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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October 14th, 1887
My dear, do you remember the tale of the wolf and the lamb? It was the lamb who paid the price of being eaten at the wolf's first opportunity – a creature leaning on flimsy excuses for his own gain. I would like you to remember this fable when you read through these letters and realise I am not the wolf that people pretend I am. Nor may I claim the innocence of the lamb, dearest, but I am both, in a disturbing likeness to Henry Hallenbeck's perverse creation.
If this does not make much sense to you yet, it will. It begins with my trip to the uplands of Dartmoor, though I never did tell you my true intentions there upon departure. It was not to act as Emory's witness during the autopsy of our esteemed colleague Hallenbeck, which I declined out of lingering sentiment for the old fellow, but to follow the only lead I have to discover the queer circumstances of his death.
As you are already aware, Hallenbeck immigrated to Whitechapel shortly after we relocated there. I believe you met him once and commented in private on the lilts of his Dutch accent. As I recall, you said it gave him the kind of exotic homliness only those from the mainland could declare, but your words were perhaps the kindest he ever received while in Whitechapel, even if given inadvertently. I am certain back then neither of us knew his intentions would turn out to be evil, but we understood early on from his reputation that the man was somewhat misguided.
I did not immediately pass judgement on him when once I learnt his name, however. My sweetheart, I beg that you do the same for me and keep the knowledge close to your heart that what I did to those five women I did for us.
My journey to Dartmoor went without hindrance, though the ride was long and the rainstorms longer. I arrived at the Wych Elm Inn near Two Bridges yesterday morning and my driver kindly offered to help me upstairs with my suitcase. I believe he said his name was Edmund. Not a very talkative man by any stretch of the imagination, but I left him an extra shilling to buy himself a warm drink before his sodden journey home. With November on the approach I cannot say I envied him.
I was thankful for a more substantial bed after my days on the road at least, and I found my room at the Wych Elm accommodating if not a little modest. The windows in my room were a drafty and howled fearsomely on nights that the winds descended Beardown Tor from the north east. But for the price and sheer isolation of the place I could not complain. And isolated it was, for there was no road for almost a mile and the nearest dwelling was the south groves of Wistman's Wood itself.
The view from my room whisked me away to the lands of some fantastical fairy tale when once I caught sight of the enchanting little wood in its whole. I wish you could've seen it, dearest. I feel you'd have stared out upon the vast, untouched moors and the leaden backdrop of clouds and lost all sense of minutes and hours like I did. By the time I tore myself away and thought to unload my suitcase I considered it strange how the hands on my pocket watch showed it to be already past noon, despite Edmund having only closed the door behind him moments prior. I'm quite sure I had wound the watch only yesterday, but I have been known to misremember life's finer details. Perhaps the journey had taken its toll on me after all, or I really had been stood at the window for hours. I nevertheless wound the watch again, just in case. You never can be sure how the altitude affects these contraptions.
