S3 E24 The Shadow of Whitechapel: The Rise of Jack the Ripper Halloween Special

                                     👻🎃👻    Halloween Special  👻🎃👻 

In this chilling episode, we dive deep into the foggy backstreets of Victorian London to explore the fate of the most infamous serial killer in history: Jack the Ripper. What happened to him after those grisly murders? Was he a cunning aristocrat moving unseen among the poor? Or an unassuming working man, slipping through Whitechapel undetected? We sift through compelling theories – from Charles Cross’s suspicious presence at crime scenes to the idea that Jack could have been a butcher or barber, blending in while covered in blood.

Unearth the eerie truth behind unreliable media coverage, secretive Ripper files lost during the Blitz, and older, often overlooked murders that might bear his brutal signature. We'll also uncover the trades of barbers in this dark era, exploring how they wielded tools that could have easily doubled as instruments of horror. Was Jack simply an invisible figure, hiding in plain sight?

Prepare for a journey through London's most sinister streets as we piece together the clues surrounding the Ripper’s vanishing act.

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Transcript

The Shadow of Whitechapel: The Rise of Jack the Ripper

Halloween Special

The fog crept over Whitechapel like a blanket, thick and suffocating, wrapping the night in shadows. The gas lamps flickered dimly, casting long, distorted shapes that danced on the cobblestone streets. I watched from the alley, my breath steady, my heart beating calmly in my chest.

              The world around me was decaying. Soot-streaked buildings leaned against one another, crumbling under the weight of poverty and filth. The people, huddled in doorways or stumbling from gin houses, were no better. They were weak. Lost. Creatures of the night, scurrying like vermin through the labyrinth of streets. 

But I was different.

           I am not like them. I am the predator in a world of prey. I walk among them, unnoticed, my eyes scanning the dark for the chosen. She will come tonight—I know it as surely as I know the knife hidden in my coat. A dull, familiar anticipation coils in my gut, a hunger that grows stronger with each step.

                 There. She stumbles into view, her gait uneven, swaying. Her face is shadowed, but I know her type—the desperation clings to her, as palpable as the grime on her skin. She seeks escape in the bottom of a bottle, just as they all do, but I offer something more final.

        I follow her, silently, my footsteps lost in the noise of the city. Her world is narrowing now; she thinks she is alone. The fog wraps tighter around her, and I draw closer, the blade in my pocket heavy with promise. 

                  She turns into a narrow alley. Her pace slows, her head dips low as if she's weary, and I know the time is right. My hand grips the knife. Its cold handle feels alive in my palm, an extension of the will inside me. I step forward, my shadow merging with hers, a ghost in the night.

                  She senses me now. A shiver runs through her, a primal recognition of danger. Too late.

                    I strike fast, a flash of steel in the dark. She gasps, the sound more of surprise than fear. Blood pours, thick and warm, staining the night. I work quickly, methodically, as I always do. Her life slips away in moments, and I feel nothing. No remorse, no pity. Just satisfaction. 

  The knife sings in the night air, carving its way through flesh and bone with the precision of an artist. I am not cruel. I am not sadistic. I am simply doing what must be done. I cleanse this world of its filth, piece by piece, and in these moments, I am more alive than I could ever be in the light of day.

           When it is finished, I stand over her, my breathing steady, my heart as calm as it was before. I wipe the blade clean, careful, always careful. The fog swirls around us, as though trying to hide what I have done, but it doesn’t matter. They will find her in the morning, and they will fear me. They will fear the unknown, the nameless force that stalks their streets.

        I disappear into the night, as silent and unseen as a whisper.

Hi everyone and welcome back to the dark history podcast where we explore the darkest parts of human history. hope everyone is well I’m Rob your host as always. Welcome to season 3 episode 24 The Shadow of Whitechapel: The Rise of Jack the Ripper. Welcome to our third Halloween special! I can hardly believe we’ve reached this milestone already. It’s been an incredible journey, and I want to extend a huge thank you to every single one of you who has supported the show over the past few years. Your enthusiasm is what keeps this going, and I’m thrilled to bring you yet another spine-chilling episode.

Today, we’re diving into the dark and twisted tale of one of the world’s most infamous and elusive killers: Jack the Ripper. Now, I usually like to focus on more obscure stories, steering clear of the ones that are told again and again. But Jack the Ripper holds a special fascination for me—there’s just something about the mystery and brutality that draws me in. The Victorian era as a whole is endlessly intriguing, but to me, Jack the Ripper is the most captivating figure of the time.

                    Picture London in the late 1800s: a city brimming with contrasts. On one side, you had the glamour of the British Empire and a thriving metropolis. But underneath, in the back alleys of Whitechapel, the shadows told a much darker story. Poverty, overcrowding, and desperation painted the streets, and it was here that Jack the Ripper prowled. His brutal killings not only terrorized the city but also exposed the stark divide between the rich and poor, making him a symbol of the darker, more sinister side of Victorian London.

Strap yourselves in ladies and gentleman because this one will be a long and gruesome tale, as always I will miss no gory or gruesome detail so you have been warned.

     So without further ado let’s step back in time to that fog-shrouded, gaslit London, and delve into the chilling mystery of Jack the Ripper and more dark history.

London in the late 1880s was a city of contrasts, bustling with life and innovation, yet haunted by poverty and crime. The Industrial Revolution had transformed it into the largest city in the world, with over five million people packed into its streets. Wealth and progress were on full display in the West End, where grand theaters, shops, and parks flourished. The British Empire was at its height, and London was the capital of the world, showcasing technological advances and global influence. The wealthy lived in opulence, enjoying the fruits of the empire’s success.

                But travel a few miles to the east, a very different London existed. In the overcrowded slums of Whitechapel, thousands of the city’s poorest residents lived in squalor. The streets were narrow and winding, lined with dilapidated buildings that leaned dangerously toward each other, blocking out much of the daylight. The air was thick with the stench of sewage, smoke, and uncollected waste, a constant reminder of the harsh realities of life for the working class and destitute. Many families crammed into tiny, damp rooms, while others, unable to afford even that, sought refuge in doss houses, paying a few pennies for a bed—or, in the worst cases, a rope to lean against to sleep where the term hangers on or to be hungover comes from.

                         Disease, hunger, and violence were everyday companions for the people of the East End. Jobs were scarce, and those available paid a pittance. For many women, prostitution was the only way to make enough money to survive, and it was in these grim conditions that London’s notorious Jack the Ripper found his victims. Crime was rampant, and the police struggled to maintain order. The East End had a reputation as a dangerous, lawless place, where murders, robberies, and assaults were common, and the residents lived in constant fear.

            Yet, despite the squalor and despair, Whitechapel was also a place of resilience. Its streets were alive with market stalls, music, and street performers, and its residents, many of them immigrants, held tightly to their communities and cultures. The divide between East and West London was sharp—while the West End dazzled with gaslit streets and newly constructed department stores, the East End was a world apart, forgotten by the city’s elite. Much like today Whitechapel was a melting pot of different cultures, you had the poor working class mixed with the Irish, who were fleeing the famine, and a large number of Eastern European Jewish immigrants, fleeing pogroms and persecution in places like Russia and Poland. They established small businesses and trades, though they often faced anti-Semitism and xenophobia.

                     London was a city on the edge, teeming with life, but also with poverty, desperation, and fear. It was a place where the rich and powerful could turn a blind eye to the suffering that lay just out of sight, until Jack the Ripper’s brutal murders exposed the brutal realities of life in the East End, forcing the entire city to confront its darker side.

                   This period was a turning point for London, where the contrast between light and dark, wealth and poverty, civilization and chaos became more apparent than ever. And amidst it all, Jack the Ripper stalked the fog-choked streets, leaving a trail of fear and mystery that still haunts London to this day.

In the sweltering summer of 1888, London’s East End was a world apart from the glamorous West End, a stark contrast to the wealth and progress that symbolized the Victorian era. Whitechapel, its dark heart, was a labyrinth of squalid streets and cramped alleys, where the air was thick with the stench of smoke, sewage, and despair. The streets were bustling by day, filled with the clamour of market stalls, desperate vendors, and the shuffling feet of those trying to scrape together a meagre existence. By night, the streets were a dark and dangerous place, people would drink to excess, fight, brawl, steal and murder without so much as a flicker of an eyelid. Whitechapel was no stranger to crime or violence. It was a place where survival meant navigating the dangers of the night. But in the late hours of August 30th, 1888, something far darker than Whitechapel had ever known was about to take root. A killer, unlike any the city had ever seen, was beginning his bloody work.

                                                                          It was in the early hours of August 31st, 1888, that a cart driver named Charles Cross was making his way along Buck’s Row, a narrow, grimy street tucked away from the more bustling areas of Whitechapel. The hour was just before dawn, and the city still slept, the thick London fog creeping low over the cobblestones, making everything seem surreal and distorted. The gas lamps provided little more than a dim glow, casting long shadows that made every corner of the street seem like a hiding place for something sinister. As Cross walked, his eyes caught sight of something unusual in the distance—a dark, shapeless form lying across the street. At first, he thought it might be a bundle of discarded rags or refuse, common enough in a place like Whitechapel. But as he drew nearer, the shape took on a more troubling form. It was a woman, lying face-up on the cold cobblestones, her skirts hitched up around her knees. Cross stopped in his tracks, unsure of what he was seeing. The early morning light was just beginning to creep over the rooftops, but the gloom still hung thick in the air. He hesitated for a moment before taking a few steps closer, his heart quickening as he saw the terrible truth. The woman wasn’t sleeping or drunk, as so many on these streets often were—she was dead. Her throat had been savagely cut, so deeply that the wound gaped open, almost severing her head from her body. Blood pooled around her neck, soaking into the stones beneath her.

                                                                                                 As Cross stood frozen in horror, another man, Robert Paul, appeared from the fog. Together, the two men looked down at the body, exchanging nervous glances, unsure of what to do. They touched her hand, still warm, and debated whether she was truly dead or merely unconscious, but there was no question—the violence inflicted upon her was unmistakable. They knew they needed to find help. Within minutes, the police were called to the scene, and soon Buck’s Row was swarming with officers, lanterns in hand, their faces grim as they examined the body. The victim was quickly identified as Mary Ann Nichols, known to her friends as Polly. Polly hadn’t started her adult life in such harsh circumstances, married at 15, which was customary at the time, she enjoyed the bliss of married life until if fell apart at the age of 29 due to her excessive drinking and immoral behaviour. She had been a familiar face around Whitechapel, living a transient life, often sleeping in lodging houses when she had enough money or on the streets when she didn’t. Like many women of her station, she had turned to prostitution to survive, drifting in and out of the doss houses that dotted the area. But whatever struggles she had endured before; nothing could compare to the horror she met that night. After drinking the frying pan pub, located on brick lane, she stubbled her way down the street to her lodging house down troll street. Unfortunately for Mary she doesn’t have the 4 pence needed to stay in the lodging house and she is turned away by the landlord. She makes her way to Whitechapel high street where she is seen by her friend Emily Holland who, notices Polly is blind drunk, tells her to go back to the lodging house and offers to pay the 4 pence, Nichols reply’s saying she had earned her doss money 3 time tonight and drank it all she can earn it a 4th time. This is the last know interaction with Mary Anne Nichols until her body is discovered at 3:40 am.

At first, the authorities saw Polly Nichols’ death as just another brutal murder in a neighbourhood all too accustomed to violence. But it didn’t take long for the true savagery of the crime to become apparent. Polly’s throat had been cut not once, but twice, with such force that it had nearly decapitated her. Her abdomen had also been viciously slashed, her stomach ripped open by the killer’s blade, though the true extent of her mutilations would only be revealed later during the autopsy. The brutality was shocking even to the seasoned officers who worked in Whitechapel. This wasn’t the work of a mere robber or drunkard. This was something far more deliberate, far more vicious. The precision with which the killer had struck suggested a level of control, almost as if he knew exactly what he wanted to do—and exactly how to do it. Polly’s death rattled the police, but in Whitechapel, it was just the beginning. In the coming days, whispers of fear began to spread through the slums. The newspapers caught wind of the story, sensationalizing it with lurid details of the savage mutilations. The press fed the growing fear, painting a picture of a shadowy figure who prowled the fog-drenched streets, stalking his victims in the dead of night.

The mystery of the killer began to take shape. There were no witnesses. No one had seen Polly being attacked, and no one had seen the killer slip away. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere, struck with terrifying precision, and vanished back into the night. The fact that he had left behind so little evidence only deepened the mystery. The police began their investigation, scouring the streets of Whitechapel, questioning residents, and searching for any clue that might lead them to the murderer. But it was as if the killer had disappeared into the fog. No one knew who he was, where he came from, or why he had chosen Polly Nichols. The fear took on a life of its own, growing with each passing day. In the days following Polly’s murder, the people of Whitechapel went about their lives, but an air of unease hung over the streets. Women, especially those who walked the streets at night, became more cautious, casting nervous glances over their shoulders as they made their way through the dimly lit alleys. Men talked in hushed tones in the pubs, wondering if the killer was one of their own, hiding in plain sight. Mary Ann Nichols’ murder was the beginning of a reign of terror that would grip London in fear. It was the first glimpse of the monster the city would soon come to know as Jack the Ripper—a killer who would leave behind a legacy of blood and mystery that, even to this day, remains unsolved. And though Polly Nichols’ life was cut tragically short, her death would forever mark the start of one of the most infamous killing sprees in history, one that would plunge Whitechapel into a nightmare from which it would never fully wake.

Just nine days after the brutal murder of Mary Ann Nichols, a second victim would meet an even grimmer fate. Annie Chapman was the oldest of Jack the rippers 5 victims at 48, she was a tough old broad who had had a tough life. Annie, like Nichols, had been married but her marriage fell apart. Just a week prior to her murder Chapman has be suffering the effects of consumption or tuberculosis to you and me, something that was noted in her postmortem said that due to her affliction she would have no more than three weeks to live. Annie was no wall flower, prior to her murder she had been in an altercation with another of Whitechapel’s many prostitutes Eliza cooper over a bar of soap she had borrowed. In this altercation Annie had lost her bottom row of teeth, but Eliza had come out worse, what I am trying to get at here is these women were tough as old boots and could look after themselves. So, on the 8th of September 1888 Annie was wondering the streets of Whitechapel she was sick, very sick, she begged and pleaded with the landlord to let her stay, she even offered to pay double, but the landlord mercilessly turfed her onto the street. Annie was then spotted on Hanbury street talking to a gentleman who was described as 5 foot 6, 5 foot 7 with a pale complexion, and a Mustache in a deer stalker hat and a long dusty overcoat. He was described as a shabby genteel of foreign appearance. Their conversation was overheard briefly with him saying will you and her say I will before the pair entered an ally into the communal courtyard behind 29 Hanbury street. At approximately 5:25am a man by the name of Albert Kadash, who lived upstairs at number 31 overheard Annie Chapman screaming No, but as this is Victorian Whitechapel he thinks nothing of it and heads to work.  Meanwhile at 5:40 a man name John Davis heads into the courtyard and discovers, in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street the body of Annie Chapman. The scene that greeted investigators was more horrifying than anyone could have prepared for. Annie's throat had been slashed with alarming brutality, echoing the earlier crime, but the horror did not stop there. Her body had been butchered, transformed into a grotesque tableau that shocked even the most seasoned witnesses. The killer had plunged his knife into her anus, cut around her vaginal area and up through her torso, he’d flayed the skin back and pulled it down to reveal innards, as officers examined the body, they were confronted with the sight of Annie's abdomen, viciously opened, revealing her intestines spilling out and draped over her shoulder like a macabre scarf. Several organs had been carefully removed, including her uterus, a chilling indication that this was no random act of violence. The precision with which the killer operated suggested a disturbing level of anatomical knowledge, hinting that he was not merely a street thug driven by desperation but someone with a dark, deliberate intent—perhaps even a medical background or a morbid fascination with dissection. Whoever this murderer was, he wasn’t simply attacking out of rage; he was methodically pursuing a grotesque curiosity, indulging in some unspeakable desire that compelled him to dismember his victims.

                 The discovery of Annie Chapman’s body sent shockwaves through Whitechapel, plunging the neighbourhood into a frenzy of fear and speculation. The newspapers, ever eager to sensationalize the story, painted vivid portraits of a monstrous figure stalking the fog-laden streets, slipping in and out of shadows like a ghost. Although the name "Jack the Ripper" had not yet been coined, the legend was already taking shape in the public imagination. Residents spoke in hushed tones, terrified to venture out at night. Women, especially those living on the fringes of society, felt particularly vulnerable. It was not just the brutality of the murders that terrified them; it was the methodical, almost surgical precision with which the killer dismantled his victims. This was no ordinary murderer; he was an artist of death, leaving behind bodies that told a story of unimaginable horror. As days turned into weeks, the police found themselves grappling with a spiralling sense of dread and frustration. They increased patrols throughout Whitechapel, with officers roaming the streets at all hours in hopes of catching the elusive killer. Yet the Ripper always seemed one step ahead, slipping through their fingers like smoke. Despite countless interviews, inquiries, and community meetings, the trail remained cold, and the anxiety among residents only escalated. Each day that passed heightened the sense of urgency; they could feel the walls closing in around them, with no clear path to safety.

                                                                Now at this point in our tale we come to the most infamous event in the jack the ripper story, 3 weeks after the murder of Annie Chapman we come to the night of September 30, 1888, an evening that would become known in the annals of crime as the “Double Event.” Here Jack the ripper took just 45 minutes to brutally murder two women. The first of the evening's victims was Elizabeth Stride, a Swedish immigrant and the only non-British victim of jack the ripper. Stride was born in Gothenburg Sweden but moved to London at the age of 22 to marry a man called John Stride. The pair are reasonably happy and own a coffee shop, until John dies suddenly at a relatively young age. Upon the death of her husband Elizabeth is left with nothing and must turned to prostitution to survive in a city that offered few options for women like her. Stride becomes somewhat of a part time prostitute and for whatever reason she was working that Saturday night. The 30th of September 1888 was a particular terrible night there were gale force winds, hail and rain an abhorrent night for weather. Stride had been lodging in a lodging house at 32 flower and dean street with a friend named Elizabeth Tanner, at around 6:30 pm on the night of strides murder Tanner sees her again at the Queen's Head Public House. They drank together and then walked back to the lodging house. Stride is then seen leaving the lodging house around 7 or 8 o’clock. By 11pm Two labourers, J. Best and John Gardner were going into the Bricklayer's Arms Public House on Settles Street, north of Commercial Road and almost opposite Berner Street. As they went in Stride was leaving with a short man with a dark Mustache and sandy eyelashes. 45 minutes later William Marshall, a labourer, sees her on Berner Street. He is standing in the doorway of 64 Berner Street on the west side of the street between Fairclough and Boyd Streets. He notices her talking to a man in a short black cutaway coat and sailor's hat outside number 63. They are kissing and carrying on. At 12:45 AM Israel Schwartz of 22 Helen Street, Back church Lane, stated that at this hour, turning into Berner Street from Commercial Road, and having gotten as far as the gateway where the murder was committed, he saw a man stop and speak to a woman, who was standing in the gateway. He tried to pull the woman into the street, but he turned her round and threw her down on the footway and the woman screamed three times, but not very loudly. On crossing to the opposite side of the street, he saw a second man lighting his pipe. The man who threw the woman down called out, apparently to the man on the opposite side of the road, "Lipski", and then Schwartz walked away, but finding that he was followed by the second man, he ran as far as the railway arch, but the man did not follow so far. The term Lipski was used to describe Schwarts because Isreal Lipski who, in 1887, had murdered Miriam Angel in nearby Batty Street. As a result, the name Lipski' had come to be used as a derogatory expression directed at Jews. Now the key to this whole story is a Russian Jewish man by the name of Louie Deimschutz. Deimschutz owned a pub with his wife through the week, but on weekends he toiled the markets of London selling his Jewellery. He’s returning home that night on his horse and cart, he heads into Dutfield’s Yard off Berner Street, when halfway down his horse comes to an abrupt stop, puzzled he descends from his carriage and with his whip he feels round in the darkness for an obstruction. Of course, he finds a lifeless body lying in the shadows, but Deimschutz thinks this is his wife passed out on Gin, so he goes down the alley a little further to his pub to retrieve a lantern and who dose he see first but his wife. Deimschutz along with two other men return to the obstruction to find the body of Elizabeht Stride, she still warm to the touch she had taken her last breath moments before she was found.  After Deimschutz raised the alarm, the police speculated that the Ripper may have been interrupted, as Stride's body was found shortly after her death, The killer had once again cut her throat deeply, but unlike the previous murders, there was a notable absence of mutilation. It was surmised that Jack could have still been in the courtyard as Deimschutz entered and when jack the ripper had unfinished business it made him very frustrated.

                Less than an hour later, just a short distance away, the body of Catherine Eddowes was discovered in Mitre Square. Eddowes had been seen circling what was locally know as prostitutes church, which is St Botolph’s church. In those times the prostitutes and the police had an understanding, they could go about their business if they weren’t loitering, so the women would circle the church. At times there could have been as many as 200 hundred women circling this church. Anyway, Eddowes is seen talking to a man across the street from this church on the corner of what is today known as St James passage, which is a stones throw away from the infamous Mitre Square. The man who Eddowes had been speaking to at 1:35 am is described as 5 foot 7, 5 foot 8, late 20s early 30s, with a pale complexion and a Mustache, he was stocky, wearing a peak cap, a red neckerchief around his neck and an oversized grey and white coat giving the appearance likened to an international sailor. Now Mitre square in 1888 was surrounded by warehouses, in such a rough and deprived area, these warehouses were frequented by thieves. Mitre square was constantly patrolled by police, a bobby was there ever 15 minuets 24 7. This is no joke the police man on this beat was randomly spot check every day by the chief inspector, if he wasn’t there at the time he should have been he was fired on the spot. The police man on duty that night was PC Edmund Watkins, he had been in mitre square at 1:30 am, shining his torch in every corner with nothing to report. Eddowes had been seen at 1:35 talking to the unknown man and by 1:45 PC Watkins returned to Mitre square where he found the body of Cathrine Eddowes. It is believed that Jack filled with frustration after being interrupted went straight to the church and picked up Eddowes and not 15 minutes later her brutally and manically murdered corpse was found.  Eddowes had been brutally attacked in a manner that confirmed the police's worst fears. Her throat had been deeply slashed down to her vertebrae, her face bore the marks of horrific mutilation, two triangle shape pieces of flesh are taken from her cheeks, the top of her nose was gone along with her ear lobes and she had cuts to her eyelids. The knife had been plunged into her genitalia and ripped up to her breasts. The Ripper had taken his time with her, savagely slicing open her abdomen and, like Annie Chapman, removed her skin and internal organs. Among them were her kidney and a portion of her uterus and bowel, her intestines were grotesquely draped over her left shoulder. The chilling level of precision suggested that the killer was not merely driven by base instincts; he possessed a grotesque understanding of anatomy, as if he were conducting a horrific experiment rather than committing a mere act of violence. You must remember here people this was all done in 12 to 15 minutes, in the pitch dark, with a police presence nearby, all in public and not one of her other organs were damaged.

 The discovery of these two bodies sent panic through the streets of Whitechapel like wildfire. The newspapers erupted with sensational headlines, framing the killer as a shadowy figure of nightmares stalking the night. As police scrambled for leads, they were met with frustration—there were no clues, no witnesses, and no clear path to the man who had instilled such fear in the community. Jack the Ripper was a phantom, striking with lethal efficiency before vanishing into thin air, leaving nothing behind but a legacy of dread. Then, in a dark twist that would further fuel public fear, a piece of Catherine Eddowes’ apron was discovered at the front of the Wentworth model dwelling building located on Ghoulson street, smeared with blood. Above it, scrawled in red chalk on the wall, was a message that sent chills down the spine: "The Jews are the men that will not be blamed for nothing." Jews was strangely spelt j u w e s. this was all found by PC Alfred Law of the metropolitan police. Now when the chief inspectors Abberline and the commissioner Charles Warren arrived at this discovery, the commissioner instructed his men to wash off the chalk, why? Why would he tamper with evidence? effectively, well nobody knows, people suspect he didn’t want any more anti-Semitic riots in the area, the building that the piece of apron was found in front of was indeed a Jewish tenement, the area had predominantly Jewish vendors and he was afraid of more violence and unrest. Unfortunately for the Commissioner people found out what he had done, they were incensed, they suspected a cover up. The people were so enraged that commissioner Warren lost his job 3 weeks later. The cryptic meaning of this message has been debated for over a century, did jack the ripper even write it, if he did was Jack the Ripper illiterate evidenced by the wrong spelling of Jews, or was jack the ripper spelling it as a direct translation from his own language into English, there is no double negatives in an English language sentence, grammatically that sentence is constructed with a double negative. There are double negatives in Yiddish or polish but not English. The messages emergence only added to the confusion and terror surrounding the murders. It seemed that the Ripper was not only targeting women but was also making some sort of twisted social commentary, further complicating an already nightmarish situation.

                                                           6 whole weeks passed with no new murders, but the air of dread lingered, heavy and suffocating. Residents pondered the fate of the Ripper—had he been captured, or had he simply moved on to other hunting grounds? Then, on November 9, 1888, the Ripper would claim his final known victim—Mary Jane Kelly. At the time the 9th of November in London was Lord mayors’ day this is where the upper echelon of society rub shoulders and celebrated, obviously this invitation wasn’t extended to the people of Whitechapel but the people of Whitechapel would have a party anyway. Kelly was unlike the others; she was in her mid-twenties and had a room of her own in a small lodging house on Miller's Court, a rare privilege in a world dominated by shared, squalid accommodations. Kelly was from county Limerick in Ireland; she had a rocky relationship with her boyfriend named Joseph Barnett who occasionally shared her accommodation with her, but he wasn’t around the week of her murder due to an argument between the couple. This argument had gotten particularly heated, and a pain of glass had been broken at the side of the building, Kelly had stuffed this brakeage with newspaper and rags to abate the biting November cold. Celebrating lord mayors’ day the night of the 9th of November, Mary Jane Kelly was drinking in the 10 bells pub, drinking being something she didn’t do often, she was spotted speaking to a gentleman who she brought back to her abode at 13 miller’s court. At 2 am she was heard singing an Irish lullaby and again at 3 am. The miller’s court property was owned by a particularly vile man named John McCarthy, who Kelly owed over 6 weeks’ worth of rent, totally to the sum of 29 silling. On the morning of her discovery McCarthy had sent around his muscle and ex-military man by the name of Thomas Boyer to retrieve said debt. Both men would have known that Mary Jane Kelly would be unable to pay so Boyer went to get what he could by any means necessary, as he approaches Kellys address banging furiously on the door, with no response, he continues again with no response. Beginning to believe she is hiding he heads around the side of the building where the broken pane of glass is located to catch her. As he pulls on the wad of newspaper and rags, he peers inside, his demeaner instantaneously shift from tough guy to a trembling child.

                Words can’t do this scene justice, the first policeman to 13 miller’s court refuses to enter, as does the second, the third breaks the door down instantly slipping on the blood.  The brutality of Mary Jane Kelly’s murder surpassed anything that had come before. Her body was discovered in her room, and the scene was one of unimaginable horror. Her throat had been cut deeply her head was practically severed, both of her breasts have been removed one is on the side table the other is found under what is left of her thigh, a massive gouge of flesh has been removed from her thigh and placed on the windowsill, her face mutilated beyond recognition, and her body had been cut more or less in two, she’s been disembowelled, her intestines are hung on picture frames all over the room, her heart missing entirely, with organs such as her lungs, uterus and kidneys scattered around the room like grotesque decorations. In a chilling display of savagery, the killer had skinned most of her body and   folded these sections up on a side table at the side of her spline. This murder was a manifestation of pure malevolence, the most savage of all the Ripper's atrocities, leaving behind a grisly tableau that seemed to unleash the full extent of his monstrous cruelty. This was his magnum opus, but it had one difference to the rest- it was indoors. Jack the Ripper had all the time in the world to do these malevolent things to poor Mary Jane Kelly. 

Mary Jane Kelly’s murder sent shockwaves throughout the city. The police, now under immense public scrutiny and pressure, redoubled their efforts to capture the killer who had eluded them for so long. Yet, like a mirage, Jack the Ripper vanished once again into the mists of Whitechapel, leaving behind only a trail of horror, fear, and unanswered questions. The killings abruptly stopped after Kelly’s murder, but the legacy of Jack the Ripper endured, haunting the collective memory of London and ensuring that the mystery of the Ripper would echo through the ages. The fear, confusion, and brutality surrounding the Ripper’s reign of terror left an indelible mark on Whitechapel, transforming it from a struggling neighbourhood into a landscape of nightmares. The hunt for the killer became a dark obsession for both the police and the public, creating a sensational narrative that blurred the lines between reality and folklore, with Jack the Ripper becoming a ghostly figure that would haunt the annals of crime forever. The streets of London, once vibrant and bustling, now lay shrouded in an unshakable pall of dread, forever marked by the shadow of a man who slipped through the cracks of history, leaving nothing but fear and legend in his wake.

If we roll back the clock slightly to the beginning of this, as the murder spree unfolded in the autumn of 1888, the press became a fervent player in the saga of Jack the Ripper, feeding public fascination and fear.  at the time around 1 million newspapers were bough a day as the murders became one of the first tabloid sensation, somewhere writing of fact and some like the sun wrote that jack the ripper was an escape baboon from London Zoo, because they believe no human could be this evil. Alongside the gruesome details being printed of each murder, a series of letters began to emerge, claiming to be from the killer himself. These messages added a disturbing dimension to the case, suggesting that the Ripper was not only a murderer but also a man who revelled in the terror he instilled in the public and the police. The first of these letters, known as the "Dear Boss" letter, was postmarked September 27, just days after the murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. The writer’s chilling, casual tone instantly grabbed attention. In the letter, he referred to himself as "Jack the Ripper," a name that would soon become synonymous with the terror that gripped London. The letter detailed the murders with a grotesque flair, boasting about the killings and expressing a sense of superiority over the police, taunting them for their inability to catch him. The signature at the end—“Yours truly, Jack the Ripper”—sent shivers through both the police and the public. The letter was sent to the Central News Agency and was quickly passed on to Scotland Yard. Inspector Frederick Abberline and his team took it seriously, seeing it as a potential glimpse into the mind of the killer. The language used in the letter suggested a certain level of intelligence, perhaps indicating that the author was more educated than the typical criminal of the time. The Ripper's ability to articulate his thoughts in such a disturbing manner raised alarm bells, leading the police to question whether they were dealing with a deranged mind or a cunning manipulator who relished the attention his actions received.

            In the aftermath of the "Dear Boss" letter, the press eagerly picked up the story, sensationalizing it further and framing the narrative as a game of cat and mouse between the Ripper and the police. The public fascination intensified, leading to increased sales of newspapers, as the city became gripped by a combination of fear and morbid curiosity. The Ripper became a figure of folklore, a ghost haunting the fog-laden streets of London. However, the most disturbing of all the letters arrived shortly after the murder of Catherine Eddowes on September 30. This letter, now known as the “From Hell” letter, was postmarked October 16 and sent to George Lusk, the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, a group formed by local citizens to aid the police in the investigation. The letter bore a chilling tone and included graphic descriptions of the mutilation of Eddowes, which left the police and the public horrified.

Accompanying the letter was a small parcel containing a human kidney, purportedly taken from Eddowes’ body. The letter read:

“From Hell. Mr. Lusk,

Sor. I send you half the kidney I took from one woman, and preserved it for you. The other piece I fried and ate. It was very nice.

I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer.

Signed

Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk.

This shocking revelation added an unsettling layer to the investigation. The police took the "From Hell" letter extremely seriously, as it not only confirmed the writer's grisly knowledge of the murders but also suggested that the killer was still active and perhaps even taunting the authorities directly. The kidney itself was subjected to forensic analysis, though it was inconclusive, as it could not be definitively linked to any of the known victims. The macabre nature of these letters and the chilling persona of Jack the Ripper captivated the public, who began to speculate wildly about the killer's identity. Rumors flourished, suggesting that the Ripper might be someone of high social standing or education, able to move through London unnoticed. The police received a flood of tips and potential leads, but with each new letter, the investigation grew more convoluted. While the "Dear Boss" letter and the "From Hell" letter were pivotal moments in the Ripper case, they also exemplified the deepening chaos surrounding the investigation. The press's sensationalism and the public's fear made it increasingly difficult for the police to conduct their work without external pressures. The Ripper was no longer just a name; he had transformed into a cultural icon, a representation of societal fears and the darker aspects of human nature. Over time, the legitimacy of the letters came into question. Some experts believe they may have been the work of overzealous journalists or pranksters looking to exploit the frenzy surrounding the murders. Despite this uncertainty, the letters contributed to the narrative surrounding Jack the Ripper, solidifying his place in history as not just a murderer, but as a figure who revelled in the chaos he created.

The investigation into the Jack the Ripper murders was an exercise in desperation, confusion, and frustration, set against the backdrop of a society already struggling with the complexities of industrialization and urban poverty. In the wake of the horrific killings, the Metropolitan Police were inundated with leads, tips, and unverified sightings, but the elusive killer always seemed to remain one step ahead, like a specter haunting the fog-laden streets of Whitechapel. The police’s efforts began earnestly, with detectives and constables combing the streets for clues, interviewing witnesses, and hoping for a breakthrough. Yet the conditions in Whitechapel made their task nearly insurmountable. The area was rife with poverty, with transient populations and a multitude of social issues complicating the investigation. Many of the victims were sex workers who lived in desperate circumstances, and their transient lifestyles meant that establishing solid leads was nearly impossible. After the discovery of each body, forensic methods were virtually non-existent, and the police relied on rudimentary investigative techniques. Crime scenes were not cordoned off, leading to contamination from curious onlookers and journalists. The police were overwhelmed and lacked the resources needed to manage the fear gripping the neighbourhood, and as a result, public confidence in their ability to catch the killer began to dwindle.

                                                   The press played a pivotal role in shaping the public’s perception of the Ripper. Sensational headlines fuelled the panic, with newspapers describing the killer as a monstrous figure lurking in the shadows. As details of the murders emerged, journalists began speculating about the killer’s identity, creating a narrative that captivated the public's imagination. The name “Jack the Ripper” itself was birthed from a letter sent to the press, allegedly from the murderer. Although the authenticity of the letter was questioned, it marked the beginning of the Ripper's transformation into a larger-than-life figure.

                                                                 As the investigation continued, several suspects emerged, each with a background that could lead one to believe they had the potential to be the Ripper. Montague John Druitt was a barrister and teacher who became a suspect due to his mental health issues. He was known to have suffered from depression and reportedly committed suicide shortly after the last murder, leading some to speculate that he might have been the Ripper, unable to cope with the guilt of his crimes. However, there was no direct evidence linking him to the murders. Aaron Kosminski, a Polish immigrant and barber, had a history of mental illness. He was known to have harbored violent thoughts against women, and some witnesses even claimed to have seen him near the crime scenes. He was later committed to an asylum, but there was no definitive proof that he was the Ripper, leaving many questions unanswered. George Chapman, also known as Severin Klosowski, was a Polish immigrant and a known serial killer who was convicted of poisoning three wives. Chapman had worked as a barber and had been linked to Whitechapel, which led some to consider him a suspect, though the timelines did not perfectly align with the Ripper murders. Dr. Thomas Neill Cream was a physician who had a penchant for poison and was known to have committed murders in the United States and England. Some speculated that Cream's medical knowledge and his history of violence made him a candidate for the Ripper, but he was imprisoned at the time of the murders, leaving him an unlikely suspect. Finally, John Pizer, known as "Leather Apron," was a local cobbler who was initially a prime suspect due to his violent reputation and the fear he instilled in women of Whitechapel. However, he was cleared of suspicion after providing an alibi.

                                                                                       Despite these various suspects, the investigation failed to produce concrete evidence or a definitive conclusion. The police received hundreds of letters from self-proclaimed witnesses, tips, and even hoaxes, further muddying the waters. The infamous “From Hell” letter, sent to the police along with a half-preserved human kidney, intensified the intrigue. It claimed to be from the Ripper himself, taunting the authorities and suggesting a deep, twisted connection between the killer and the ongoing investigation. As weeks turned into months with no new murders, the public’s fear began to shift to frustration and apathy. The lack of progress in the investigation, combined with the relentless media coverage, turned Jack the Ripper into a figure of folklore, a ghostly presence that haunted the streets of London.

                                                                      To this day, Jack the Ripper remains one of history's most notorious unsolved cases, the subject of countless theories, books, and documentaries. The lack of closure has led to a plethora of conspiracy theories about the identity of the killer, the motivations behind the murders, and the nature of evil itself. Various forensic advancements and modern investigative techniques have been applied retrospectively, but the case still eludes resolution. In the end, the investigation into Jack the Ripper's identity reflects the dark, intricate tapestry of Victorian society itself—an era defined by class struggle, gender inequality, and a burgeoning urban landscape. The shadow of Jack the Ripper continues to loom large, a chilling reminder of the depths of human depravity and the enduring power of unsolved mysteries.

Thank you for taking the time out of your day to listen to this long and dark episode. I have always been fascinated by the Victorian era, especially Victorian London. If you’re lucky enough to visit London, you'll be amazed by how much history surrounds you. In Britain, every historical house or landmark is marked with a blue and white plaque detailing who lived there or what occurred in the past, and as you wander through the bustling streets of London, these markers are never far away. A couple of years ago, for my 30th birthday, my lovely partner Deanna—affectionately known as Doris—and I took a trip to London, where we embarked on one of the city’s many walking tours. Given my passion for history and Doris’s keen interest in true crime, we decided to join the Jack the Ripper tour, which turned out to be the highlight of our trip. What you must remember is that this part of London was heavily bombed during the blitz so two of the sites no longer exists.

                                                                                                        Walking through Whitechapel today, you can see how it has transformed into a vibrant and diverse district, marked by a rich history and cultural blend. The area has undergone significant gentrification, with modern cafes, restaurants, and boutiques coexisting alongside traditional markets. It’s home to the Royal London Hospital and the Whitechapel Gallery, reflecting a lively urban atmosphere enriched by its multicultural community, yet the scars of its past remain evident. For example, in the shadows of the majestic spire of the Christ church, the notorious Ten Bells pub is still in operation, allowing you to enjoy a pint in the same establishment frequented by several of Jack the Ripper's victims, including Annie Chapman and Mary Jane Kelly. 

              As we meandered through the streets of Whitechapel, we were taken to the very spot where Mary Ann Nichols’s body was discovered. Today, Buck’s Row is known as Durward Street, and the only landmark that has survived the test of time is a school—fascinatingly enough, the last silent witness to the grisly event that took place just beyond its outer wall.

                                                                  Back in 1888, the street featured a row of cottages, but now there’s a nondescript entryway with parked cars. Surrounding us were construction sites and the general noise of city life, yet here, on the outer wall of the school’s playground, was the very spot where Charles Cross discovered Nichols’s body. It was surreal to stand on that exact point, surrounded by the constant flux of modern life while reflecting on the haunting history that unfolded there. The last memory of Mary Anne Nichols was a plaque on the wall reading Mary Anne Nichols 1845 to 1888 was murdered here.           

                                               As you take a short stroll back to Whitechapel High Street, weaving through the bustling streets brimming with market stalls and vendors, you come upon a building that once served as the site of the inquest into the Jack the Ripper murders. Surrounded by modern amenities, the Working Lads Institute and the buildings housing contemporary shops stand as original structures from that time, providing a vivid sense of the era’s atmosphere.

                                                         As we continued through the streets and passageways of the aera we came to Hanbury street. Hanbury street on one side is as it was in 1888, obviously now with more modern businesses but on the opposite side where 29 Hanbury street once stood it is now Trumans brewery building, the brewery demolished the houses to make way for the new building.

               Further on in our tour, the scene of the double event straddles the jurisdiction of the city of London Police and the metropolitan police, strides body was found, as we know by Louie Deimschutz in Dutfield’s Yard. Unfortunately, Dutsfields yard no longer exists as it did; it is now the site of Henriques Street, which features modern housing    developments and other urban renovations. Continuing to amble around London we came to Mitre Square, as stated previously back in 1888 it would have been surrounded warehouses. it is now surrounded by modern office buildings and urban renewal projects. Our tour guide pointed to the exact spot where she was found, right in the middle of what is today a school playground, I shit you not one of the most barbaric, heinous and maniacal murder scenes is a playground.

                                      Our last stop brought us back to the 10 bells and the Christ church on Whitechapel high street. Just across the road from these two landmarks stands a more modern building but in 1888 a street would run directly through the centre of this modern building called Dorset Street. In 1888, Dorset Street was notorious as one of the most dangerous and impoverished streets in Victorian London. Located in the heart of Whitechapel, it was a slum filled with dilapidated lodging houses, where many of the city’s poorest and most vulnerable residents lived. Crime, alcoholism, and prostitution were rampant, and the area was considered a hub for illicit activity. Off Dorset Street was Millers Court and 13 Millers court is approximately where the lift shafts for the new contemporary building now lay.

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                  If you’ve been listening for a while and haven’t subscribed yet, please do so. That way, you’ll never miss an episode. Thank you for your support! So with all that out the way, we will be reverting back to our original posting sequence now, the next episode will be out on the 13th of November. Thank you again for listening, Join us next time, for our next episode, as we delve into another event and more dark history.