Do you know Jack? The Ripper? Saucy Jack? Leather Apron?
The most infamous serial killer in history has long been fodder for the imagination of authors and artists alike, but his true identity remains an enigma to this day. Take a fresh look at the...
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London
1 October
1888
From the Desk of N.A. Williams
To My Beloved Sister,
I didn't think I could bear to write this letter, but I am left with no other option. Curse the day that forced your brother to address these words to you, sister. Your eyes are best suited for finer poetry than this.
Do you recall the fantastic stories we told each other in the days of our youths? We used to laugh them off, for even at that age we knew their faults and fancy. What I am going to tell you, dear sister, is far different from that, but you still must know of it. When this dreadful thing comes to pass, you should not be left wondering how or why it happened. This burden is mine to hold, and should its weight sink me into the depths of eternal torment, it should be better that you look down on me from heaven than to your side in hell.
Surely, sister, you have heard of the murders in the Whitechapel area. You must know that for a terrible act originating from that pathetic muck to reach your gentle ears requires a degree of privilege in its horror, for a murder to the wretched living in Whitechapel is only as irritating and consequential to the general order as manure under a shoe to you or I.
I regret to say that I found myself in Whitechapel shortly after news of the second murder. Rest assured, dear sister, that I was not there to imbibe in what they fill their glasses with, or to encourage the occupations of uncouth women with a reveal of my silver, although both were available in surplus in the immoral establishment that required my presence. You ought to see these people for yourself, dear sister, for you would not believe the destitution and depravity they allow into their lives like flies through an open window.
Certainly, you know that I merely jest with this suggestion, for the thought of tainting your perfect honor in a place such as Whitechapel is appalling. You are far too delicate. Their hands are not suited to handling flowers such as you. They bear the armor in their palms and in their hearts of squeezing too many thorns. Such disgusting creatures.
So what was my purpose in Whitechapel? It was strictly a business affair, at a concern of ill reputation, related to the reporting of monies collected and monies owed. My profession, as you recall, is accounting, although explaining this trade in further detail would induce a state of dizziness in you, my beloved sister. Trust that the debt these establishments of alcohol and abomination carry on their books is immense, despite the slightly less immense revenues they collect from the depraved specimens of steerage-grade syphilis who never seem to leave. Perhaps the owners indulge in their own wares too heavily, or they lack simple mathematics, or their venereal afflictions prove too distracting. Nothing would surprise me. It is a problem of lineage and inheritance, of a built-in defect. They lack the fortitude, or perhaps intellect, to resist such temptations. It is why charitable efforts are a fruitless endeavor, merely enabling their behavior and wasting monies that could be spent on far superior purposes.
