Penny Dreadful: The Whitechapel Murders or the mysteries...

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1.
THE MURDER.
About ten minutes to five o’clock on Tuesday morning, the 8th of August, a man who lived at 47, George-yard-buildings, Whitechapel, made an awful discovery.
He was coming downstairs to go to his work, and when he reached the first-floor landing he found a woman lying in a pool of blood.
He was utterly terrified at the sight, hurried out, and at once informed a constable who was on his beat in the vicinity of George-yard, and a doctor from Brick-lane was communicated with and promptly arrived.
He made a critical examination of the woman and pronounced life extinct, giving it as his opinion that she had been brutally murdered, there being knife wounds on her breast, stomach, and abdomen.
There were thirty-nine wounds in various parts of the body, which was that of a woman apparently between thirty-five and forty years of age, about five feet three inches in height, complexion and hair dark; with a dark green skirt, a brown petticoat, a long black jacket, and a black bonnet.
The woman was not known to any of the occupants of the tenements on the landing on which the deceased was, and no disturbance of any kind was heard during the night.
Whether the perpetrator of this and other subsequent murders will ever be discovered it is impossible now to say; but this, it was found afterwards, was what had happened.
Between two and three o’clock on the morning of the murder a working-man was going by George-yard-buildings when he saw a man, with a dogskin cap drawn over his eyes, and wearing bushy whiskers, speaking in whispers to a woman who was in the shadow of the wall.
They were close to the arched entrance to George-yard.
Presently the woman seemed to yield to his solicitations, and the two passed in.
It was a dark and rather tempestuous night, and the man entered beneath the archway himself to obtain shelter and to light his pipe.
He had not been two minutes in the place when he heard an awful and piercing, though subdued, shriek from the interior of the building.
Rushing across the yard he entered the house, the door of which was always left open, as the dwellers were in the habit of coming in and out at all hours of the night.
Dashing upstairs an awful spectacle met his view.
On the landing was a woman lying down bleeding, as it were, at every pore.
By the side of her head was a small dark lantern, while over her stood a man, or rather a monster, with, in one hand a long knife, in the other a penknife, and with both these instruments he was hacking away at the poor body.
Hearing footsteps, the man rose from his half-kneeling posture, and turning round showed a demoniacal pair of eyes and a face gleaming with what appeared ferocity.
"Ha, ha!" he cried, waving his hand about as if to deal the indiscreet witness a fatal blow. "What do you here? Die the death!"
But the man, too terrified to defend himself, feeling sure that he would be murdered if he remained there, beat a precipitate retreat, and fled up the street, crying "Murder!"
He was so fearfully frightened, however, that after the first fierce panic he remained silent and fled.
But not unseen or unpursued.
The man in the dogskin cap came out, and seeing which way the other had fled pursued him.
We have said the night was dark and tempestuous, but still the man behind could just make out the terror-stricken fugitive.
He commenced a hot pursuit.
Both were evidently fleet and powerful men, and the pace at which they went was something tremendous.
The fugitive appeared to know the neighbourhood well, and dashed up narrow lanes, through tortuous alleys, until he gave the other the slip.
It was long after before he appeared on the scene again.
Why he did not will be subsequently fully explained.
Then the pursuer, who had no wish to attract the notice of the police, relaxed his speed, and drew his coat collar up over the lower part of his face.
He then stalked away like the incarnate spirit of murder taking her walks abroad.
He left no trace behind, and until the light of subsequent events opened the eyes of the police and the public it was at first looked upon as a very ordinary murder, though accompanied by details of unusual ferocity and atrocity.
The perplexing feature in connection with the outrage was the number of injuries on the woman’s body.
That the stabs were from a weapon shaped very much like a bayonet was almost established without doubt.
The wound over the heart was alone sufficient to kill, and death must have occurred as soon as it was inflicted.
It appeared to all that unless the perpetrator was a madman, or suffering to an unusual extent from drink delirium, no tangible explanation could be given of the reason for inflicting the other thirty-eight injuries, some of which almost seemed as if they were due to thrusts and cuts with a penknife.
On the other hand, if the lesser wounds were given before the one fatal injury the cries of the deceased must have been heard by those who at the time of the outrage were sleeping within a few yards of the spot where the deed was committed.
It was possible for one shrill cry not to have been noticed, but a succession of shrieks must have awakened even tired and exhausted working-men and women.
Now, this was the problem that had to be solved by the police and the coroner.
The first question was of identity, and here at once, at the very outset, there occurred a difficulty.
She was so hacked and disfigured that she was claimed by half a dozen people before her real name was discovered.
The very way in which she was discovered rendered the case doubly mysterious.
One witness who lived in the buildings declared that she was out with some friends on the night of Bank Holiday.
She returned shortly before two in the morning and afterwards left the house to try and get some supper at the chandler’s shop.
The stairs were then perfectly clear of any obstacle, and were the same on her return.
She and her husband heard no noise; but at ten
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she was told that a murder had been committed in the buildings.
There was no light on the staircase.
The spot where the body was found had, this woman said, been pointed out to her. She was quite sure it was not there at two o’clock as she went in, as it was in the wide part of the staircase, and quite in the dark.
A cabdriver deposed that on Tuesday morning he returned home from work at half-past three. On his way up the stairs he saw somebody lying on the first landing. It was not an unusual thing to see, so he passed on and went to bed. He did not know whether the person was dead or alive when he passed.
Medical and other evidence was given, and the inquest was adjourned, but not before a clue was given.
Her name was, or at all events she called herself, Martha Turner.
She got her living as a hawker, and had lived with a hawker of the name of Turner for nine years, but she got into the habit of staying out late, going he knew not where, and also took to drink.
On the evening previous to the tragedy she went out with a girl known as Pearly Poll, and made a tour round the public-houses. In one of these they met two soldiers, a corporal and a private, and with these they began drinking.
As usually happens on such occasions there was quarrelling, and one of the soldiers struck Pearly Poll. The quarrel was not a very serious one, for the whole four went out together.
They parted just by George-yard, a long, dark thoroughfare; Martha Turner went up this place with one of the soldiers.
This was the last ever seen alive of Martha Turner by Pearly Poll, and the theory of the police was that she was forcibly dragged up to the place where she was found so brutally ill-treated, and so fearfully wounded.
The first thing to do was to try and find the soldiers who were in her company, and to do this it was necessary to discover what non-commissioned officers were out that day; none but corporals and sergeants are allowed to wear side arms—and for this purpose application was made to the officer in command at the Tower.
He at once gave every facility for the purpose, and here Pearly Poll was confronted with every non-commissioned officer and private who had leave of absence at the time of the outrage.
They were paraded at the back of the Tower unseen by the public, of whom, at that time, there was a large number frequenting the fine old historic structure.
Pearly Poll was in no way embarrassed, but, placing her arms akimbo, glanced at the men with the air of a commanding officer.
"Can you," asked the inspector, "see either of the men you saw with the woman now dead?"
We can fancy the feelings of these men, dependent on the word of such a creature as this was.
She simply shook her head, but the police would not accept this form of negative.
"Can you identify anyone?" she was asked.
"He aint here," exclaimed Pearly Poll, with true feminine emphasis.
Again pressed, she was very decided on this point, and the men were then dismissed; while the two men upon whom a faint shadow of suspicion had rested, were considerably relieved at their innocence being declared.
As soon as the murder was known the suspected corporal was interviewed by the police, and questioned.
He had his bayonet when on leave at the time of the outrage; but this he at once produced, and no trace of blood was discovered upon it.
His clothing, too, was also examined, and upon it there was no incriminating blood-stain.
After the parade Adjutant Cotton, the officer in command, stated that all the men were now entirely exonerated. Indeed, the men were themselves most anxious to afford every facility to the police, and gave all the information in their power to assist the officers of justice in their investigation.
Now began the excitement.
As long as the neighbours believed the police had a clue they were excited, but yet hopeful.
But now the emotion surged up like the rising of pent-up waters.
People began to talk of that other murder on the previous Bank Holiday almost on the same spot.
On this occasion a woman, who was never identified, was found killed by having a steel or iron instrument thrust into her body.
This crime passed off very quietly.
It was put down as a drunken freak of some of the nameless ruffians who infest Whitechapel.
But now this was remembered with a shudder. It remained undiscovered, and there was a general fear that this would turn out to be an equal mystery.
There was a very general idea, too, that Pearly Poll was a dangerous person to trust to. She bamboozled the police into the idea that she could give them a clue to the Whitechapel murder. It was done by a corporal and a private in the Grenadier Guards in the Tower on Bank Holiday.
But her corporal turned out to be a private with two good conduct stripes on his arm, a spotless character, with an irrefragable alibi. The other man was shown to be equally innocent, and the police had been fooled all the time in following up a false clue.
It is always dangerous to trust for identification to the evidence of an ignorant, excitable woman of Pearly Poll’s class—in fact, her testimony at best was never a pearl of great price.
There were in the neighbourhood whole columns of industrious and respectable working men and women who have to live near their work; but there were also rookeries where dwelt evil men and evil women who gained a precarious existence by crime and vice.
The police were loudly blamed for not searching these slums—it being generally believed that the guilty party, or parties, had got away during the search for the soldiers.
Men began to converse in whispers as to what manner of man could have committed this and probably the other crime.
Some very ugly but obvious motives still explain the existence of even such hideous crimes as murder, and where these murders can be traced, where the incitements of gain, or revenge, or loot, alarmed so its own danger, are found to explain the capital offence, no plea of insanity will suffice to be remove the taint of crime from madness with such method in it.
In the case of these two murders no motive was assigned for the committal of such an atrocity.
One theory was that the assassin was some impassioned being who thought he had some injury from the sex and class to avenge.
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But how explain the dreadful mutilation with which the outrages were accompanied?
Brutality in the shape of bloodthirsty hacking was an aggravation for which English society, with all its sins on its head, declines to be responsible.
When stories appear in the newspapers of atrocities on dead bodies we can generally boast that they are committed in a different latitude, and belong to a lower civilisation than ours.
Such reflections as those naturally caused people at once to set down these atrocities to the credit of some ill-bred and ill-nourished foreigner from the lowest dens of vice in Europe.
So in Whitechapel, there was arising a murmur of ugly foreboding for some of the foreign element there.
The police were equal to the occasion, and warned foreigners, especially Jews, to keep away from the scene of the tragedy.
Then rumours of the silliest kind were beginning to take an odious precision.
To hate the Jew for his religion, to call him "mis-believer, cut-throat dog," and spit upon his Jewish gabardine, even metaphorically, is bad enough, but to imply his readiness to murder, worse.
Every precaution was taken against any outburst, especially as the excitement continued increasing.
There were many visitors to George-yard-buildings with the rather morbid purpose of seeing the place where the deceased was murdered.
Here there was still a large surface of the stone flags crimson-stained.
It was at the spot where the blood oozed from the poor creature’s heart.
The police, nevertheless, regarded it as little short of marvellous that no dweller in this model block heard any disturbance.
Mr. Francis Hewett, the superintendent of the dwellings, who with his wife occupied a sleeping apartment at nearly right angles with the place where the dead body lay, procured a foot-rule and measured the distance of the sleeping apartment from where the dead body lay; it was exactly twelve feet.
"And we never heard a cry," remarked Mr. Hewett.
Mrs. Hewett remarked that early in the evening she did hear a single cry of "Murder!" It echoed through the building, but it did not emanate from there.
"But," explained Mr. and Mrs. Hewett, in a breath, "the district round here is rather rough, and cries ‘Murder!’ are of frequent, if not nightly, occurrence in the district."
It was further explained that there had been several rows in the immediate neighhourbood, especially on the previous Wednesday, when it was asserted some allusions to the forthcoming crime were made.
Extra police were, in consequence, put on.
Mr. and Mrs. Reeves, who returned at two o’clock in the morning on Bank Holiday, occupied the top of the end of the George-yard-buildings. They pointed from the balcony outside these rooms the exact place where, on the night of the murder, the terrible shrieks were said to have proceeded.
This balcony overlooks a part of Wentworth-street and George-street, and here low habitations and common lodging-houses abound of an olden time.
Mrs. Reeves said that it was between eleven and twelve o’clock when the first row occurred, and calls for help began. She and her husband could see, when they went out on the balcony, the crowd by the closed iron gates, and the dead wall at Letterworth-buildings in George-street.
When that row had subsided she and her husband went indoors again, and as there was some terrible screaming they went out on to the balcony a second time.
The row was then proceeding in Wentworth-street, which was at right angles with George-street. The crowd moved out of sight. Shortly before one there were again the dreadful shrieks and cries of murder and she and her husband went out on to the balcony a third time.
This time they saw that there were two rows going on, one in Wentworth-street and the other in George-street.
The row in George-street was not many doors from the house where the murdered woman and Pearly Poll sometimes lodged; whilst the row in Wentworth-street was not far from Angel-alley, which the woman Pearly Poll is said to have admitted she visited that evening.
These two rows were of a very formidable and noisy character.
The crowds round surged backwards and forwards a great deal. At last the police came and dispersed the crowd. This, however, did not conclude the riotous proceedings of the night.
At two o’clock the screams this time were very piercing. The crowd, however, seemed to consist only of a few roughs, who were moving in the direction of George-yard. However, the noise soon lessened in volume.
The further evidence only proved that she had been left by her husband many years before; he found her drunken habits intolerable. And then there came forward the hawker who had lived with her for nine years, up to within three weeks of the murder. He had left her once or twice because of the drink.
He saw her last alive on the Saturday before Bank Holiday. He gave her eighteenpence to purchase some goods for sale. She used to get drunk whenever she had money to do so. She often stayed out late at night. She had no regular companions. Witness did not know that she was acquainted with a woman who goes by the name of Pearly Poll.
Witness was, as a rule, a man of sober habits, and he agreed well with the deceased as long as she did not drink. He then left her. He had known her to stop out all night.
She generally stated that she had been seized with fits, and had been taken to the station-house. She was subject to fits.
The landlady of No. 4, Hare-place, Commercial-road, had identified the body as that of Martha Turner. She did not consider her a woman of intemperate habits, but she did prefer a glass of ale to a cup of tea. She owed her rent, and went away without notice. All she left behind was two mattresses.
After a word from Pearly Poll, who adhered to her statement about the soldiers, the jury returned a verdict to the effect that the deceased had been wilfully, feloniously, and brutally murdered by some person or persons unknown.
 
CHAPTER II.
A DARK MYSTERY.
ON a cold night in March there appeared about Whitechapel a singular being.
He was about the ordinary stature, stout, and had
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on a dogskin cap. He had large bushy whiskers, and wore a heavy shoddy cloak with a hood.
He associated with no one, but some hours after dark he would appear out of some secret den and glide along the streets like a ghost. He never spoke to any person.
There was something so strange, mysterious, and uncanny about him that men and women too avoided him.
When he occasionally went anywhere to read, or to eat and drink, he drew his cowl over his head so as to conceal his face.
Nobody interfered with him. There were plenty of criminal haunts where a man was perfectly safe from scrutiny.
As long as you paid your money no questions were ever asked.
No matter from what he was hiding—murder, robbery, or any other crime—it was no business of anybody’s.
In the haunts he went to—low public-houses and kitchens of fourpenny lodging-houses—nearly everyone was in hiding for something.
It would be very inconvenient to ask questions.
And so the man took his silent refreshment, and, having finished, went out.
On the night of the mysterious murder of the woman, almost on the same spot as the murder we have just recorded, he was about, as usual, gliding like a ghost, looking furtively to the right and left when he turned a corner, and going on without hesitation.
Very often, if he saw a policeman coming, he would dive into quarters where the dim yellow flames of the not too numerous lamps only rendered the darkness of the night more gloomy.
Such passages as Edward-street, near by Hanbury and Princess-streets, Flower and Dean-street, between Brick-lane and Commercial-street, which in daylight only strike one as very unwholesome and dirty thoroughfares, appear unutterably forlorn and dismal in the darkness of night.
Into one of these the man would dive, though dismal-looking men were so common the police seldom interfered.
On this night the mystery had good reason to notice this.
He was concealed in a doorway, and saw from an alley in one of those uninviting recesses a miserable specimen of a man—hollow-chested, haggard, and dirty—shuffle hurriedly into the wider street, and, crossing to the opposite side, dive into another recess, where he was instantly lost to view.
No constable would have thought of interfering with him, nor would there have been any excuse for accosting him; and yet his ragged clothes of some dark hue might have been saturated in blood, invisible in the depressing yellow shade of the flickering gas jets.
In any one of these dark and filthy passages a human being’s life might be every night sacrificed were the blow dealt with the terrible suddenness and fierceness which characterised the two first homicides.
No matter what the force and energy of the police, they would fail to capture the slayers.
In the immediate neighbourhood of St. Mary’s Church a wide entry presented a deep cavern of Stygian darkness, into which no lamp shone, and where, for aught a passer-by at that hour could discover, a corpse might lie, and from which—such is its position—a murderer might, it possessed of coolness, easily pass unobserved.
In a squalid thoroughfare between Hanbury-street and Whitechapel some houses had been apparently just pulled down, the space being now waste ground enclosed by wooden palings.
This unilluminated spot was separated by a house or two from an alley which, at a point some yards from the street, turned at right angles apparently towards the unoccupied space mentioned.
Into the mouth of this passage a slatternly woman, her face half-hidden in a shawl, which formed her only head-dress, thrust her head, and in a shrill and angry voice shrieked—
"Tuppy!"
The cry was answered in a few seconds by the appearance of an evil-looking man with a ragged black beard, who, in reply to an impatient question of "Where is she?" muttered, in a sullen tone, "Round there," at the same time jerking his thumb backwards towards the alley.
"Well come ‘long home, then. I aint a-goin’ to wait for she," replied the woman, who, with the dark man, soon disappeared round the corner of the street.
He waited for a few minutes, and then, seeing no sign of the presence of a third person, went on his way.
The light from the street was so dim that there was no possibility of recognising the features of the man and woman, and certainly either might have borne traces of crime, which would, however, have attracted no attention.
The man passed on his way, nor halted now until he reached a very narrow lane, where, under a low lodging-house, there was one of those kitchens where there is a large fire with hot water always ready, and where a man can cook anything from a red herring to a steak.
The man passed down the rude stairs, and, entering the kitchen, selected a corner near the fire, where he was in almost complete darkness.
In all these kitchens there were volunteer waiters and servants who will run errands, cook, or do anything else, for a consideration.
The man in the dog-skin cap summoned one of these, and placed before him a lump of steak and before himself a flask of brandy.
The man, without a word, went to the huge red, furnace-like fire, and returned shortly with the meat done to a turn, better than many a professional cook could have done it.
He also brought a pannikin of water, so that he might drink his brandy.
Putting his hand into his wallet he brought out a lump of bread and then coolly ate his meat, looking neither to the right nor the left.
He was surrounded on that Whit-Monday evening by men and women of a very low kind. There were street-walkers, their friends, and a sprinkling of working-men, who liked the free-and-easy style of these meetings.
We have said it was the evening of the Whit-Monday on which the dreadful murder had been committed, when a woman had a stake or an iron rod thrust through her.
"It’s the wickedest, cruellest death as ever was," said a flashy girl of two or three-and twenty. "I’d skin the fellow alive."
"I tell you what, Pearly Poll," said the man to whom she addressed herself, and who was popularly known as Leather Apron, "you’ve got to catch him first. The fellow is as cruel and cunning as a fox, I’ll swear."
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He was a small and not very feeble little Jew, a shoemaker by trade. Why he was called Leather Apron was more than anyone could explain, though in that neighbourhood most men had nicknames.
"He must be caught—he shall!" cried the girl, irately. "I’d kill him myself if I could fetch him—but he must be fetched."
"What is it all about?" asked a deep, hoarse voice, as of one with a severe cold.
They looked up and saw that the man with the dogskin-cap had lowered his hood, and was looking around keenly from under his penthouse-like eyebrows.
There was a wild look in his eyes, while his ghastly pale face resembled a corpse rather than a living being.
One of those near him told him the fearful story as it had transpired. He listened without a remark.
"Then," he said, with a horrible chuckle, "one more or less in such a neighbourhood can’t be much of a loss."
A chorus of imprecations followed these words, but the man, just showing his rather jagged teeth, went on with his meal, paid his dues, and went out.
"Who’s that bloke?" somebody asked Leather Apron.
"Never seed him afore," was the reply. "He’s a stranger hereabouts. Pity we didn’t catch him. Who knows but he might be the very chap?"
But there was no one present who cared much about tackling that joker, and he was far away before even anyone thought of looking after him.
He himself moved away in his usual ghostly manner, and disappeared in one of the narrow lanes or alleys which abound in that singular region.
As soon as he had got out of all fear of pursuit, if pursuit was intended, he drew his hood over his head and made direct towards the river.
At last he reached a large block of buildings, warehouses and others. One of the largest was unoccupied, and had been so for a long time.
It was grimy in the extreme and somewhat dilapidated in appearance. In is sufficient to say, that it was in Chancery.
Between this and the inhabited building was a narrow passage.
Up this the Mystery glided. At the end of this lane was a small, narrow door, which this strange being opened, and then entered the building.
Having closed it behind him he turned down a narrow corridor, along which he groped in the dark until he reached the extreme end.
Here he struck a match and lit a lamp, which revealed to the eye a large, dreary old warehouse, with a fireplace near which was a mattress with dirty, fetid bedclothes, a box which served as a table, and a few articles necessary to the preparation of food.
The man threw off his outer garments and, lighting a pipe, cast himself upon the dirty bed, where we leave him.
 
CHAPTER III.
ANOTHER SCARE.
WHITECHAPEL gradually subsided into its normal state.
Life has its busy duties and cares, and everybody was compelled to go about his own business.
The murder excited attention in high quarters, as in humbler circles, and the first impulse was to throw all the blame on the metropolitan police.
But this was obviously wrong. It was both unjust and absurd to reprobate the police as a body for the inability to prevent the commission of such deeds of blood as those which have slurred the recent history of the East End.
The metropolis has attained such vast magnitude, and a manifold policy of stupidity, carelessness, and laissez faire has tolerated the continuance of so many labyrinths of foul and noisome slums in which the necessitous and dangerous classes naturally congregate, that were the numerical strength of the metropolitan police double its present aggregate the constables on night duty would scarcely be able explore, as vigilantly as the public safety requires, every lane, and court, and dark entry, every nook and corner, and blind alley; grimy networks of which abound in Central and Eastern London, and in the oldest of the transpontine districts.
Then, again, if a registration system were introduced into the Common Lodging House Act, by which every inmate, even the most casual one, should be compelled to enter his or her name and address, matters would be simplified.
Finally, for it is necessary to speak plainly, society knows that prostitution cannot be ignored; it also knows that it ought to licence, to register, and subject to wholesome regulations, the hapless victims of profligacy it throws upon the crowded streets, more especially in maritime London; a legion of miserable women without homes, and, it may almost be said, without names, wholly unnoticed and uncared for till their corpses turn up, horribly hacked and mutilated in canals or in back yards.
Of course, the horrible murder was not forgotten, but it was set down as one of those police failures, which are so common, and which during the last twenty years would indeed make a long list.
It was once the boast of Mr. Vincent Howard that London is the safest city in the world—and so it would seem to be—for the assassin!
Passing over the murder of Mrs. Squires and her daughter in their shop at Hoxton in broad daylight; the killing of Jane Maria Clousen in Kidbrooke-lane, near Eltham; the murder of the housekeeper at Bevington’s, of Cannon-street, we come to the, perhaps, best remembered and most sensational of mysterious crimes of the past.
On the morning of Christmas Day, 1872, Harriet Boswell was discovered with her throat cut. She was a ballet girl, employed at the Alhambra, and had been accompanied to her home, 12, Great Coram-street, by a "gentlemen" supposed to have been a German, who on the way purchased some apples, one of which was left in the room, and bore the impression of his teeth. This half-eaten apple was the sole clue to the murderer, who was never found.
A German clergyman, named Hessel, was arrested at Ramsgate on suspicion three weeks after the murder, but a protracted magisterial investigation resulted in his complete acquittal.
Then followed the murder of Mrs. Samuels in Harlem-crescent, and that of Annie Yeals a few doors off. Then followed the discovery of the body of Miss Harber in a coal-cellar in the house of one Sebastian Bastendorff in Euston-square, for which Hannah Dobbs was tried and acquitted.
This was followed by the discovery of the dead body of a woman unknown in the Bow-road; by finding a butcher’s wife at Slough, seated in a chair with her throat cut; by the murder of an unfortunate near Pye-street, Westminster; by the killing of Mrs.
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Samuel in open day; and by the murder of Miss Clark, who was found at the foot of the stairs in her house in George-place, Westminster.
People looked back with horror to this ghastly lot of undiscovered crimes, and soon the popular feeling set down the Whitechapel tragedy as one of the same category, and ceased almost to think of it, except as a painful and sorrowful mystery which would never be elucidated.
From this rather quiet way of looking at matters they were to be awakened by another tragedy, even more awful and terrible than even that of George’s-yard.
But it will be better to go back some years before we give the fearful crime soon to be cast into the shade by a rather even more foul one that should shade all the rest.
Twenty-one years previous to the date of the present narrative Mary Ann Walker was married to a man named William Nicholls. Her father was a very respectable man and a smith, while her husband was a machinist.
They lived in happiness for many years, and had five children, the eldest of which was twenty-one and the youngest eight.
When the latter was born it appeared that the husband took on with the young woman who came to nurse her, and they parted, he living with the nurse, by whom he had another family.
The father of the woman took one of the children, while their own father kept the other four.
The unfortunate woman then went to live with a man named Drew, a smith by trade, in the York-street, Walworth.
Then some of the children got into the workhouse, and the husband was summoned by the parish for their keep. But the husband proved she was living with another man, and the summons was dismissed.
She then went into Lambeth Workhouse, which she left to go into service at Ingleside, Wandsworth Common.
Of this place she wrote on the 17th April, 1888, to her father:—
"DEAR FATHER," the letter said, "I am in my new place. It is a grand place, with trees, with garden back and front. They are very nice people, are teetotallers, and I have not got much to do. I hope the boy will soon get work. I have no more to say, so good-bye for the present."
This letter, by the light of subsequent events, shows the very character of the deceased.
She very soon left Ingleside; why, at the time, was not known.
Far be it from us to wish to drag anyone unnecessarily into our sad narrative, but without mentioning names we can simply say she betrayed her trust as a domestic servant, stole three pounds from her employer, and absconded.
It was some nights later, and in a Whitechapel public house, where a number of woman were at the bar drinking.
They were of the usual character—a mixture of outcasts, working-men’s wives, and others.
Amongst others was a rather smartly-dressed woman of middle-age in the garb of a domestic servant.
She was, however, somewhat the worse for wear, as if she had roughed it for a night or two.
One of the poorer class of outcasts looked at her for some time, and then said—
"Aint you Polly? And weren’t we in the Lambeth Workhouse together last May?"
"Oh, yes, Mary Ann," responded the other, wearily; "I remember you now."
"I thought you had gone to a good situation," the other continued.
"Yes," the woman answered, and drawing her on one side, "I did," she added, huskily, "to good and kind people. But I can’t make it out. I had little to do, plenty to eat and drink; but the devil must have tempted me. I stools three pounds, and ran away. Let us drink. Ah, ah!"
And returning to the counter she ordered a quartern of gin, and the two drank together until they had to leave on the closing of the house.
Mary Ann was an inmate of Lambeth Workhouse, but, by staying out late, had forfeited her leave.
Polly offered her a share of her bed room, and took her to Thrawle-street, Spitalfields, where was situated a common lodging-house, where females paid fourpence a night for a separate bed in a room shared with three others.
Polly paid for a bed for Mary Ann, who left her in the morning.
As a rule Polly did not go out in the day, and then, when she did go out, no one knew of her movements.
She made no confidants, was peculiarly reticent, and went out and in without making any demonstration.
Occasionally she took her meals in the kitchen, but never seemed to care much about food.
On one occasion the woman did not return all night—not until the next night.
One of the women who shared her room asked her how it happened.
She explained, but we prefer to tell her story in our own words.
She had wandered about for some hours, going in and out of public-houses, then she returned to the burial-ground near the Whitechapel Station, when she felt tired and exhausted.
Looking round too see that no one was about, she seated herself on a doorstep and fell off into an uneasy slumber.
Suddenly she awoke to find a man standing near her and gazing at her with eyes that sent a thrill through her whole being.
He wore a dogskin cap, a cloak, and hood, and his face was more cadaverous than even are some dead bodies.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, in a hoarse, cracked voice.
"Only getting a little rest," she answered, in a timid tone.
"Haven’t you money for a bed?" he again asked.
"No—not yet," she continued.
"Well, come with me," he said, in a strange, unearthly voice; "I’ll find you a bed, supper, and breakfast, with a little money."
The woman did not like the manner or appearance of her interlocutor, but she was penniless, an outcast, and at the mercy of the world.
Every ruffian, however foul, had right to speak to her, and to speak to her in a commanding or provocative tone, according to his nature.
Food, lodging, and money!
It was a temptation not to be resisted by a female outcast. She rose and prepared to follow the man.
He at once started at a rapid rate in advance, but when he found her unable to keep up with him he slackened his pace and walked almost by her side.
8
He led her into a labyrinth of courts and alleys which were new to her, and when she came out she had not the slightest idea of where she was.
But the man kept on quietly, never moving to the right or left, until he reached some very lofty buildings.
He again entered a narrow lane, and presently a door mysteriously opened, and she was led into a huge, bare apartment, without any furniture except a dirty mattress and some boxes.
The man left her there and went out, speedily returning, however, with meat and drink, which he proceeded to cook by a very bright fire.
Then this strange couple had a jovial carouse. At a late hour the next day they had breakfast.
The man would not allow her to go out until dark at night, and once again took her by strange and devious ways until he left her where he found her in Brady-street.
He had kept his word and given her a little money.
That evening she had supper in the kitchen of the common lodging-house, and told her strange story.
"Eh?" said Pearly Poll, who happened to be there that evening. "Did you say he wore a dogskin cap?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"Well, I’ve seen the fellow before, and I can’t say as I likes him," was the reply.
"He was not very good looking, but he was kind to me," continued Polly. "What can such as we expect?"
"Hoity-toity!" cried Pearly Poll. "Such as we—what do you mean? Such as we!" mimicking her voice.
"I didn’t mean to offend," said Polly, meekly. "I have no right to. I chose my life and should not complain."
"No snivelling," continued Pearly Poll, with a grating laugh; "but stand us some gin."
"I have no more money than will pay for my bed," was the answer.
"That be blowed," shouted the other. "You’ve insulted me—such as me—and you’ll have to pay or fight."
And the virago went straight up to her—her fists doubled—and struck the other in the face.
Polly was rather meek and a little superior to her surroundings, but her feminine blood was up now, and she could not restrain herself, but hit her assaulter back, and a free fight ensued.
Of course, this was glorious fun for the inmates of the kitchen and they shouted with delight.
"Go it, Pearly! Go it, Polly! Well hit!" were the cries which resounded in that subterranean pandemonium.
"What’s all this!" shouted the stentorian voice of the deputy, entering with a stout cane in his hand. "Stash it, and take your hook."
There was dead silence at once. All knew the deputy-keeper too well to disobey his dictum.
With him it was a word and a blow.
The conflict instantly ceased, and there was stillness in the place.
"Clear out, you Pearly Poll," he continued. "I know you, and don’t want you here any more."
And the girl had to go out, muttering all sorts of threats against Polly.
Things went on in this way until the last Thursday in August, when Polly came to her lodgings in Thrawle-street without the money to pay for her night’s lodging.
The deputy, as bound to do, refused her a bed.
She was the worse for drink, but not exactly drunk, and went away laughing, saying—
"I’ll soon get my ‘does’ money. See what a jolly bonnet I’ve got now!"
She was wearing a far better bonnet than anyone had seen her wear before, and left the lodging-house.
She appears to have sauntered along until at last, at half-past two on Friday morning, she met a companion in Whitechapel-road, opposite the church and at the curve of Osborne-street.
This was the last time she was ever seen alive.
What in reality occurred after that will, perhaps, never be known, unless the mad miscreant of Whitechapel is unmasked and makes a confession.
 
CHAPTER IV.
A TERRIBLE CRIME.
ON Friday morning, the 31st of August, a policeman—Constable John Neil—was walking down Buck’s-row, Whitechapel, about a quarter to four o’clock, when his steps were arrested by a horrible sight.
In an instant he knew that even a more horrible murder, one more revolting than the one in George-yard, had been committed.
He was startled to find himself in the presence of a woman lying at the side of the street, her throat cut from ear to ear and the bowels protruding, the wounds extending upwards to her breast.
The hands were bruised, and bore evidence of her having been engaged in a severe struggle.
The body appeared to be that of a woman of about forty-five years of age.
It was five feet three inches in height and fairly plump.
That she belonged to a poor class was clear, and on examination this was made self-evident by the marks "Lambeth Workhouse, R.R." on the petticoat bands.
The policeman at once alarmed the people of a house next to a stable yard. This was occupied by a carter named Green and his family.
He also knocked up Mr. Walter Perkins, the resident-manager of the Essex Wharf, on the opposite side of the road.
Neither Mr. Perkins or any of the Green family, although the latter were sleeping within a few yards of where the body was discovered, had heard any sound of a struggle.
"I’d like to remain by the body," said the constable; "will one of you go for Dr. Llewellyn?"
"I will go," said Mrs. Perkins.
"Doctor? Ah, ah, ah!"
And a blood-curdling laugh followed.
Th policeman started, and then ran towards a dark entry, whence the sound seemed to have proceeded.
But he found no sign of anyone or anything, and could have almost fancied he had been deceived, only both the other men had heard the interruption plainly.
Mrs. Perkins now hastened away for Dr. Lewellyn, who came at once, aghast with horror at this other link in the chain of Whitechapel crime.
He was spell-bound with horror as he examined the body.
The brutality of the murder was beyond comprehension—beyond belief.
The throat was cut in two gashes, the instrument being a sharp one, but used in a most ferocious and reckless way.
There was a gash under the left ear, reaching nearly to the centre of the throat. Along half the length, however, it was accompanied by another one, which reached around under the other ear, making a wide and horrible hole, and nearly severing the head from the body.
The ghastliness of the cut, however, paled into insignificance alongside the other.
No murder was ever more ferociously or more brutally done.
The knife, which must have been a sharp one, was jobbed into the deceased at the lower part of the abdomen, and then drawn upwards, not once, but twice.
The first cut veered to the right, slitting up the
10
groin and passing over the right hip, but the second cut went through upward along the centre of the body and reaching to the breast-bone.
"Such horrible work," said the doctor, "can only be the deed of a maniac."
Two other constables now came up with a stretcher, and the body was removed to the mortuary.
Dr. Llewellyn, of course, pronounced life to be extinct, but death had not long taken place, because the extremities were still warm
It was not until the clothes were removed here that the full extent of the injuries and the horrible nature of the attack which had been made upon her was fully revealed.
The instrument with which the wounds were inflicted must have been as sharp as a razor, and used with the utmost ferocity.
When the hours of business came and men and women began to move about the streets the news spread.
Another awful and demoniacal outrage had been perpetrated.
The effect on the popular mind was more like stupor than anything else.
Incredulity was the first phrase, and then rage and a boiling spirit of revenge.
Who and what was this hideous man-monster among them, dealing death and desolation around?
The outcry against the police was something terrible. All the blame was laid to them.
Doubtless but for certain restrictions the criminal might have been discovered there and then.
A cordon of police with full power to search without warrant might have caught the ferocious criminal, a maniac, red-handed.
But the force did not possess the power.
The common lodging-houses of the district were the haunts of the lowest and vilest criminals and of their abandoned female associates.
Nests of thieves and prostitutes in most cases.
The office of the lodging-house inspector is sanitary, not detective or repressive.
Further, he can only enter at certain times, even for the enforcement of sanitary regulations requisite or forced, without special permission.
It is thus possible for many more persons to occupy the houses than are allowed by the licence.
Single men, single women, and "doubles" may occupy one house by permission of the Commissioners of Police, and the whole moral atmosphere is foul in the extreme.
Casual labourers become tramps and beggars, and then thieves; and the women who, in their destitution, enter these portals, usually leave hope behind.
But unless in hot pursuit of a criminal the ordinary policeman may not enter, nor may the detective, without a warrant, if the keeper objects.
Doubtless the murderer had sought shelter until nightfall in some den of this Alsatia of the West.
The police of Whitechapel and Spitalfields were practically powerless to deal with the ruffianly population crowding the long, narrow streets, where nine out of ten men are the policeman’s natural enemies.
 
CHAPTER V.
DETECTIVE DICK.
RICHARD RYDER was a well-known detective. He was not a man who had ever brought himself into very prominent notice.
But he was known and hailed by his superiors as having unravelled several difficult cases when others had failed.
Richard Ryder preferred to have the approval of the office, and to receive the very substantial rewards which often fell to his share when he was fortunate enough to see his name in print.
Fame and reputation are very good things in their way, but Dick had a wife and two children, and was especially anxious to keep a good roof ever their heads.
When the news of this fourth atrocity reached Scotland-yard he was called for and told that he was put on special duty to unravel the mystery of the Whitechapel murders.
He was to take the course he thought best himself, and spare no pains, time, nor money, so that he gained some clue to the perpetrator of these wicked tragedies.
Detective Dick knew that he had a very difficult task to unravel.
His first act was to interview Constable John Neil, who, knowing him well, at once gave him all the information he could.
It was very little more than he had gathered from the so-called evening papers which are published at mid-day.
But when Neil told him of the demoniacal laugh and the sudden disappearance of the person who gave utterance to it, he opened his eyes.
"Any mysterious characters about here?" he asked of John Neil.
"Not exactly mysterious ones," replied Neil, glad to be put in contact with a detective of such high character, "but plenty of shady ones."
"You see, this is a difficult job," continued Dick. "This neighbourhood of yours is about the fishiest in London, and you’ve a hard nut to crack. I wouldn’t attempt it myself, only I know I shall get help from you all."
"I will do my best," said Neil much gratified.
"Has she been identified?" he asked, pulling out his note-book.
"Yes, as being Polly, a woman living at a common lodging-house at 18, Thrawle-street, Spitalfields."
Detective Dick made a note of this.
"What’s the nearest thieves’ public?" he then asked.
"The Pig and Whistle," replied Neil.
"Well, we’ll wet our whistle somewhere else," laughed the other; "it wouldn’t do for me to be seen there with so well-known an officer as you are by this time."
And so they went out, had their drink, and Dick went by himself to the Pig and Whistle.
It was a dark night, and the outside of the of the public-house was crowned by a mob of the lowest kind, confirmed gin-drinkers, who, having acquired the taste, live for nothing else.
The crowd was penniless, but still they hang around as if in hope.
Dick gazed at them, and saw a large body of women of the vilest and most ragged description, aged itinerants, with features seared with famine, bleared eyes, dropping jaws, shivering limbs, and all the morbid signs of hopeless, aimless, and, worst of all, breadless infirmity.
Richard Ryder passed in, and there he found another more flaunting lot, gin-drinkers, too, but not dressed in rags; on the contrary, they wore tawdry finery, and had painted cheeks, gaudy ribbons, and all the usual insignia of their class.
And everywhere the talk was of the murder.
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There were few men in the bar, and these were collected together—a low-browed, heavy-jowled band, who spoke in whispers.
There could be no mistake about their vocation. They were the hangers-on on these unfortunate girls—the beings, utterly loathsome and contemptible, who live on the wretched vice of the women whom they pretend to care for.
That the women care for them there can be no doubt.
The detective now moved towards the entrance of a passage, but was stopped by Smiles the landlord.
"Private!" he said, huskily.
"Nothing is private for Dick Ryder," responded the detective, adding something in a low tone. "Take care all is fair and above board. I come for information only—nothing to do with you."
Smiles moved on one side and admitted Dick without a word. He knew the name too well not to respect it.
Dick found himself in a large room, and here some dozen men were collected, very much like those outside, but better dressed and of a presumably higher grade.
He himself had assumed the dress of a better-class Jew clothesman, and was humble and reserved.
No one asked any questions. The mere fact that Bill Smiles the landlord had admitted him was quite enough for these "knowing blokes," who at times are as green as grass.
He ordered a humble pint and some bread and cheese, and after eating this indulged in a glass of spirits and a pipe.
All the while he listened, but for some time heard nothing that interested him.
"I often wonder," at last said one, "who that queer bloke who lives at the top of the house in Thrawle-street is. He aint from about here; he keeps hisself to hisself, and never speaks to nobody."
"Well," retorted another, with a virulent oath, "if a gentleman wants to be on the quiet, why shouldn’t he be?"
"Quite right, Bob," continued the other; "and I don’t want to interfere with no gen’leman’s business. I was only thinking if he knew anything about this here red business."
"He’s done something has Jemmy Lang—he’s so quiet, and shuts himself up so," responded the other, "ever since t’other Bank Holiday. He hardly ever goes out, he gets shiners, and don’t do no work."
"Well, it beats me—but that’s no business of mine," the other went on. "But what this blooming cove as kills the wenches is about, I don’t know. They aint got no money."
"That’s the kitch—it’s beyond me," said another; and so they went on speculating as to the objects of the murderer.
Dick had heard enough. He got up, wished them good-night in a humble way, and went out.
"A nice gang of blooming idiots you all is," said one, who had kept in the background behind the chimney of a stove; "that there was Dick Ryder, the detective. I know’d him the moment he came in."
The men rose as if galvanised, and then sat down again appalled.
"He didn’t want none of us. But you’ve made it hot for Lanky Lang," the other went on. "He’s gone away believin’ he’s the one as did the knifing. Now Lanky I don’t think would hurt a mouse."
"Well, then, there aint no harm done."
"But whatever his little game is Ryder will find it out," the other remarked.
All expressed their regret, but they did not know, you know, and it couldn’t be helped.
Meanwhile, Dick had lost no time in going to Thrawle-street, where he interviewed the deputy, who imagined he was taking a great liberty until he informed him who he was.
"Have you a warrant against anyone?" asked the deputy, coldly.
"No; but I can thundering soon get one," said Ryder, drily. "I suspect your lodger, Jemmy Lang, of being the murderer, and I mean to arrest him, warrant or no warrant."
And before the other could interfere the detective had rushed upstairs.
He knew from the men’s talk that the room was at the top of the house, and was locked. But Dick Ryder was always prepared. He had a small steel crowbar that few doors could resist, and then he had a pair of very formidable pistols.
He reached the door, which he saw at once was pretty stoutly made.
"Who’s there?" asked a man’s voice, speaking in a low voice.
"Dick Ryder, the detective," was the answer. "Open up once or I shall smash the door in."
There came no reply, and Dick, acting up to his threat, flew at the door. Though not of a very large build, he was strong., and the door shivered.
With another effort he hurled his whole weight against it, and it fell inward.
Dick entered and found that the room was empty.
He rushed to the window which overlooked the roof of the next house—a very old-fashioned one—and, in the distance among the chimneys, he saw the man he was in pursuit of.
He was active and vigilant, and knew that, with care, a roof was as safe as the street, and at once began the chase.
The man before him was older and stouter than himself, but fear lent him wings. He hurried onward.
Dick, however, knew that at the end of a dozen houses there was a street, on reaching which Jemmy Lang would either surrender or take a plunge into the depths below.
At last the fleeing man was brought to bay, and stood behind a stock of chimneys, his head only visible.
"Surrender!" cried Dick, presenting a pistol.
"What for?" asked the other.
"For the murder of a girl called Polly," was the stern reply. "Come, no nonsense."
A hoarse laugh was the response.
"Ah, ah!" said Lanky Lang; "so you are fool enough to believe I killed Polly? Why, I’d choke the man if I knew who he was. She’s been rare kind to me. I’ve know’d her years before she came to this."
And the detective knew that he was utterly sold. Still he kept a good face on the matter.
"Then what did you run away for?" he asked; "why not open the door when you heard my name!"
"To tell the truth," the other answered, drily, "you were just the sort of person I didn’t want to see."
"Now, Lanky Lang," said Dick Ryder, "you come back with me. I’m a man of my word. Prove to me what reason you had for closing your door, and explain everything clearly, and I daresay we can come to terms."
12
Lanky Lang at once came from behind the stack, and followed Dick Ryder quietly back to his room
"Now, then?" asked Dick.
"Look," said the man, and showed him a small press, engraver’s tools, and all the other requisites for forging Russian roubles.
"I thought I was nicked, and ran," he said. "As to Polly, I knew her four years ago when she lived with a man named Drew."
"Who is she?"
"She is the wife of a man named Nicholls, a machinist, who works for a printing firm in Fleet-street. Heaps of girls downstairs will tell you all about her," the man said.
"Thank you for the information," said Dick; "and I will take advantage of the information. In the meantime, clear out of here. Keep the secret of my mistake, and I daresay it will serve you in the time to come."
"Thank you, sir," responded Lang.
Dick now went down the stairs and saw the deputy.
"He was not the man I wanted," he said, "but let any girls who know anything about this Polly come up to the coroner’s office in the morning. By the way, I had to burst that fellow’s door open—here’s a couple of sovereigns, that will pay the carpenter twice over."
And he went out laughing.
 
CHAPTER VI.
THE INQUEST.
NEXT day several persons came up and identified the body as that of Mary Ann Nicholls, commonly called Polly Nicholls. The woman Mary Jane Moule, to whom we have already alluded to, said they had been inmates of Lambeth Workhouse together.
At nine o’clock next morning the body was removed from the mortuary to an improvised operating room on the premises, and Dr. Ralph Llewellyn made a post-mortem examination.
Meanwhile wild rumours flew about on all sides.
It was stated that blood could be traced in thick spots and small pools from the spot where the body was found far down Buck’s-row to a lateral thoroughfare called Brady-street.
The police denied this statement. Inspector Helson stated that he walked carefully over the ground soon after eight o’clock in the morning, and beyond the discolourations ordinarily found on pavements there was no sign of stains.
Viewing the spot where the woman was found, however, it seemed difficult to believe that the woman received her death wounds there.
The police seemed to have no particular theory, except that a sort of High Ripgang exists in the neighbourhood, which, blackmailing women of the same class as the deceased, took vengeance an those who did not find money for them.
Another theory was that the woman was murdered in a house, and killed whilst undressed, her clothes being then huddled on the body, which was afterwards conveyed out to be deposited in the street.
Some colour was lent to this by the small quantity of blood found on the clothes, and by the fact that they were not cut.
Whilst the post-mortem examination was going on an officer arrived from the Bethnal-green station with two men, who were regarded as possibly able to throw some light on the case.
The first man was one who kept a coffee-stall at the corner of Whitechapel-road and Cambridge-road.
He was, of course, well acquainted with all the loose characters in the neighbourhood.
Crime, a wretched vice, shadowed those itinerant purveyers of food for the million.
He said—we are bound to give his evidences, though it came to nothing; but we are faithful historians—that at three o’clock on Friday morning a woman answering the description of the deceased, came to his stall in company with a man five feet three or four inches high, dressed in a dark coat and black Derby hat, apparently about thirty-five years of age.
He had a black moustache and whiskers, and was fidgetty and uneasy.
He refused to have anything to eat, but paid for the woman’s coffee.
He grumbled, and kept telling her to hurry, as he wanted to get home.
At length the woman, who was a little the worse for drink, finished up her meal, and went away with the stranger.
The coffee-stall keeper said he had never seen the man before, but he should know him again anywhere.
The other man was a Mr. Seerer, assistant-salesman to Smithfield-market.
He had been attracted by the report that the dead woman’s name might be Seerer, and said that his wife, from whom he separated eleven years ago, had been an inmate of Lambeth Workhouse.
He said she had a friend named Polly Nicholls, at that he knew the latter by sight.
He did not know the colour of his wife’s eyes, but said she had two scars on her body—one on the right thigh and another on the right forearm.
The two men were allowed to view the body, but nothing came of it.
The coffee-stall keeper said he did not think it was the same woman, but was not sure. The woman, if it was the same, had grown thinner in the face.
Seerer said the woman was neither his wife, nor, far as he could remember, her friend Polly Nicholls.
On September the 1st the inquest was opened by Mr. Wynne E. Baxter, coroner for South-east Middlesex, at the Working Lads’ Institute, Whitechapel.
Inspector Helstone, who had the case in hand, attended with other officers on the behalf of the Criminal Investigation Department.
The first witness called, after the jury had viewed the body, was Mr. Edward Walker, who identified the body he had seen in the mortuary as that of his daughter.
He had not seen her for three years. He recognised her by her general appearance, and by a little mark she had on her forehead when a child. She also had either one or two teeth out like the woman he had just seen.
Her name was Mary Ann Nicholls, and her husband was alive. Further particulars were given already known to the reader.
She left him (her father) to better herself. She used to drink, and that was why they could not agree.
"She must have drank heavily for you to turn her out of doors?"
"I never turned her out. She had no need to be like this while I had a home for her."
He then explained the relations of husband and wife, and then stood down.
The evidence of the constable who found the body, and the doctor, we shall give in extenso.
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John Neil, police-constable 97 J, said:—In the morning I was proceeding down Buck’s-row, Whitechapel, going towards Brady-street. There was not a soul about. I had been round there half an hour previous, and I saw no one then. I was on the right-hand side of the street when I noticed a figure lying in the street. It was dark at the time, though there was a street lamp shining at the end of the row. I went across and found deceased lying outside a gateway, her head towards the east.
The gateway was closed. It was about nine or ten feet high, and led to some stables. There were houses from the gateway outward, and the Board School occupies the westward. On the opposite side of the road is Essex Wharf.
Deceased was lying lengthways along the street, her left hand touching the gate. I examined the body by the aid of my lamp and noticed blood oozing from a wound in the throat. She was lying on her back, with her clothes disarranged. I felt her arm, which was quite warm, from the joints upwards. Her eyes were wide open. Her bonnet was off and lying at her side, close to the left hand.
I heard a constable passing Brady-street, so I called him. I did not whistle. I said to him, "Run at once for Dr. Llewellyn," and seeing another constable in Baker’s-row, I sent him for the ambulance.
The doctor arrived in a very short time. I had, in the meantime, rung the bell at Essex Wharf, and asked if any disturbance had been heard. The reply was "No." Sergeant Kirby came after, and he knocked.
The doctor looked at the woman, and then said, "Move the woman to the mortuary. She is dead, and I will make a further examination of her."
We then placed her on the ambulance, and moved her there. Inspector Spratley came to the mortuary, and while taking a description of the deceased, turned up her clothes,