The Complete and Essential Jack the Ripper (4 page)

It is a singular coincidence that the murder was committed during Bank Holiday night, and is almost identical with another murder which was perpetrated near the same spot on the night of the previous Bank Holiday. The victims were both what are called ‘unfortunates’, and their murderers have up till now evaded capture.
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The day after Martha Tabram’s inquest closed, James Monro, assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police and the man in charge of the CID, handed in his resignation. One of the reasons was due to protracted power struggles with the then serving chief commissioner, Charles Warren. Warren’s appointment in 1886 had originally been met with considerable approval;
The Times
described him as ‘precisely the man whom sensible Londoners would have chosen to preside over the policing of the Metropolis’.
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Public confidence in the new commissioner’s abilities soon took several damaging blows in that and the following year, when he was criticized for his heavy handling of a number of public disturbances, culminating in the famous ‘Bloody Sunday’ of 13 November 1887, when large demonstrations by the unemployed prompted the deployment of troops by Warren, resulting in scenes of violence at Trafalgar Square, with many injuries and one death. Monro was becoming increasingly frustrated with what he felt was unnecessary interference by Warren into the affairs of the CID and was also much displeased when Warren vetoed Monro’s choice for chief constable, Melville Macnaghten.

Monro’s successor was Dr Robert Anderson, who would take on the role of assistant commissioner on 1 September 1888. Anderson, a millenarist and barrister, had been brought over to London from his native Ireland in 1876 as part of an
intelligence branch dealing with Fenianism. When that branch closed he was kept on as a special adviser to the Home Office on matters of political crime relating to the Irish situation and in 1887 he became secretary to the prison commissioners. Unfortunately, by the time of his newest appointment, Anderson had been complaining of ill-health due to overwork and, with the authority of Charles Warren, was granted sick leave.
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It was unfortunate timing, for the day before he took on his new role, events in the East End of London took an alarming turn.

As the light began to fade on the evening of Thursday 30 August 1888, the long, blank walls of Browne and Eagle’s wool warehouses, situated on the north side of Buck’s Row, began to cast their foreboding shadow over the terrace of workers’ cottages opposite. The day had been unsettled: clear and bright to start, but in the early afternoon a thunderstorm had developed, and its passing left a legacy of intermittent showers for the remainder of the day. The little two-up-two-down cottages, populated for the most part by respectable working-class folk, spent much of their days hiding in the semi-daylight afforded by the buildings opposite. At the western end sat New Cottage, which, as its name suggests, was built more recently than its neighbours and abutted on to a small stable yard, protected from the street by a pair of wooden gates. The tracks of the East London Railway passed close by, about twenty feet below ground level, shielded from view by a wall which terminated at the Buck’s Row Board School, and the sound of trains arriving and departing from nearby Whitechapel station was an almost constant presence during the day. Just opposite the stable yard stood Essex Wharf, a narrow, handsome building which fronted a small enclave of businesses and the Spitalfields coal depot. Further west, beyond the school, the thoroughfare opened up into a wider space before tapering off into White’s Row, which terminated at the junction with Baker’s Row.
A few small streets joined this thoroughfare to Whitechapel Road and immediately behind Buck’s Row, and running parallel to it, was Winthrop Street, consisting of similar cottages and assorted business premises, one of which was a horse-slaughterer’s.

Emma Green, a widow, and her three children lived in New Cottage next to the stable yard; her two sons went to bed at 9.00 and 9.45 p.m. respectively, but Mrs Green stayed up with her daughter until about 11.00 p.m. and, despite being a light sleeper, was not disturbed by anything untoward that night.
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At about the same time, in Essex Wharf opposite, Mary Ann Purkiss went to bed and was followed by her husband, Walter, manager of the property, about fifteen minutes later. Both had a rather fitful night’s sleep and were awake at various times, but both claimed there were no noises coming from Buck’s Row outside.
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While the residents of Buck’s Row lay in their beds, night watchman Patrick Mulshaw was halfway through a lengthy and perhaps tedious night looking after some sewage works off Winthrop Street, at the rear of the Working Lads’ Institute. He dozed a few times during the night but saw nobody around except two police constables on their beat, one of whom was PC John Neil.
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About seventy yards away along Winthrop Street were the open gates of Harrison Barber and Co. slaughterhouse, where Charles Bretton,
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James Mumford and Henry Tomkins were working through the night. At about 12.20 a.m., Bretton and Tomkins took a stroll down to nearby Wood’s Buildings, a narrow passage leading from Whitechapel Road which crossed the railway lines by means of a small bridge which came out on to Winthrop Street by the board school. They were there for about forty minutes before going back to work and at no time did they see anybody or hear anything out of the ordinary.
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One resident of Buck’s Row, Harriet Lilley, who lived at no. 7 (a few doors along from New Cottage) with her husband William, was having difficulty getting a decent night’s sleep. During one of her waking moments in the front bedroom, she heard a luggage train pass on the nearby railway and, as it did so, she was aware of some noises coming from the street. She described them as ‘a painful moan – two or three faint gasps – and then it passed away … There was, too, a sound as of whispers underneath the window. I distinctly heard voices, but cannot say what was said.’
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The train passing at that time was calculated as being the 3.07 a.m. goods train from New Cross, putting the time of this curious incident at around 3.30 a.m. Other than that, according to Emma Green and Walter Purkiss, Buck’s Row appeared to be unusually quiet that night.
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At 3.40 a.m., Charles Cross
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entered the eastern end of Buck’s Row from Brady Street. He had left his home in Doveton Street, Bethnal Green, some ten minutes earlier and was on his way to work at Pickford’s in Broad Street, where he was employed as a carman. He was walking along the northern side of Buck’s Row and, as he progressed eastwards, he noticed a shape on the other side of the road, at the end of the row of cottages in front of the stable yard gates. Initially he thought it appeared to be a discarded tarpaulin and began to cross the street to have a closer look. At that point, Robert Paul, another carman, was following behind Cross and noticed him in the road; by now, Cross had realized that the form lying on the pavement was a woman. He started to move back towards the footway and, as Paul moved to pass him, Cross tapped him on the shoulder, bringing his attention to the body lying nearby.
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The two men went over to the body. The woman was lying on her back with her head pointing east; her arms were by her side, her legs were slightly apart and her clothes were dishevelled.
Her eyes were open, staring at the sky, and a small bonnet sat on the pavement a few feet away. Cross felt the woman’s hand, which was cold, causing him to exclaim, ‘I believe she is dead,’ but, on touching the face, he could detect a little warmth. Paul put his hand on her chest and, believing he had detected some slight movement, said, ‘I think she is breathing, but very little if she is.’
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Cross wanted to lift the woman up, but Paul refused to touch her any further other than to rearrange her clothing, which had been pulled up towards the waist. Once this was done, both men admitted that they needed to get to work and were by now running behind time and so they left the scene, continuing their way westwards, Paul suggesting that he speak to the first policeman they meet on their way. Conveniently, a few minutes after leaving the scene, they saw PC Jonas Mizen in the process of ‘knocking up’ – waking people up by knocking on their doors or windows, a bit like an alarm call – at the junction of Baker’s Row and Old Montague Street and informed him of their find. Cross suggested that the woman was either dead or drunk, and Paul commented that he thought she was dead. With that, the two men continued on their way up Hanbury Street and there parted company, whereupon Paul went to his place of work in Corbett’s Court.

While Cross and Paul reported their find, PC John Neil
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was passing along Buck’s Row eastwards from Thomas Street. On his last pass, thirty minutes earlier, there had been nothing to report, but now, as he neared the board school, he could see the body of the woman on the footpath ahead and went over to investigate. Shining his lantern on the body he noticed blood oozing from a deep wound in the throat; he touched the arms and felt warmth from the joints upwards. At that moment, PC Neil heard the footsteps of PC John Thain, passing the end of Buck’s Row at the junction with Brady Street, and signalled
to him with his lamp. When Thain arrived, Neil immediately sent him off to fetch Dr Rees Llewellyn from his surgery at 152 Whitechapel Road. While waiting for Dr Llewellyn, Neil called upon Essex Wharf, where Walter Purkiss assured him he had heard no disturbance during the night. Very soon, PC Mizen, the policeman alerted to the incident by Cross and Paul, arrived at the scene, finding Neil alone with the body. Neil told Mizen to fetch the ambulance, and he promptly made his way to Bethnal Green police station to collect it.

After being called at 4.00 a.m., Dr Llewellyn arrived at Buck’s Row soon after and, making a cursory examination of the woman’s body, pronounced life extinct, saying that he would do a further examination at the mortuary. Sergeant Henry Kirby, another officer whose beat took in Buck’s Row, arrived and called at New Cottage, where Emma Green assured him that she had heard nothing unusual during the night. Also, the policemen present had been joined by James Mumford and Henry Tomkins (and subsequently Charles Bretton) from the Winthrop Street slaughterhouse, who claimed they had been informed of the murder by PC Thain, who had gone there to pick up his cape. Eventually Mizen arrived with the ambulance – little more than a handcart – and he helped PCs Neil and Thain put the body on it as a small gaggle of onlookers stood by. Much blood had been soaked up by the woman’s clothing, and Thain later mentioned that he got quite a bit on him as he handled the body. The ambulance then made its way towards the small mortuary off Old Montague Street, and by the time Inspector John Spratling arrived in Buck’s Row just after 4.30 a.m., Emma Green’s son James had thrown a bucket of water on the pavement to clear away the blood; despite this attempt at a clean-up, Spratling could still see traces of it between the stones. He then made his way to the mortuary,
where he found the body lying on the cart outside the mortuary gates, awaiting the arrival of the attendant. Spratling made a cursory description of the body in the meantime.
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Robert Mann, an inmate of the Whitechapel workhouse with responsibility for the little mortuary, arrived at 5.00 a.m. He opened the gates and wheeled the body in; once readmitted, Inspector Spratling made a further examination of the body, noting carefully the woman’s characteristics, clothing and possessions.

She was aged about forty-five, height 5 feet 2 inches, with a dark complexion, brown hair turning grey and brown eyes. There were bruises on her lower right jaw and left cheek, her tongue was slightly lacerated, and three teeth were missing. She was wearing a brown Ulster, brown linsey frock, two petticoats (one woollen, one flannel), brown stays, a white chemise, black ribbed woollen stockings and a pair of men’s side spring boots. The bonnet was black, of straw, and trimmed with velvet. The only personal possessions, found in the pockets, were a comb and a piece of broken mirror. But it was while inspecting the garments that Spratling made the significant discovery that not only had the woman’s throat been cut, but that she had also been disembowelled.
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It is perhaps a testament to the poor street lighting in Buck’s Row and the fact that Charles Cross and Robert Paul had rearranged the clothing that nobody had seen the terrible mutilations before that moment. Under the circumstances, Dr Llewellyn was recalled.

Robert Mann returned to the mortuary after having some breakfast, this time accompanied by James Hatfield, a fellow inmate, and together they stripped the body ready for the post-mortem, despite the fact that they had been told not to. On his arrival, Dr Llewellyn conducted his examination, which revealed the extent of the neck and abdominal injuries:

On the left side of the neck, about an inch below the jaw, there was an incision about four inches long and running from a point immediately below the ear. An inch below on the same side, and commencing about an inch in front of it, was a circular incision terminating at a point about three inches below the right jaw. This incision completely severs all the tissues down to the vertebrae. The large vessels of the neck on both sides were severed. The incision is about eight inches long. These cuts must have been caused with a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp, and used with great violence. No blood at all was found on the breast either of the body or clothes. There were no injuries about the body till just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. It was a very deep wound, and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. On the right side there were also three or four similar cuts running downwards. All these had been caused by a knife, which had been used violently and been used downwards. The wounds were from left to right, and might have been done by a left-handed person. All the injuries had been done by the same instrument.
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Dr Llewellyn also concluded that the murderer would have had some rough anatomical knowledge and that the woman had been dead about thirty minutes by the time he first saw her.
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The police began careful searches of the Buck’s Row neighbourhood, with Inspector Spratling and Sergeant George Godley, among others, checking the embankments of the railway lines and the goods yards nearby, but no clues or murder weapon were found. Enquiries were also being made as to the identity of the dead woman; the key to this turned out to be the words ‘Lambeth Workhouse’ which were found stencilled
on her petticoats, and, following a police visit, several individuals came forward. The workhouse matron viewed the body but could not identify it, and a few others’ attempts came out negative until it was ascertained that the woman had been a resident of Wilmott’s lodging house at 18 Thrawl Street, Spitalfields. Further enquiries were made there, resulting in the body being identified as that of ‘Polly’ by Ellen Holland,
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a resident of the lodging house, who had seen the deceased on the morning of her death. At 7.30 p.m., Mary Ann Monk, a former inmate of the Lambeth workhouse, recognized the body as Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols, and the following day, 1 September, William Nichols, the estranged husband of the murdered woman, established her identity once and for all. He appeared obviously affected by what he saw and uttered the words ‘I forgive you for what you are, as you have been to me.’
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Mary Ann Nichols was born Mary Ann Walker on 26 August 1845 in Dawes Court, Shoe Lane, in the City of London. She married William Nichols, a printer, in 1864 at St Bride’s church in Fleet Street, and together they had five children between 1866 and 1879, three boys and two girls. They had lodged in Bouverie Street, Fleet Street and with Mary Ann’s father in Trafalgar Street, Walworth before moving to no. 6 Block D, Peabody Buildings, Stamford Street, sometime around 1875. The marriage, however, was plagued by disharmony, and William Nichols stated that her drinking was often a cause of their problems.
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After a number of separations, the final break-up came in 1880, when, according to Mary Ann’s father, Edward Walker, William became romantically involved with the woman who nursed Mary Ann through the birth of her last child. Although he never denied the affair, William Nichols said that Mary Ann left the family home of her own accord.
The next seven years of her life have been well documented, giving us a surprisingly good account of her ‘progress’ from south London to the slums of Spitalfields: