her, she swore at him, her voice muffled and lisping thanks to the fact that most of her upper teeth were missing.

Sauntering across the road, I stopped a few feet from her. She stank of booze. With a subtle nod, I indicated she should follow me down a narrow lane a few yards away along the street, another of the thousands of dark alleyways that splintered and dissected Whitechapel.

''Ang on, mithta,' came Catherine Eddowes's lisp from behind me. 'Let's thee ya money firtht.'

I turned slowly and she came right up to me, the gin stink oozing out of her. I looked down at her dirty face, a strand of frizzy hair escaping the bonnet to hang down over her eyes. She blew the straying hair away. I gave her a brief smile, pulled a shilling from my pocket and held it out in the palm of my hand. She gave me a furtive look and snatched the coin, before grabbing my collar. Giggling, she leaned back against the slimy brickwork, pulling me towards her.

'For thith, you get thpechial treatment, like,' she whispered and started to lower herself towards my groin.

'No,' I hissed. 'Up.' And swivelled her round to face the wall.

'Whatever you wanth, dar…'

The blade made a squelching sound as it split open her throat. Blood sprayed out of her, hitting the wall. A few drops caught me in the face and got into my eyes. I cursed and let her fall at my feet. Her bonnet slid to one side. Bending down, I turned her face towards me. Her eyes were glazed over and her mouth was moving silently. That was when I first saw the light, at the very edge of my vision. I spun round and could just make out the figure of a policeman holding his lantern at arm's length. The light from it illuminated his face – high cheekbones, bushy brows – his helmet with its silver badge, his voluminous cape revealed under the arm holding aloft the lantern. He saw me. I turned and ran.

There was a low brick wall at the end of the lane. The place was so dark I only saw the wall when I was almost upon it. Under normal circumstances, scrambling up the wet bricks would have been difficult, but I was fiercely energised, my heart racing, every muscle tensed. I heard the policeman blow his whistle, its shrill sound ricocheting from the walls around me. His lantern bobbed around, sending patches of light sliding here and there. I could see his silhouette as he crouched down beside Catherine Eddowes. In less than a second I was over the wall. I could hear his footsteps pursuing me now. He had reached the wall. 'Stop!' he screamed. 'Stop! Murderer!' He blew his whistle again. This time the sound was twice as loud. I heard voices, the beat of running feet, men answering the summons and looking for me. I sped off into the darkness.

Something crunched underfoot. I tripped, but just managed to maintain my balance. My outstretched hands came into contact with a large wooden object: a barrel of some sort. It fell to one side and clattered away. The whistle sounded again, and I sped through the narrow opening at the end of the alley.

A group of rowdy fellows was passing by. They were all extremely inebriated, swaying this way and that. I ducked past them and they remained completely oblivious to the commotion coming from the alley behind me. Sliding into a shadowy doorway, I gulped for air. It felt like the first full breath I had taken since slitting the throat of Catherine Eddowes. I noticed blood on my shirt. Pulling my jacket together at the front, I succeeded in covering up the crimson patch, and with my handkerchief wiped away the blood from around my eyes and drops of the stuff from about my mouth. I tasted a speck of it on my fingertip, relishing the iron tang. It was a flavour redolent of what the common herd would call 'sin'. But as you are, of course, by now aware, dear lady, I have little respect for prudish taboos.

I did not have long to linger. I peered out of the doorway and noticed that there were a number of people around. I decided to cross the street, and was about to turn down a narrow lane when I heard that dreaded sound again – the policeman's infernal whistle. I turned towards it involuntarily and there he was, at the end of the alley opposite, staring straight at me. I saw his mouth move and knew what he was about to yell.

'Murderer!' The bellow cut through the shuffling footsteps of drunks and silly giggles. After a second's pause I ran as fast as I could down an adjacent lane.

It was dark, as are all those lanes and byways, the alleys and brick passageways and foul-smelling gaps between tenements. I was becoming heartily sick of the place… and the zeal of its local constabulary! A narrow strip of light told me I was heading towards a main thoroughfare, but I had no idea where I was. I ran on and finally burst into the light of Whitechapel Road. I glanced back and, to my horror, saw two police lanterns bobbing along, approaching me fast.

I dashed left, past a shop, and then saw a chained-up door with next to that an opening above which hung a sign METROPOLITAN DISTRICT RAILWAY, WHITECHAPEL AND MILE END. I ducked inside, leaped over the gate to the platform and sped along an echoing tunnel straight on to the platform.

I had never before been in an underground railway station, and if the circumstances had been different I think I would have been quite fascinated. But not at that moment. Without breaking stride, I sped along the platform, barging past the few people waiting for a train. Some way along the platform, I heard the loudest sound I had ever experienced in my life. I thought for a moment that the earth was caving in and ready to fall around my ears; that by some great misfortune I had decided to dive into this subterranean world just as Whitechapel Station was about to collapse. But it was nothing so dramatic. It was merely a train roaring into the station. Like a bellowing, trumpeting demon from the pages of a horror story, it shot out of the tunnel in a burst of light and steam and smoke and fumes.

I had no idea if the enthusiastic members of H Division of the Metropolitan Police Force were still hot on my tail, and I was not about to wait around and see for myself. The train stopped and I jumped into the nearest compartment which happened to be First Class.

It was empty and I threw myself into a nearby seat, ducking down as best I could. The train started to move off and I felt a wave of relief sweep over me. Forcing my heartbeat to slow, I took deep breaths and looked around my new surroundings. The compartment was quite beautiful: brass fittings, mirrors on the walls, gas lights at the end of each row of seats. Then I heard the door at the end of the compartment start to open.

I thought I was immune to surprise, but when I saw the blue cape of a policeman appear at the edge of the door as it opened inwards, and then a domed helmet, I was confounded. I sprang up from the comfortable green leather seat and propelled myself along the central aisle towards the other end of the compartment. Reaching the door, I yanked on its handle. It gave and I plunged into the cool and the noise and the fumes and found myself on a narrow metal bridge between two carriages. I slammed the door behind me, jumped across the coupling and opened a door into the next compartment. It was another First Class carriage. The train lurched and I almost fell as I slammed the door shut behind me. There were just two people in the compartment. I ran along the aisle, hearing the door behind me open. Using the seat backs for additional impetus, I hurtled along the centre of the compartment with no thought for where I was going or what I hoped to achieve.

Standing on the footplate between the two carriages, I looked down and saw the walls slithering away. I sensed the vehicle starting to slow. I glanced back to the carriage I had just exited. There were two policemen running towards me, halfway along it and swaying with the movement of the train, grasping at the seats to steady themselves as I had done.

I stretched my hand towards the handle of the door to the next compartment, pulled down on it and pushed. It would not budge. I felt a spasm of excitement rush along my spine and smiled. I was enjoying myself. But what to do? I could run back and attack the policemen, but it was risky. Two against one. I had a knife, but they had truncheons. It would be a matter of percentages, and to be honest, dear lady, I was wondering if my luck was slipping through my fingers. I looked down again at the floor of the tunnel. The train had slowed considerably now, and as we approached a station light appeared in the tunnel. I turned to face the wall. There was a gap of perhaps a yard to either side of the train. Would it be enough? If I jumped, I could be caught under the wheels of the speeding train. If I did not, I would have to fight and would almost certainly lose. My heart was racing. I had never been in such a dangerous position and it was absolutely intoxicating. I knew then that if I survived, this would be a moment I would relive in my mind over and over again.

I took a deep breath and stared back at the police officers. The one in the lead – I was sure he was the man who had stumbled upon Catherine Eddowes – was almost at the door. I could see his eager face lathered with sweat, his truncheon raised. Turned back to the sight of the ground rushing by under my feet, my mind was filled with the roar of the train. Smoke blurred my vision. I took a step forward and jumped.